My current home is the place where Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, which is why it is called Al-Azariya (from the Arabic form of Lazarus). The residents also claim to host the homes of Maria and Martha, but this point is disputed. Nevertheless, situated at the foot of the Mount of Olives, this small but once vibrant town welcomed thousands of Christian pilgrims each year, particularly during the Feast of Lazarus. It was also the usual resting place for travelers between Jerusalem and Jericho, a position that accelerated its growth and sustained its economy.
Much has changed in the last five years. Once the second Intifada began, tourism dropped to almost zilch. Some of my Muslim friends told me how they used to take the kids and line the street to watch the Christians’ procession from Jerusalem to Lazarus’ tomb on Lazarus Day. That procession was held yesterday, and I counted a grand total of three tour buses which came sporadically and without grandeur. If the town fell ill to the violence that shook Israel and Palestine after the Al-Aqsa Intifada, it has all but died at the arrival of the Wall. Once the wall began to snake through the area, roping a few sections into greater Jerusalem and isolating the others, the town became isolated and the economy grinded to a halt. Many of the fellaheen, or country folk, suffered from being cut off from their land and having had their olive groves uprooted. Others just suffer from immobility. In one strange case, the path of the Wall cuts right between the homes of two brothers. One is now a Jerusalemite and the other forbidden to visit his brother’s side. An side effect that directly impacted the school where I volunteer was the enrollment, which changed daily for several months as kids who once came to schools here from Jerusalem were forced to relocate, and students living here and attending a private school in the city were denied permission.
I’ve learned a lot about this little town in the last few weeks. In addition to its history and its politics, I’ve come to understand that there are a lot of things about this place that may forever remain a mystery to me. It seems to have a lot of secrets, and judging from what I’ve seen lately, I don’t want or need to know them. This feeling is a direct consequence of the past two weeks, which left me feeling like the star of a second rate action film.
I started frequenting the little restaurant across the street in an effort to escape the monastery food (which is a strange hybrid of Russian recipes and Arab ingredients). One evening, the owner’s brother noticed that I was doing Arabic homework. From that day on, he would come to my table whenever he wasn’t serving someone and speak to me in Arabic. Last Saturday, once I finished my meal he suggested that we go to the pastry shop down the road for dessert. Considering that it was close, in a public area and not yet nighttime, I agreed. Oh, how I wish I didn’t have such a sweet tooth.
The next day, Sister Martha said she needed to talk to me. I thought I had inadvertently angered Sister Natasha, a scenario I would have welcomed once she began with, “The Palestinian CIA called today.” They said the person I was meeting in the pastry shop was an Israeli spy and that if I was seen with him again, I could be in real physical danger. The caller gave a very detailed description of what I had been wearing, what time I was there, etc. To make matters worse, this very same night a group of several boys decided to beat on the gate of the monastery and climb the walls. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that there is no police here in 'Area B,' which means that the town is supposed to be under Palestinian Authority but Israeli security. The irony is that the Israelis never come here and don't allow the Palestinians to actually have any authority...so there is no police and no recourse. Except the one that is secretly maintained--with whom I was about to become acquainted.
After spending the next day in class quite certain that every person in Israel was watching me, I came home and began helping the girls with their homework. I was interrupted with a phone call from a man saying I had to come open the door because we needed to talk. The man, who was reminiscent of a Palestinian Zach Morris, said he had come from Ramallah to Azariya to talk to me about my ‘meetings with the spy.’
So, I’m thinking this is turning into a big deal…I mean, someone was sent to interrogate me. I had to give detailed accounts of every conversation I ever had with Mohamed (which was quite boring I’m sure. Ex: “So, when you want to say that it’s raining and when you say that it’s cold outside, that’s essentially the same thing? Oh, and if I was late for the bus is it appropriate to say...”) Louie, the CIA wannabe, attempted to anger and intimidate me for a while. He told me that if he didn't like me, he could force the Abess to make me leave. He also clarified that he was part of the 'morality' wing of the intelligence service (which, I must admit, made me laugh....especially after his hypocritical comments about his and his girlfriend's affairs). Finally, he told me that he wanted to be my friend. He said that I really had no choice because if I were to go out in Azariya, even to buy groceries, I had to call him first.
I attempted to locate Sister Martha, whom he said had given him permission to speak with me personally, but she was nowhere to be found. The school principal, and whose name he also cited when I questioned his legitimacy, was also absent. The entire next day I was still paranoid, as Louie had recounted details about what time I left from and returned to the monastery, where I studied, the phone call from the secret police and emphasized my new dependency on him, which irritated me to no end. I felt confined to the monastery, which led me to think about other housing options. (More on that later.)
For brevity's sake, I'll skip right to the resolution of this strange little tale.
The movie on fast forward: I tell Mohamed, the restaurant man, that I’ve been informed that he is a spy and whether it’s true or not we can’t be friends. I find out from the principal that Louie is actually just some guy that lives across the street--NOT in Ramallah--nor does he work for the intelligence service. (This revelation doesn’t explain his knowledge of the phone calls to the Sr. about the spy, but it does explain a few comments he made during our conversation and the vibe I was getting that he was attempting to mix business with pleasure). So, I inform Louie of my new information, which he denies. Both give up trying to contact me after two weeks.
The cloud: I no longer feel comfortable eating at the restaurant, meaning more quality time with Sr.Natasha and her cold soup and grease pies. I also take a cab when I visit my friends who live down the street, because walking to their house would necessitate passing the spy’s shop.
The silver lining: I have been successfully interrogated in Arabic and learned a whole new set of vocabulary.
