My Trip to Ramallah

I grew up with great story tellers. Some of my earliest memories are walking with my grandfather in Chisinau at dusk, while he told me stories about the moon, and his love of chemistry. He was a Romanian Jew, living in the Soviet Union, after WWII.  In Chisinau he built its first chemical laboratory and was then its head chemist. His oldest child, my mom’s brother, who would often stop by at lunch, told me very different stories. His stories were full of mischief and I loved them. Basically it was, do mischief, but don’t get caught. No matter what, don’t get caught and don’t admit anything, ever. 

Most of the time the ideas of doing something against the rules seemed enticing, though not enough to act on them…most of the time. So, when I was in Israel in 2014 and my friend who was a cameraman for a tv station asked me if I wanted to go with him to Ramallah in the West Bank for John Kerry’s visit, I jumped at the chance.  John Kerry was expected to visit for some diplomatic reason, I don’t remember what, and all the media was converging on Ramallah. The next day Kerry’s trip got canceled at the last minute, but the tv team was still going. 

Nevermind the fact that we didn’t tell anyone about this. Nevermind that I had no media credentials, or any other documents besides my passport. Nevermind that my 14 y.o. daughter was also in Israel on her 8th grade graduation trip, who I was supposed to join in 2 days, and my younger daughter was at home with my soon to be ex-husband. He moved out while I was away. None of that mattered at the moment. I was going somewhere I shouldn’t, and that was a little scary but really exciting.

Richard got a call from his boss about Ramallah in the evening, while we were sitting in his apartment on the roof of his mother's apartment building in Tel Aviv. He had some friends over and we stayed up talking until early hours of the morning. By the time they left around 4 am, it was freezing on the roof and I was wrapped in blankets and furs, shivering from the night air and exhaustion. We had to be up at 7 am, to get ready, pick up his reporter and get to Ramallah by 9:30-10 am. 

The next morning I got myself together as well as possible after a 3 hour sleep when Richard came downstairs from the roof and looking me over sent me back to my room, “no cleavage and no Jewish jewelry.” I was wearing a very cute, blue Coca-Cola fitted

t-shirt with a v-neck and my white gold Jewish star necklace. I went back to my room,  took off my necklace and put on a shirt with long sleeves covering me to the neck.

My friend approved. We had a quick cup of coffee and left to pick up his reporter Mira. Once again, no one knew where we were going, except for his work. His mother and sister did not know. And I didn’t call relatives either. And I certainly didn’t tell my daughter.

It was a beautiful, sunny spring morning. While we waited for the reporter to come down, we took some pictures of an ensemble of sculptures making up an orchestra in the center of a recently built limestone apartment complex. Early morning art is always inspiring. Mira came down and we got on our way. We went to the tv station to get the equipment and took a cab to the border. The patrol officer asked for identification. My companions gave their media credentials and I gave my passport with the removable Israeli entry stamp. He was looking at the passport and at me with a question mark. Everything was heightened due to Kerry’s visit. The reporter in the front seat started saying something in Hebrew. I think the officer was perplexed and was asking why I was there, with them. My friend explained that I am his cousin with nowhere to go, and I am not going to make any problems. They exchanged a few more words and he let us through. We were grateful and a bit irritated. 

Shortly after, the cab driver pulled over to a small street and we transferred to a Palestinian taxi. The Israeli taxi couldn’t go any further. It seemed the drivers knew each other, so we were only a little tense and anxious. The road itself was similar to the road to Jerusalem. Sandy yellow was all around us. Light brown and beige hills against the blue sky, with sporadic views of the valleys below. Every street on each side had a big red sign with white letters in English, Hebrew and Arabic that entrance for Israelis was dangerous and prohibited. 

We stopped at the entrance to Ramallah, waiting for a text. I got out of the car to stretch my legs when I saw two women in black burkas walking up the road. I reached for my camera, but one of the women raised her cane at me, and I turned off my camera. I looked away and saw a whole herd of sheep just down the hill from the car. The shepherd, fully covered in their burka, was sitting on a rock. The staff next to the shepherd, while the sheep were grazing. Shortly after that we drove by Arafat’s grave and I learned that this was his temporary grave because he wanted to be buried in Jerusalem. 

It was a busy morning in Ramallah. Cars rushing by the roundabout, cars parked and double parked wherever possible. The raised center of the roundabout was full of media. Distractions were everywhere. A vibrant tapestry of people passing by. What I noticed was all women had long black hair, and most were wearing hijabs. And there I was with my long blond curls, walking alone in Ramallah. I didn’t venture far from the center to see when Richard will be back, but I remember the bright sun with a gray aura, the limestone buildings with banks, coffee shops, hijab stores, shawarma in the windows. I saw old men and women sitting by the curb selling all kinds of nuts and local fruits. I never realized until then that I had never seen an almond before it was roasted and salted, for sale at my Trader Joe’s. A young man was walking around with a big container similar to a genie bottle, from which he poured some juice for a nominal price to passers by. He was dressed like Aladdin. Mira, with whom I would be walking around a little later, told me that these juice containers are never washed. 

