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After a varied late night of wandering the streets of Jerusalem, gathering and shedding companions with an easy flow, 4 of us land back at our room at the hostel to find a techno party in full swing in the bar immediately below. This is simply NOT acceptable. Happily (for us) Steev and I had earlier discovered, by a fortuitous mishap, that our designated room key also opened another, larger, room down the corridor and further from the pumping techno (future visitors to Jerusalem take note!). With the potential hours of rest dwindling manically at 140bpm there was nothing for it but to stage a midnight coup and squat in more salubrious and spacious accommodations. Tomorrow's a big day!
Waking early we have a serious agenda to fill. Steev Kindwald, is obsessed with finding locally made reed flutes and, though we have a date with a palestinian cab driver who will take us to the West Bank in a couple of hours, we dive into the old city and the arabic markets to sate his thirst, sticking together to avoid confusion later. My own agenda is less concerned with commerce and more interested in basic needs, such as coffee and some kind of breakfast to fuel a day where we are likely to have to observe the Ramadan fast, as I imagine most of the people on the West Bank are already participating. However, of course, the scene in the markets this morning is also fired by the same principle, there are few people out yet, many of the stores are still closed and finding anything to eat there is almost a lost cause - all foods in evidence, bar a stand with bread shaped into elongated rings dusted with sesame seeds, being reserved for the breaking of the fast after sun down. We take a couple of loaves and, leaving Steev negotiating with a wily 20 year old business man over a selection of innocuous flutes sitting in a pot in the middle of a bazaar of more obviously tourist oriented goods Layla takes me to the one place serving coffee not far from the entrance to the old city where I sit being harangued by a recorded loop of persistent arabic sales talk (or is it a religious exhortation?) and watching a couple of IDF soldiers interacting with semi headless manikins at a clothes store across the way. The market is waking up, shutters are being pulled down and the population is growing rapidly by the minute.
I am still a little concerned about the finer points of our plan to be in Ramallah later this morning, not having had any phone contact with my main point person at the Al Kamandjati Music School which is the venue for our proposed concert this afternoon. In fact, my whole time in Israel the phone thing has been inconvenient, as nobody seems to have land lines and though cell phones are de rigeur, my companions have been constantly shifting so I have had no reliable point of connection. Layla's phone, like several other people I have been hanging with, is only able to receive calls - she doesn't have the money to have outgoing service right now. Then one of those moments happens where you realise that of course you are in tune with a higher vibration and that there is nothing to worry about. A young european woman approaches and asks if the seat next to me is free. We strike up a conversation and I ask if I can use her phone, telling her I need to connect with someone in Ramallah. This kind of statement would generally raise all sorts of concerns if I asked it of most israelis - it's illegal to go to the West Bank, why are you doing that, it's not safe etc.... However my new acquaintance is curious about what I'm going there for, in a positive way. With a little clarification she hands me her phone, speed dialling the very person I need to talk to in Ramallah at the same moment. The gods are with me. I mean....what are the odds?
Fortified by bread and hummus and washing the turkish coffee down with fresh squeezed carrot and apple juice we meet our taxi driver at the Damascus Gate (so called in English - the Arabic name for it is Bab al-Amud, the Gate of The Pillar) and drive to our hostel to pick up our bags. There is a moment of awkwardness with one of the staff there who is unsympathetic with the reasons for our late night room hopping, but we make our escape quickly, not wanting to keep the taxi driver waiting any longer.
