Middle East Journal

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" rowspan="2" width=210 BGCOLOR="#C0C0C0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>Personal stories in the peculiar Middle East</B></div> <div> <B>June 1997 to May 2000</B></div> </td> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=82 BGCOLOR="#C0C0C0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Copperplate Gothic Bold" ><B>Hanson Hosein's Self-Center</B></FONT><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#336699" FACE="Copperplate Gothic Bold" ><B> </B></FONT><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#336699" FACE="Times New Roman" ><B>  </B></FONT><B>  </B><B>|</B><B>    </B><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#000000" FACE="News Gothic MT" ><B> </B><A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Hanson Hoseins SelfCenter"><U><B>home</B></U></A></FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id40.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Two Weeks in India 1997"><U>Two Weeks in India 1997</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id38.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Balkans Journal"><U>Balkans Journal</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id98.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="NYC"><U>NYC</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="A Month of Sundays"><U>A Month of Sundays</U></A>   |   <A HREF="summer_in_montreal.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Montreal"><U>Montreal</U></A>   |   <B>Middle East Journal</B>   |   <A HREF="oregon_tourism.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Oregon"><U>Oregon</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id100.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Montana"><U>Montana</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id108.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Road Trip"><U>Road Trip</U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" height=398 colspan=2 BGCOLOR="#C0C0C0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>Middle East Journal</B></div> <div> June 18-20, 1997</div> <div> <IMG SRC="37c5e070.jpg" border=0 width="350" height="263" ALT="Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem 5 28 2000, Hanson R. Hosein" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> "...Murdered in the glory of God." That's the Hebrew inscription on Baruch </div> <div> Goldstein's tomb, make that shrine, erected in Hebron at the behest of right </div> <div> wing settlers. I suppose they thought that Goldstein deserved sanctification </div> <div> for violating a couple of Commandments and killing 29 people who were minding </div> <div> their own business in 1994 at the Tomb of the Patriarchs.</div> <bR> <div> But Hebron is a peculiar place, where at this point in time, everything seems </div> <div> to be done with a wink and a nod. Israeli soldiers let our white Volvo with </div> <div> yellow Israeli plates pass through their checkpoints, barely paying any </div> <div> attention to us. A young Israeli settler cavorts down the street of Hebron </div> <div> near some Israeli houses, packing a pistol, but still walks nonchalantly by </div> <div> the adjacent Arab businesses.</div> <bR> <div> As I walked with Martin Fletcher, our Tel Aviv correspondent, down the narrow, </div> <div> busy streets of Hebron, I could scarcely believe that this was the nexus of the </div> <div> current strife between Arab and Jew. Young, green garbed soldiers milled </div> <div> around, as the Arab people moved around them, tending to their everyday </div> <div> affairs. Stores were open, and teemed with merchandise: sandals, shoes, </div> <div> toiletries, fresh produce. If we were going to do a story today, I thought to </div> <div> myself, we would be hard pressed to find any news.</div> <bR> <div> But as we turned the corner, I spotted a crowd of Palestinians clustered under </div> <div> a tin awning, observing the spectacle. A few Israeli soldiers were chatting, </div> <div> relaxed, as a few more of their colleagues, a few feet away, were crouched </div> <div> down, aiming their rifles with great intensity at something, down the street. </div> <div> As we approached, a baseball-sized rock skipped a few inches from our shoes. </div> <div> This, in a nutshell, a microcosm, a theater...was the Intifada: at this </div> <div> juncture, nothing more than a spectator sport that carried a huge symbolic </div> <div> weight. As Martin Fletcher said in his stand-up that we shot a few hours later </div> <div> on that street in Hebron while the flaming coke bottle molotov cocktails </div> <div> rained behind him: "It's all been happening all week on this same street </div> <div> corner. The same small group of Palestinians, same small group of soldiers. </div> <div> But the message goes way beyond this Hebron street."</div> <bR> <div> The lines of demarcation are clear. The rocks and stones may hit the soldiers, </div> <div> but they don't kill. The rubber bullets from the Israeli guns may hurt and </div> <div> wound, but they're shot in an almost half-hearted way. The Palestinian children </div> <div> don't attack the settlers' homes directly, and the Israeli soldiers don't </div> <div> launch any kind of forceful raid. This confrontation could be much bloodier, </div> <div> more warlike, but both sides understand what it's really about. It's a </div> <div> Palestinian warning that if the peace process doesn't resume soon, bullets will </div> <div> replace the rocks. Palestinian Authority policeman are nowhere to be found, </div> <div> which gives the uprising a de facto stamp of Arafat's approval. As a newcomer </div> <div> to this strange play, it's hard not to be puzzled. Is this being put on just for us, the media?</div> <bR> <div> A Palestinian lawyer who has his office on that street, offers us coffee. We </div> <div> thank him. "For nothing," Hijazi Shyokhi says gracefully. He approves of this </div> <div> most recent uprising, seeing it as the only way to grab Israeli, and American </div> <div> attention. "What we want, till now, we shout from our whole mouth, for the </div> <div> whole world," he said. "We want justice peace in this area. But what can we </div> <div> do if the Israeli government denies this and don't hear this shouting?"