We drove up to a government building. I think it was the Palestinian Authority headquarters. We walked into the lobby and posters of Arafat and Abbas greeted us from every wall. Two men came out to meet us. The tall young one spoke fluent Hebrew and English and his older and shorter companion also spoke Hebrew. They took us to a room on the second floor to wait for the minister. Someone brought tea. Richard and I took our cups of the hot delicious tea and went to the open window to smoke. We saw an open field with a herd of sheep walking with their shepherd. My friend smiled and said “shawarma”.  It was much more rural in the back. While we were standing by the window another man came into the room and we all sat around the table. The tall young man was explaining in Hebrew how the interview would go. I was quietly sitting, enjoying my tea. As I was warming my hands on the tea cup I heard instructions being given in Russian. I felt numb and dumb. Did I just hear Russian? WTF was that? The guy to my left was speaking in fluent Russian. I felt uneasy. It is an empowering feeling, even if inappropriate, when you can say something that no one around can understand, and it is just as disempowering when that’s taken away. This was a little too secret agenty for me.

Finally we were walking into the minister’s office. It was a long room with two couches and an armchair facing each other by the door and past the couches was the minister at his desk with the PA flag behind him. Mira shook hands with the minister and started the interview. I was sitting on the couch in the back of the room, where we came in. The young man who spoke Hebrew sat across from me. I caught his glance at me. I had never seen such a look before. It was a chilling combination of hate and submission. I felt like one of the sheep from the herd outside and all I could think was thank God for all these people here. It was truly frightening. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and looked away. 

Finally the interview was over and the three men walked us to the door. The Palestinian taxi headed back to meet our Israeli cab driver. No one spoke. I couldn’t wait to be in the Israeli taxi. Finally we switched taxis and headed to the checkpoint. It was good to hear the comforting Hebrew as the three of them were talking and everyone’s eyes felt safe. And then we got to the border. This time upon checking my passport, the guard told all of us to get out of the car and go into the building a few steps away. They were going to sweep our cab for explosives. Inside the building I had to surrender my phone, which was put through some machine. Another guard in gloves checked our hands for explosives residue. We went outside and saw something like a big vacuum sleeve in the backseat of the cab. The cab driver was starting to lose patience. He turned to me and said in English that they think we're bringing weapons, and then proceeded to yell at the guards, one of whom spoke Russian. He looked at us with a smirk as he returned my passport and their credentials. He told me, in Russian, to expect questions from the airport security upon departure. Once we drove away, our taxi driver got loud. He was mad. Richard and Mira were annoyed as well. They also confirmed that I could be questioned at the airport, but that everything will be akol beseder. When we got back to their TV station to edit and submit the tape, I chatted with their co-worker, whom I met several years ago in Washington DC, when he and Richard were there on assignment. This guy was an orthodox Jew who cursed and smoked more than anyone I had ever met. I appreciated him talking with me while Richard was busy. By the time they were done, Richard and I were crashing from exhaustion. We drove the reporter back to her home, and went to get some shawarma, and a very needed  cup of coffee. 

On the way home we got stuck in Tel Aviv traffic. Richard and I were just yapping away. There are some people you meet along the way, with whom you connect on a generational level. It’s almost like you knew each other in your past lives. Maybe it was because our mothers were close friends during their youth. When we left in 1979, many such relationships got interrupted. Richard and his mother left Chisinau for Israel in 1991 and our mothers re-established contact. We met in 1998 in Philadelphia on his way to Canada, to study photography and film. When we met we talked for three days. Now in traffic, at the end of the day, we were catching up on each other’s lives. We had a lot to catch up on since 1998. I had forgotten that communication can be that easy and fun. The sun was setting right in front of us. It was a glorious sunset. I felt the sun on my face. It was just me and the sun. I felt a release. Something felt lighter. I felt lighter. It had been a long time since I allowed myself to be mischievous and it felt liberating. And most importantly I didn’t get caught. 

When I got to my relatives I told them about my crazy day and they looked at me in complete disbelief. They were looking at me like, why? Nu? Why would you go to Ramallah? And walk around alone? Why? I didn’t care. I needed it. I had been a mom, a wife, a daughter. Where was I? Who was I? History has shown that sometimes we need to leave in order to heal and to learn. I have learned not to question how help is presented, but to accept the help. And that little adventure turned out to be the exact help I needed at the time. This is what happened when I, contrary to my uncle’s teachings, admitted what I did.

A few days later I met up with my daughter and her class in Jerusalem. I didn’t tell her about my trip to Ramallah. I figured with their rabbis and security around I did not need to admit to anything. Feeling that little jolt of mischievous energy was enough.  A few days later my daughter flew back, and I followed her about twelve hours later. I came back a different person, to a different life. Many roots were still there, of course, but undeniable changes had occurred and I was taking them into my new unknown future. I didn’t know what the future would hold, but I also knew that the old and familiar was intolerable. I guess I needed to leave in order to really learn that. Who could have known it would be to Ramallah? I was now a single mom, walking into my house where now it was me, my two daughters, and our cat and dog.  

Alina Dolitsky

October 2023