From Jaffa St in the commercial heart of Jerusalem it is only a matter of 10 minutes, or less, before we are driving alongside the Apartheid wall,  erected by the Israeli government, that separates the 2 sides in this global conflict zone and symbolizes so much of the debilitating sense of hopelessness that pervades the story. The Wall separates communities, separates the people of the West Bank from their workplaces, schools, families and access to patterns of working and living that have been established for centuries. In some cases the Wall even drives a path right through the middle of previously existing buildings and businesses. The only way through is by way of the few checkpoints that create bottlenecks of frustration for all those on the palestinian side who may try to maintain connections with their worlds on the other side, and vice versa. The grey concrete Wall draws nothing to it but swirling piles of litter, debris and a wasteland of grey, peppered with angry red graffiti and the occasional peace sign appearing between the traffic jammed lines of cars and trucks choking the dusty roads as they nudge their way towards the Qalandia Chackpoint. we actually pass the checkpoint without incident, barely stopping before being waved through, but almost immediately are stuck in bumper to bumper disfunction as we try to negotiate the unmarked roads on the palestinian side of the Wall, which stands 25 feet high in a relentless grey line through the urban decay. Our taxi driver knows the way and when the going gets tough he takes to the back streets. There are quite a lot of new buildings in various stages of construction here amidst the otherwise downtrodden neighborhoods we are driving through, which surprises me. But there is nobody working on them right now. The streets here are deserted. Perhaps it's because of Ramadan.
In no time, it seems, the territory changes and we are in the bustling center of Ramallah, the capital city of Palestine. Yes, it's a real city, with shops, restaurants, street vendors, schools etc. I don't know what I was expecting but somehow this exceeds all my previous thoughts of what it would be like, so much of which has been garnered from newspaper and radio news reports alone. I'm using my camera very sparingly and warily by now - the people here are justifiably suspicious of strangers with cameras as the israeli security forces use them to gather intelligence. Restaurants are open, cafes too - I'm surprised by the sight of a street vendor selling loaves of bread, until I find out that Ramallah is about 50% Christian! Clearly, not everyone is observing the Ramadan fast.
My connection in Ramallah is Mona Halaby, a teacher who for many years has worked at a progressive elementary school in Oakland CA, but has recently moved to Ramallah - she's Palestinian - to work in an elementary school there, focusing on Conflict Resolution. There are two Quaker Friends School campuses at opposite ends of the city and by mishap we are directed to the High School first, which gives us more exposure to the city itself, as we drive down one of the main streets, which is packed with busy people. There is a completely different sense here than in the wasteland near the checkpoint, which is also one of the refugee camps - Qalandia. However there is a fairly strong security presence on the streets - wild eyed and scrawny palestinian security forces in navy blue uniforms ranging about in groups of 3 or 4.  Very different vibe from the well fed IDF soldiers I saw earlier in the Arabic quarter of Old Jerusalem. These guys look like they're on something....... or maybe, again, it's the fasting combined with stressful working conditions. People see Steev and I in the taxi, which of course has israeli plates, and maybe pass comment to their friends, but I get no sense of anything more than a friendly curiosity from their looks and attitudes towards us. My concerns that some may see the long form of my brown suede didjeridu case as containing some kind of a weapon seem unfounded - a bit different from my experience once in Minneapolis airport, behind security, where I was slammed against a wall by 2 burly plain clothes cops and seriously frisked because of it. Of course that was BEFORE 9/11, when I could still negotiate my way onto a plane with my Didges as hand luggage.
The elementary Friends School in Ramallah has a very vibrant and colorful sense about it. It feels like a place full of very positive activities and colorful work in progress. There is a feeling that THIS is where children learn how to be the best they can be in the world. While there is a security booth at the entrance we are welcomed without hesitation and taken to the main building, where Steev and I leave the American Professor and Layla to have tea with the female principal of the school and are whisked off to the school library, where we ambush Mona's class and after introductions are invited to perform for the group of 3rd graders who are all crowded around a large table together. Girls and boys. There is no difference between the reaction of these children to my music than to any other group of school kids I might have played for in the past - except that as soon as I begin to hit the rhythm a bunch of them spontaneously start to twitch and then bust out with dancing. It is one of those moments that brings a lump to the throat, something I find myself feeling all day long in my experiences in the West Bank. Contact! A feeling of connection. After our performance there is a vigorous Q&A session with the kids, some of whom speak english, others needing translation. This was GREAT! In spite of living under the boot of the israeli occupation and all the disadvantages that this condition brings to their lives these children still have an open window onto the wider world. It was hugely affirming to meet them. The whole experience very nourishing to the soul. A humanizing time together. I am left to reflect on how much the media in the West focuses on characterizing our differences from the people of other cultures and the damage that that does to the way we perceive the world - let alone ACT in the world. All these walls need to be broken down.