</div> <bR> <div> A few hours later, and a mere kilometer away from the shouting, I buy a few </div> <div> handmade ceramic vases and cups from a local Hebron factory. I can't tell </div> <div> whether the owner is Arab or Jew, and he sells products with both Hebrew and </div> <div> Arabic inscribed upon them. We run into a couple of other of Western </div> <div> journalists making their purchases, including the Boston Globe correspondent </div> <div> who will soon be moving to New York to work for the Times. He's outfitting his </div> <div> new apartment there with a set of blue dishes. They're a terrific bargain, </div> <div> and very beautiful.</div> <bR> <div> And then, about 100 kilometers later, I am back in Tel Aviv, where people </div> <div> cavort as if they were in Miami Beach or Malibu, and not in the Holy Land. The </div> <div> sun seems to always shine here, and people have a joie de vivre here that I </div> <div> used to notice when I lived in Paris. The cafes are full, the pristine beaches </div> <div> overcrowded, and the Mediterranean as blue as can be. No one wears a jacket or </div> <div> tie, preferring instead a form of casual exhibitionism in their shorts, tight </div> <div> jeans, and form fitting tops (for both men and women). Today, just as the </div> <div> Sabbath is about to start, a small parade of cars outfitted with multicolored </div> <div> balloons and rainbow flags drive down Dizengoff Street: a demonstration of gay </div> <div> pride. Hebron is a world away.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Sunday, June 22, 1997</div> <bR> <div> Well today is the equivalent of the Israeli Monday, which means, to the </div> <div> uninitiated such as myself, you darned well better have made something of the </div> <div> last two days.</div> <bR> <div> So I did. Sundown on Friday marks the Jewish Sabbath. That's when Jews are to </div> <div> refrain from working and other physical activities and instead, engage in </div> <div> prayer and quiet reflection. I think someone forgot to tell the denizens of </div> <div> Tel Aviv. Sabbath here just mean even MORE cars on the road, even LOUDER music </div> <div> on the beach, and even more OUTRAGEOUS clothing as they flocked to the cafes, </div> <div> restaurants and clubs. It's wild. Coming back with Martin Fletcher from our </div> <div> interview in Jerusalem, we stopped off in Ayalon Forest to join his friends at </div> <div> a birthday party. Not quite what you would expect surrounded by trees and open </div> <div> sky: copious food and alcohol, and a well-equipped DJ whose pounding rhythms </div> <div> probably vexed the forest's non-human inhabitants to no end.</div> <bR> <div> And later that night (around 12:30 a.m.), I joined our NBC driver/cameraman/ </div> <div> fixer/operator/former bodyguard/ex-Mossad super well connected guy, Amikam </div> <div> Cohen and his wife on the outskirts of Tel Aviv in a container port, where </div> <div> some intrepid entrepreneur had essentially created a discotheque zone: </div> <div> warehouses converted into dance floors. We went to see Amikam's 23-year-old </div> <div> son play guitar with his band at their first concert. I didn't understand a </div> <div> word of the Hebrew lyrics, but the music was great (kind of folksy, kind of Led </div> <div> Zeppelinish), and I didn't mind hitting my bed at 3:00 a.m., knowing that I would </div> <div> have to get up again at 7:00 to head to the Golan Heights.</div> <bR> <div> Ok, although I didn't mind, it was still painful. I joined fellow NBC-er Rich </div> <div> Latour (who just happened to be here on vacation at the same time) and his </div> <div> Israeli friend, Oded in our trek up to the Golan Heights. Oded is a </div> <div> 28-year-old flight technician/navigator in the Israeli Air Force -- a cool guy </div> <div> in any language.</div> <bR> <div> He drove us up to the Mediterranean coast to Caesaria where we saw the theater </div> <div> that King Herod built, and which is still used today for concerts. We went </div> <div> through a couple of Druze villages, stopping to eat a pita stuffed with fresh </div> <div> goat cheese and olive oil, seasoned with a parsley-like spice called zatar.</div> <bR> <div> On to Haifa, the major Israeli port, and then even more food in Akko...humus, </div> <div> pita, french fries. When was the last time I had eaten meat?</div> <bR> <div> We then entered the Galilee -- prime Jesus Christ territory. The Sea of </div> <div> Galilee is actually a fresh-water lake, into which the Jordan River feeds. </div> <div> This is the place where J.C. pulled the loaves and fishes trick, as well as the </div> <div> walking on water incident. I walked THROUGH the water, which was quite warm. </div> <div> While doing so, I reflected upon J.C. doing it 2000 years ago, and also on the </div> <div> fact that this same water was the prime source for Israel's drinking water. </div> <div> Hope my feet were clean.</div> <bR> <div> As we drove around the area, we wondered if television news had existed 2,000 </div> <div> years ago, how it would have handled a huge news personality like Jesus. Would </div> <div> it be something like, "Terror in the Holy Land?" Maybe more like, "Trial of </div> <div> the Millennium: the Romans vs. J.C." "You're looking now live at the site of </div> <div> where the crucifixion will occur..."..."Judas in his own words," and of course, </div> <div> the prime time comedy talk show would probably have "the Dancing Pilates."</div> <bR> <div> The Golan Heights is a magnificent piece of land overlooking the Galilee, as </div> <div> well as the Jordanian and Syrian borders. Syria once controlled this area and </div> <div> wants it back. Judging from the level of agriculture, defense fortifications </div> <div> (land mines, tank bases, bunkers), and tourism in this area (which looks like a </div> <div> cross between Kansas and Nevada), I can see why Israel would have a tough time </div> <div> negotiating with the Syrians.</div> <bR> <div> On the "this place is never boring" front: a drug addict stole a bag on the </div> <div> beach on Friday afternoon, about 1/2 km from my hotel. He took it aside to </div> <div> inspect his booty and was shocked to discover some kind of contraption with </div> <div> lots of wires protruding from it. Deciding to do the "right thing," he alerted </div> <div> officials. It turned out that the bag contained a bomb with 3kg of TNT and 20 </div> <div> minutes left on the timer. That would have done a lot of damage to the </div> <div> unsuspecting hundreds of people enjoying the Sabbath afternoon on the beach. </div> <div> And it may be a sign that a new terrorism campaign is about to start.</div> <bR> <div> Tonight, after my story on Weekend Nightly News airs (30 years after the 6-day </div> <div> war), I'm heading out with the police on a stolen car raid, which should be </div> <div> exciting. Tomorrow, I'm going to the Palestinian town of Ramallah to interview </div> <div> David Kuttab, a journalist, and the Palestinian executive producer of the new </div> <div> Israeli version of Sesame Street.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> Tel Aviv, June 26, 1997</div> <bR> <bR> <div> I suppose if there's anyone I guy who's last name is "Hosein" can befriend in </div> <div> Israel, one of the higher-ups in charge for security at the ultra-safe Israeli </div> <div> airline El Al would be it.</div> <bR> <div> I had dinner last night with Rafi Sagi, and his live-in girlfriend (and former </div> <div> Israeli basketball star) Orit Litany, at their apartment in north Tel Aviv. </div> <div> Friends of a friend, Rafi is being transferred by El Al to head up security at </div> <div> its New York area operations. They'll be moving out to New York, just as I (if </div> <div> my transfer works out) move into Tel Aviv.</div> <bR> <div> If I am allowed to stereotype Israelis at this early point in my stay, I would </div> <div> say that Rafi and Orit fit the mould. Bright, worldly, assertive, and above </div> <div> all, warm -- they don't suffocate you with their hospitality, but rather cuddle </div> <div> you in interesting dialogue and comfortable interaction. Above all, I was </div> <div> able, early in the conversation to : (1) pick out some problems in the house </div> <div> lease that they were about to sign for their new place in New Jersey, since </div> <div> they knew I was once a lawyer; (2) obtain an unsolicited (yeah right) </div> <div> equivalent of "get out of jail free" pass from Rafi, should I ever have to fly </div> <div> El Al and I wish to avoid the 3 hour pre-interview/grilling that I would be </div> <div> subject to by his colleagues at Ben Gurion airport. Mission accomplished!</div> <bR> <div> I have been getting along exceptionally well with the Israelis, both at work, </div> <div> and in the office, which is a big surprise to me, since I had been warmed </div> <div> beforehand that they were brash and impolite, and very bad drivers. Well, I </div> <div> once lived with the French, I drive in Manhattan, and I'm brash and impolite, </div> <div> so call me born-again Israeli. Now pass the humus before I kick your face in.</div> <bR> <div> A couple of nights ago I went out with Paul Goldman, the editor here at NBC, </div> <div> and his wife. we met on the beach for a drink, and watched the sun set. At </div> <div> that key "magic moment," my essential Israeli implement went off (my cellphone </div> <div> rang, I now I have a hip holster so I can whip it out like some cyber Clint </div> <div> Eastwood at the O.K. Corrall). It was the home office in New York City. I </div> <div> couldn't help but mention that I was sitting with friends, sipping Tuborg </div> <div> beer, feet in the sand, watching a very rosy sun set into the Mediterranean </div> <div> horizon. I suspect the groans at the end of the line were not meant as a sign </div> <div> of support for me in my difficult endeavor over here.</div> <bR> <div> I ate dinner with Paul at his place that night...an impromptu quiche, salad </div> <div> with delicious homemade vinaigrette, and fresh Israeli melon wrapped in </div> <div> proscuitto. Pork in Israel? Paul told me we can get anything we want here. </div> <div> The Israelis aren't huge meat eaters, but that's probably because the </div> <div> vegetables are out of this world -- tomatoes as succulent as can be, and </div> <div> lettuce that makes New York produce seem so...weed-like. Still, I was </div> <div> surprised that many Israelis eat pork (and go dancing and drinking on the </div> <div> Sabbath), but as I read in Thomas Friedman's, excellent but uneven, "From </div> <div> Beirut to Jerusalem," many Jews, once they are living in Israel feel that that </div> <div> is enough -- that is what makes them Jewish, and their culture and religion is </div> <div> no longer threatened. So why not take it easy? Not a question to ask the </div> <div> orthodox!</div> <bR> <div> Tonight however, STEAK, with Yigal Anug, a Canadian-trained veterinarian who </div> <div> happens to be the brother-in-law of a friend of mine from New York, and is </div> <div> married to a Catholic (formerly) woman from Colombian who got into an argument </div> <div> with his friend Rafi last night about how Israelis have screwed up the peace </div> <div> process. I can't wait: great food and great conversation.</div> <bR> <div> And yes, I have been working, quite hard actually. My police ride on the West </div> <div> Bank was an all-night affair. The chief of the stolen car unit, Pi'Shon was </div> <div> really accommodating (and also pointed out that where we were standing, just </div> <div> inside the West Bank at 11:00 p.m., was where he had been shot at the night </div> <div> before...very reassuring these Israeli police). He pointed out the dirt roads </div> <div> on which the thieves would drive the stolen cars in their effort to get them </div> <div> into the West Bank, then strip the cars and sell the parts back to dealers in </div> <div> Israel. This has become a big problem since the Palestinians have assumed </div> <div> authority over certain areas of the West Bank, because thieves can pretty much </div> <div> act with impunity once they cross the "green Line" -- the Israeli version of </div> <div> the Mexican border.