The next stop is the Al Kamandjati Music School ,  a beautifully artistic 2 year old campus and music facility funded by Swedish money (Sweden seems to have put a lot of positive energy into Ramallah - later I see a Women's Center also funded by Sweden, in Qalandia) tucked away in the back of a residential neighborhood a few blocks from the Friends School. There are very few people around as most are at prayer at this moment in time. There is a wonderful open air rooftop concert 'hall' where we set up to play a more extended concert, while the Muezzin sounds the call to prayer at a mosque close by - I get chills, the voice is so beautiful. Actually this is a series of different recorded voices separated by digital beeps as some remote official programs the calls, presumably sounding the same across many mosques. A far cry from the last time I traveled in the Moslem world, long ago, where I recall a dozen different voices and vocal styles competitively proclaiming from the minarets all at once. This time the concert seems more formal and the children who attend, ages 4-18 are in many cases accompanied by their parents. We play for about an hour and, while playing I am aware of the neighbors checking in on the spectacle from vantage points all around. Immediately next door they choose this moment to hang the washing out on their own rooftop. Ramallah checks us out. Al Kamadjati is a great place. Students come here to learn all kinds of music, both Western and Middle Eastern. They are in need of teachers and invite people from all over the world to apply for positions there. After the concert we have little time to hang out as because of the pressure that Ramadan brings to the day to day there is only a small window of time before we should be back at the checkpoint on the way back to Jerusalem where we are slated to perform, again, at a Peace Gathering later that evening. But we do get time to spend with Mona and a few other people who have made it to the concert. The message from them is that, in spite of appearances of 'normality' that we have seen in Ramallah, life is hard under the occupation. The feeling of constriction, of limitation is enormous. Please can I take the message to the Peace Gathering in Jerusalem that there can be no Peace without Justice. The two go hand in hand. The people I talk to there are convinced that the only solution to the regions problems is a One State Solution.Not two separate states................they voice this very fervently and then repeat it again. Of course they are not able to go to Jerusalem for the Peace Gathering . Nor is Condoleeza Rice, who was also in Ramallah today, going to be there.
We catch another taxi and head back, with Layla, towards the Qalandia checkpoint. The American professor is pursuing his rendezvous with the gifted palestinian student. Perhaps he can help his path to study in the USA. Our driver is Abu Youssef. He has had to work as a taxi driver since the construction of the Wall as he can no longer make it to his previous workplace, where he worked as a baker for 17 years in Israel. We drive through the dusty streets of Ramallah, now alive with kids playing leapfrog and the going seems good until we suddenly hit terminal gridlock. Which ever way our increasingly creative driver turns, going deeper and deeper into the back streets of Qalandia we are stuck. There are cars stuck everywhere. Everybody is frustrated. Gangs of young men play traffic cops, trying to organize and increase the flow of traffic, with some success. Everyone is trying to get to their homes to eat, or, maybe like us trying to get back to the check point. But the way forward is always blocked. There are cars trying to go in all directions en masse. The situation is hopeless. This is all the result of the difficulties created by the wall. Even in this state of gridlock I see no road rage. Everyone here is just trying to cope. It begins to get dark. We have been stuck in this traffic now for 2 hours, well past sunset. Then out of the gloom appears a man, moving from car to car with a large tray of dates. Dates from Mecca, we are told. The traditional food to break the Ramadan fast. Every person in every car receives a date. They are delicious after the dust and frustration of the blocked road ahead, behind and on all sides. It's another lump in the throat moment, this time accompanied by a delicious taste. There is something so beautiful about the gesture. Everyone gets a date from Mecca, regardless of color or belief. Steev and I are blown away. Soon after the road ahead opens up miraculously, and we make it to the checkpoint to be greeted by israeli soldiers - young, blonde, female soldiers with M16's.
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