</div> <bR> <div> Anyway, nothing happened until 4:50 a.m. when we got the call that police had </div> <div> blockaded the road about 10 minutes away and a car had done a serious U-turn </div> <div> and fled. But by the time we got there, the driver had escaped, leaving behind </div> <div> a nice Mazda from Tel Aviv in the ditch. The sun was beginning to rise, and </div> <div> the police were very upset that they had not caught their man: a very unusual </div> <div> scene. Luckily, the authorities have agreed to do it all over again next week, </div> <div> including a helicopter ride over the west bank, and a visit to some of the chop </div> <div> shops. This will end up eventually on the Today Show and Dateline </div> <div> International.</div> <bR> <div> My shoot the day after in Ramallah (Arafat's HQ), was also interesting. We </div> <div> spoke to Daoud Kuttab, Palestinian moderate, recently jailed journalist (the </div> <div> Palestinians threw him in the slammer for a week for upsetting their political </div> <div> sensibilities), and executive producer of the new Israeli/Palestinian version </div> <div> of Sesame Street. He's also an all-round good guy, who spoke to us </div> <div> enthusiastically about the Sesame Street project (a story of ours for Nightly </div> <div> News), and about the political situation generally. After the interview, we </div> <div> did what any right-thinking people would do in an Arab territory: we ate humus </div> <div> and pita.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> June 28, 1997 JERUSALEM</div> <bR> <div> "I've got a Devil's Haircut, in my mind." Dusk fell on Jerusalem as I motored </div> <div> through the Old City, not quite sure what I was doing, as I listened to Beck on </div> <div> my car stereo. A quixotic scene without a doubt.</div> <bR> <div> Jerusalem is far away from the Euro-tendencies of Tel Aviv. And unlike Tel </div> <div> Aviv, which permits itself to be compared to some other place, Jerusalem is a </div> <div> world onto itself -- a strange, exciting, tense, exotic, beautifully </div> <div> frightening world.</div> <bR> <div> A superficial drive-by while listening to the car stereo reveals only just </div> <div> another ancient, walled city, nicely lit: like Barcelona, Quebec City, Les </div> <div> Baux-de-Provence. But dare to get out of the car, take a tour, chat with a </div> <div> Palestinian journalist, spot the plethora of Israeli soldiers touting Uzi's </div> <div> alongside the Holy sites, you can't help but think that this place just </div> <div> seethes.</div> <bR> <div> I woke up early and drove a Sabbath-induced, traffic-free highway straight into </div> <div> Jerusalem. I had decided to stay at the American Colony Hotel in Arab East </div> <div> Jerusalem, rather than in a Sheraton or a Hilton for a couple of reasons: (1) </div> <div> the Jewish Sabbath would make a stay in Jewish Jerusalem a little too sedate; </div> <div> and (2) the American Colony Hotel has an incredible reputation, a must-stay, </div> <div> serving non-kosher food to spies, diplomats, writers and journalists. It is a </div> <div> fantastically beautiful hotel-- straight out of Casablanca, a 19th century </div> <div> Turkish pasha's villa, complete with sumptuous courtyard, and Swiss-managed </div> <div> service. Lawrence of Arabic stayed here, along with Winston Churchill, and for </div> <div> you former law students, our fave, Lord Denning of the Court of Appeals of </div> <div> England.</div> <bR> <div> I managed to book a private tour guide to take me, as well as my friends, Sid </div> <div> and Barbara Cohen (from Ottawa -- who happened to be here at the same time as </div> <div> I) through the maze of the Old City of Jerusalem.</div> <bR> <div> Our guide, an Englishwoman who lived in Jerusalem, was very good, and quite </div> <div> adept at showing us the essentials in under four hours. We walked by the </div> <div> Wailing Wall, overseen by soldiers from on high as Jewish men prayed separately </div> <div> from the women. We walked into the Dome of the Rock -- a superb example of </div> <div> Islamic architecture with its gold painted cupola and plush carpets (which we </div> <div> walked upon, shoeless). It was hard to believe that only a month ago, I was </div> <div> also walking barefoot through the entrance of the Taj Mahal. That's good </div> <div> fortune.</div> <bR> <div> But our guide also pointed out the bullet hole in the pillar at the Al-Aqsa </div> <div> mosque, from the gun that killed King Abdullah of Jordan, who had been hinting </div> <div> at peace with Israel in the early 1950's. We had to leave our water bottles at </div> <div> the door, just in case they contained gasoline -- which was how a madman from </div> <div> Australia destroyed the cedar wood pulpit in 1969 (he had been apparently </div> <div> suffering from Jerusalem syndrome -- the Christian strain -- which hit him, as </div> <div> it does many other religious people when they finally walk the streets of the </div> <div> city that they have read about, or prayed to, so much for so long. JS renders </div> <div> you either stark raving mad, or makes you a self-appointed Messiah).</div> <bR> <div> That's the kind of hold this city on a hill holds over the world's three </div> <div> principle religions -- a strange spell that leads to competition (my mosque is </div> <div> taller than your church), turf wars (get your filthy hands off of my Quarter), </div> <div> and the occasional massacre (martyrs of the world apply here).</div> <bR> <div> I must confess that I feel very little for this much revered place. In fact, I </div> <div> found it very hard to understand how so much blood could be spilled over this </div> <div> town on the edge of the desert.</div> <bR> <div> But as my colleague Haled Abu Toameh told me, it's only a matter of time before </div> <div> Jerusalem casts its spell over believer and non-believer alike. Haled is a </div> <div> Palestinian journalist who works on retainer for NBC. He knows this story, and </div> <div> he knows the city. He remarked that it becomes almost impossible to leave </div> <div> Jerusalem after living here for as little as two years. Foreign journalists </div> <div> come here all the time for a brief stint he said, and end up staying. Why? </div> <div> "the tension," Haled explained. The tension between Arab & Jew, Sephardim and </div> <div> Ashkenazim, Copt and Catholic, Palestinian and Israeli. Tension enough to go </div> <div> 'round, to get the blood boiling, and the adrenaline flowing.</div> <bR> <div> That's why there are more foreign journalists here than in any other city in </div> <div> the world, why U.S. News & World Report spends $10,000 a month to maintain a </div> <div> bureau here despite that magazines abhorrence of international news, why ABC </div> <div> News has its bureau here rather than in Tel Aviv (as should we, but who </div> <div> wouldn't want to live in Tel Aviv?) -- this is one heckuva story: a story that </div> <div> can lull you into a false sense of no news, and then explode upon the most </div> <div> trivial of provocations.</div> <bR> <div> And that's what Haled believes will happen soon: that this story will explode, </div> <div> that one day, an Israeli or a Palestinian will overstep the volatile boundary, </div> <div> and poof, the rules evaporate into the dry Jerusalem air.</div> <bR> <div> So I escaped the possibility of that happening in the next 24 hours, and drove </div> <div> down to the Dead Sea the next day, a descent into the lowest of lows (it's the </div> <div> lowest point on Earth) floated in the mineral-laden body of water as a few </div> <div> Palestinians blasted their music and covered themselves in skin-nourishing Dead </div> <div> Sea mud. A quick trip to Masada, that symbol of Jewish resistance (and mine, </div> <div> since I went at midday, in the desert heat), and then zipped back to the Israel </div> <div> Museum to ogle at the Dead Sea Scrolls. A surreal and a chance of a lifetime.. </div> <div> ...day trip.</div> <bR> <div> ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------</div> <div> It was unanimous. Volvo does indeed make the most comfortable </div> <div> car seat in the business.</div> <bR> <div> Let me paint the scene: a typically sunny, dry, dusty summer day </div> <div> in a West Bank town (Tulkarem) forty-five minutes outside of Tel </div> <div> Aviv. I'm sipping Turkish coffee with Avni, Dubi, and Chaim -- </div> <div> the NBC Tel Aviv crew (another cameraman, Chaim Dekel, is up in </div> <div> a police chopper somewhere over our heads). Oh yeah, we're busy </div> <div> negotiating with a gaggle of Palestinians just outside their </div> <div> spare parts shop. Our hosts are very hospitable -- they </div> <div> prepared the coffee for us, and invited us to sit with them in a </div> <div> circle as we chatted. But each and every one of us was </div> <div> comfortably installed on individual car seats, which had clearly </div> <div> been ripped out of cars, and were now placed on the ground for </div> <div> our convenience.</div> <bR> <div> One Palestinian man pointed each seat out, grinning. "Subaru, </div> <div> Honda, Toyota Corolla," he said. Then he got excited. "Volvo, </div> <div> Volvo!" Yes, the Volvo seat is the most comfortable, and the </div> <div> man who we ended up interviewing, insisted sitting on a black </div> <div> leather Volvo seat (I think I was on the Honda seat) -- </div> <div> definitely the strangest interview I have ever done.</div> <bR> <div> This is where the stolen Israeli cars are brought, and sold, and </div> <div> then sliced into thousands of parts, which are then resold to </div> <div> Israeli dealers. It's hard for the Israeli police to do much </div> <div> about it here, this is an autonomous region, under the Palestinian </div> <div> Authority. Still, our friends were initially very suspicious of </div> <div> us, and thought that we might be police. It took a good 45 </div> <div> minutes of intense, Middle-East-style negotiations (animated, </div> <div> with charm and aggression, and lots of patience) to convince them </div> <div> that we were American journalists (well actually, 3 Israelis and </div> <div> a Canadian masquerading as an American). They wondered how a </div> <div> guy with the last name Hosein could be from Canada. Then one </div> <div> guy said that he thought he had seen me in a police station in </div> <div> Haifa the other week. Me? An Israeli policeman?</div> <bR> <div> But we convinced them eventually that our intentions were good (I </div> <div> think the fact that I told them that my parents had a Volvo </div> <div> helped our cause -- they do love that car!), and we sat down to </div> <div> do the interview, and to shoot the doors and hubcaps piled </div> <div> neatly all over the lot. Just as we were beginning, one guy </div> <div> came out with a front instrument gauge panel in his hand...he </div> <div> seemed very pleased with his acquisition.</div> <bR> <div> Although our interviewees never actually confessed to dealing in </div> <div> stolen parts, they did make some interesting comments, in a </div> <div> mixture of Arabic and Hebrew (one guy spoke Arabic, the other </div> <div> guy translated it into broken Hebrew, then one of my guys </div> <div> translated it into English for me). The best one liner: </div> <div> "Israelis stole our land, so we steal their cars!" One man </div> <div> explained to me that he wished that they weren't teaching their </div> <div> children to steal, but he felt that they had no other choice </div> <div> since they could no longer work in Israel (the economic </div> <div> situation, and unemployment specifically, is dire in the </div> <div> Territories, but that's not entirely Israel's fault).</div> <bR> <div> So we lucked out with that interview. We could have easily been </div> <div> chased away, or worse. Alas, in another story about cars, I was </div> <div> not so lucky. My own car was towed away just outside our office </div> <div> in Tel Aviv. That's what I get for daring to park on the street.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Ultimately, Israel is an unusual place. You can easily be lulled into thinking </div> <div> that it's just another developed country, that happens to have great weather, </div> <div> good looking people, a relaxed lifestyle and incompetent drivers. The roads </div> <div> are well built, the water is safe to drink, the restaurants as good any </div> <div> mid-level New York establishment. The country even produces good wine (albeit </div> <div> it comes from the Golan Heights area, which may one day be returned to Syria). </div> <div> It's Manhattan meets Miami Beach meets California meets Provence, all in a </div> <div> place the size of New Jersey -- mercifully minus the Superfund sites and </div> <div> Newark.</div> <bR> <div> And then you read the newspaper editorial headlines: "Winds of War," "War is </div> <div> Inevitable," "On the Verge" and you realize that there's no such thing as </div> <div> paradise without compromise. Yesterday, in the ongoing symbolic theater in </div> <div> Hebron, some Palestinians began to shoot at Bet Hadassah, the Jewish settler </div> <div> enclave in the heart of Arab Hebron. From rocks to bullets, from skirmishes on </div> <div> one street in the town, to a direct attack on a settlement: for Israeli people, </div> <div> observers, experts, soothsayers and diviners, the signs are clear -- big </div> <div> trouble is around the corner.</div> <bR> <div> So, in my ongoing attempt to enjoy a country still at relative peace (O </div> <div> Desperate Rationalization), I've put about 1,500 km on my little white Kia </div> <div> automobile (a Korean subcompact with a Japanese design and a really spunky </div> <div> engine that has learned to like off-road driving). I've treated most of </div> <div> this country to very loud rock music blasting out of my open window. By </div> <div> refusing to unpump up the volume, I've shown no preference, deference, or </div> <div> reverence to the Old City of Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, the Negev Desert or the </div> <div> Egyptian Border Crossing near Eilat. "Welcome Canadian," the grinning Egyptian </div> <div> soldier said to me, enjoying my Muslim-sounding last name and my harmless </div> <div> nationality, as he handed me back my passport and waived me through. "Eat some </div> <div> Iron Maiden," I told him silently as I quickly accelerated across the border.</div> <bR> <div> The juxtaposition between a really great country to visit and live (should I </div> <div> move here, my apartment will be larger than my one in New York, I'll have a </div> <div> car...a wimpy winter...and the beach) and a country under siege is a startling </div> <div> one. Martin Fletcher recently showed me an invitation he received from Judaica </div> <div> Multimedia, for the Inauguration Ceremony of the Encyclopaedia Judaica CD-ROM </div> <div> edition, at the President of Israel's residence. The fine print, written in </div> <div> elegant blue script, reads, "This is a personal invitation...Parking in the </div> <div> Jerusalem Theater parking lot. Please do not bring weapons." I'll have to </div> <div> remind Martin to leave his Uzi with the submachine gun check girl.</div> <bR> <div> The biggest professional danger in working as a foreign journalist here is </div> <div> probably how easy and quickly you can lose perspective. There is the everyday </div> <div> tension of not knowing when the next conflagration will come, and where. Will </div> <div> Hebron explode, will the government fall, will that car across the street blow </div> <div> up? A crisis is always just around the corner, and you can't help but feel </div> <div> that tension. But it's not always easy to translate what you feel into a good </div> <div> enough reason for New York to buy yet another "the Apocalypse is nigh" story </div> <div> from Israel. I suspect that only outright war, or outright peace will be </div> <div> enough to really capture people's imaginations in the West.</div> <bR> <div> And yet, this young country, with a population of six million, still seems to </div> <div> attract a disproportionate amount of journalists, and therefore attention. </div> <div> When was the last time our American audience cared about the internal </div> <div> machinations of the Swedish government? (better yet, when was the first </div> <div> time?). Is it because Israel is the cradle of Western civilization? The </div> <div> meeting point of three great Faiths -- where Moses never entered, Jesus walked, </div> <div> and Mohammed rose up to Heaven. A struggle for the Ages? An American </div> <div> strategic interest? The influence of a strong Jewish lobby in North America? </div> <div> The place where the Messiah will come (or if you're not Jewish) Second come? </div> <div> The black hole whose Armageddon will suck in the rest of the world? All of </div> <div> the above? Or is just a great, sexy story with terrific pictures -- no </div> <div> different from that fire last night in downtown Buffalo, the drive-by shooting </div> <div> in LA, the bodega hold-up in the Bronx?</div> <bR> <div> More insightful people than I, who have been here longer, haven't found the </div> <div> answer, but no one seems to mind, it's an invigorating, challenging story to </div> <div> cover, and hey, it's better than being posted to Moscow. So buckle my sandals, </div> <div> avoid humus on hot days (salmonella city), and get that flak jacket dry </div> <div> cleaned, it promises to be quite an adventure.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> BETHLEHEM, December 5, 1997</div> <bR> <div> As I stood on top of the roof of a Syrian church in Bethlehem this morning</div> <div> trying to get that perfect shot of the crucifix on the steeple of the Church</div> <div> of the Nativity in line with the crescent moon of the adjacent mosque, NBC</div> <div> cameraman Jeff Riggins turned to me and said, "I think the real religion here</div> <div> is television." He was, of course, right. For every cross in Christ's</div> <div> hometown there were a hundred television antennae. For every crescent moon</div> <div> there were three satellite dishes -- Islam was the newer, and now more</div> <div> dominant religion in Bethlehem after all. And a few hours later, when the</div> <div> call to prayer from the mosque's powerful megaphone was broadcast across</div> <div> Manger Square, and echoed off the Church of the Nativity, I knew that to be</div> <div> true. Which is what the story we were there to do was all about: whither</div> <div> the cradle of Christianity?</div> <bR> <div> I have now been in Israel for two weeks, as a defender of the faith in</div> <div> American television news' ongoing crusade (cue Richard the Lionheart: turns</div> <div> over in grave upon overuse of metaphor). Yesterday, NBC correspondent Martin</div> <div> Fletcher and I were in Tower Records in Tel Aviv to interview a 19-year-old </div> <div> girl, who was thrown out of her Jewish Orthodox school when her teacher found </div> <div> the girl's scrapbook homage to Dana International, the popular, and notorious</div> <div> transsexual pop singer. I walked over to the cash register to ask the manager,</div> <div> to turn the music down so that we could do the interview in the Israeli records</div> <div> section. I haven't been here long enough not to feel self-conscious about my </div> <div> complete inability to speak Hebrew, so I tried to be as polite as possible. </div> <div> Expecting a brash rebuff, the woman cheerfully turned down the music, and her</div> <div> colleague, in perfect English, proceeded to ask me how she could get a job at </div> <div> NBC, because she was a big fan, and very ambitious.</div> <bR> <div> And the day before, working on the same Dana International story, we</div> <div> interviewed Shlomo Benisri, a member of the Israeli Knesset. He told us how</div> <div> Dana International was a sick deviant, and how her flamboyance made him feel </div> <div> very ashamed for the Jewish people. Benisri was very accommodating, and spoke </div> <div> to us in with a tone of reason and restraint. He told us that he doesn't own a</div> <div> television or a radio, and does not permit his children to watch t.v. either. </div> <div> That reassured me that he would not be one of the many that I interview</div> <div> who typically request a copy of the finished story so that they can watch it</div> <div> again and again at home.</div> <bR> <div> Beyond work, the last two weeks have been spent trying to come to terms that I</div> <div> am here for good. I've been trying my best to throw myself into my new way of</div> <div> life: in my search for an apartment in the heart of Tel Aviv, in my morning</div> <div> jogs along the beach and subsequent dips into the increasingly chilly</div> <div> Mediterranean sea, in my sudden plunge in meat intake as I accommodate Kosher</div> <div> kitchens, humus and pita breaks in East Jerusalem and my attempts to resist</div> <div> daily trips to the local Domino's (but I have succumbed twice already to the</div> <div> lure of a personal-sized pepperoni pizza). And I think I've done pretty well,</div> <div> for the most part.</div> <bR> <div> Still, there is one thing I refuse to accept: the Israeli driving method. I</div> <div> am convinced that the importance of home leave in my NBC expatriate package is</div> <div> not so that I can become reacquainted with new techniques and thinking in our</div> <div> New York headquarters once a year. Rather, it's so I can remember how the</div> <div> rest of the world drives -- i.e. normally. It is generally recognized that</div> <div> taking to the Israeli roads is a courageous thing, a true test of mettle in a</div> <div> country where more people have died behind the wheel than in all of the wars</div> <div> and terrorist attacks here since 1948. I have discovered so far that drivers</div> <div> here engage in two well-accepted ways of street conduct. First, when trying</div> <div> to join the flow of traffic, or changing lanes, inch out just enough to</div> <div> disrupt the other cars and elicit a few honks. Second, slow right down, or</div> <div> better yet, stop right there, in mid-motion, because you've lost all your</div> <div> nerve to follow through on your idiotic move which should have never been</div> <div> initiated in the first place, until you realize that your sub-sub-sub compact</div> <div> car does not really have the dimensions of a Mack truck and can fit into that</div> <div> gigantic gap among the other cars. Frankly, if you're going to drive badly,</div> <div> at least do it aggressively and get it over with. Just like we do in New</div> <div> York.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> TEL AVIV, DECEMBER 26, 1997</div> <bR> <div> For the first time in my brief Israeli experience, I arrived at the baggage</div> <div> claim area at Ben Gurion Airport before my baggage did. No mean feat for a</div> <div> suspicious-looking character such as I with the surly surname and fearsome</div> <div> features. My return from a weekend in London was much different from my</div> <div> initial arrival in Israel four weeks ago, when I had been set aside for</div> <div> special treatment (read: interrogation) with the other Carlos look-alikes</div> <div> dressed in leather jackets (read: resembling a Palestinian), while my fellow</div> <div> passengers whizzed by me.</div> <bR> <div> I suspect that the security folks at the airport were easier on me the second-</div> <div> time around for a number of reasons. First, I elected to wear a khaki Gore-Tex</div> <div> jacket, instead of the standard-issue terrorist leather. Second, I was</div> <div> carrying my Israeli press card, which helped somewhat. Third, the novelty of</div> <div> being questioned because of my funny last name had worn off, and I think that</div> <div> the 20-something woman asking me questions realized that I wasn't going to</div> <div> tolerate this much longer (I get the same question every time, "what's the</div> <div> origin of your last name?"...I tell it to them straight, let them deal with</div> <div> the truth). But most importantly, and I was quick to point this out to my</div> <div> inquisitor, hadn't I flown that notoriously secure airline, El Al? If they</div> <div> hadn't caught me, how could Israeli security?</div> <bR> <div> El Al security procedures merit some exposition. Contrary to the Day-Glo</div> <div> colors currently employed by British Airways, my plane from London was non-</div> <div> flagrant, in plainclothes, naked...wearing nothing but a registration number.</div> <bR> <div> But I'm jumping ahead, it would take me a couple of hours to actually catch a</div> <div> glimpse of my plane. I arrived at Gatwick airport 3 1/2 hours before the</div> <div> flight. Unlike other check-in counters, El Al's was boarded off from public</div> <div> view. I had to join a line of people, watched over by machine-gun toting</div> <div> British police, as someone checked my ticket.</div> <bR> <div> So far so good. Join another line. Someone checks my ticket again, and my</div> <div> passport. Next line, x-ray and metal detector. After that: the dreaded</div> <div> security interview. I went through two and a half interrogators...I must have</div> <div> been tiring them out. Why are you going to Israel? Why were you in London? </div> <div> Why didn't you stay for Christmas? Where are you staying in Tel Aviv? I</div> <div> showed them a letter from NBC saying who I was, I showed them all my I.D., I</div> <div> even invoked the name of my friend who heads up security at El Al in New York,</div> <div> and still the interview went on.</div> <bR> <div> Once they deemed me secure, I checked in at the ticket counter...and then off</div> <div> to one of Israel's favorite past-times...duty free shopping! (sidebar: the duty</div> <div> free shops at Ben Gurion actually allow Israelis LEAVING Israel to purchase</div> <div> items tax-free, and then pick them up when they return from their trip). I</div> <div> thought to myself, being in that frame of mind, that if someone wanted to pass</div> <div> me a bomb now, it would be pretty easy to do in the cigarette section of store.</div> <div> But they had thought of that too. I arrived at Gate 20, and my passport and</div> <div> ticket were checked yet again, as was my hand luggage. Which brought me to the</div> <div> albino Boeing 757.</div> <bR> <div> That being said, I don't resent the level of security, I just resent being</div> <div> singled out. The officials are usually firm, very quick, but not impolite. </div> <div> They're looking for inconsistencies in a passenger's story, reaction to</div> <div> provocative questions. And they always apologize for the delay when they're</div> <div> done. So me, the victim of Stockholm Syndrome, thank my captors, smile, and</div> <div> experience waves of gratitude that they were so thorough with me.</div> <bR> <div> One other disclaimer. I have found in my travels, and especially from living</div> <div> in France, that it is pointless to judge an entire nation, especially during</div> <div> the first few months. Not to say that I don't harbor negative feelings from</div> <div> time to time, but you should have seen me snarl at New Yorkers when I used to</div> <div> live there.</div> <bR> <div> Interaction with my seatmate on my plane to Tel Aviv summarizes my current</div> <div> opinion of Israelis. He was a big man, with, judging from his clothes and</div> <div> unkempt beard, had rural leanings. He of the middle seat, insisted that I put</div> <div> his jacket in the overhead bin, which I did, because that's what Canadians do</div> <div> (I think). During the flight he was all elbows, and couldn't sit still. He</div> <div> would spot the beverage cart coming, a few aisles down, and would start barking</div> <div> out his order before the attendant could even get to us. Once, during the</div> <div> third beverage service, an attendant came by with a tray full of small cans </div> <div> of coke, and one big can of orange soda. I mentally noted the presence of the</div> <div> large can, and decided that's what I would take. But I, closer to the tray,</div> <div> being in the aisle seat, was too slow. Mr. Middle Seat grabbed the large can</div> <div> quickly, and opened it up -- his fifth soda within the hour. Aggressive,</div> <div> boisterous, slightly impolite was he, but he also offered me a piece of his</div> <div> gum during the flight, in halting English. And upon touchdown, after he</div> <div> joined the other Israeli passengers in applause (a Holy Land habit from what I</div> <div> can gather, congratulating the pilot for getting them safely to their</div> <div> destination), he turned to me with a big grin and said, "Welcome to Israel,</div> <div> welcome, welcome!" Bottom line: I liked him.</div> <bR> <div> Today, I popped into McDonalds's for something quick. I ordered in English,</div> <div> service was swift. I felt a little awkward because I don't think the person</div> <div> serving me understood English too well, and I always feel awkward when I force</div> <div> a native of any country to speak my language instead of theirs. But as I was</div> <div> leaving, she and the other girl behind the counter smiled widely at me,</div> <div> "Goodbye," they said cheerfully, and struggling with an afterthought added,</div> <div> "Merry Christmas!" I guess they had deduced that someone who didn't speak</div> <div> Hebrew who was eating at McDonalds's on a Sabbath evening the day after</div> <div> Christmas had to be a Gentile. I didn't see the need to correct them, their</div> <div> intentions were obviously sincere and well-meaning. That kind of thing</div> <div> happens a lot, and it more than makes up for all the bad driving, over-excited</div> <div> behavior, and arguments with strangers. There's a lot of warmth and</div> <div> hospitality here. </div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> JANUARY 18, 1998 TEL AVIV</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Small Victories during a Big Change mean a lot. Today, I figured out that I</div> <div> didn't ALWAYS have to turn on the hot water switch thirty minutes before I</div> <div> showered in the morning. It seems that using electric heat to warm the water</div> <div> in my apartment is only necessary during those 65 days that the sun doesn't</div> <div> shine in Tel Aviv. Otherwise, the solar panels on the top of my building take</div> <div> care of the rest.</div> <bR> <div> So, I will try to have faith in what I can't see above me (that'll be the</div> <div> extent of it though). I really wish that living in Israel came with an</div> <div> instruction manual. But even if it did, I wouldn't be able to read the Hebrew</div> <div> anyway. How many times have I gotten lost because I couldn't understand the </div> <div> street signs outside of the tourist areas? Or when I couldn't tell whether I </div> <div> was buying toilet paper or paper towels in the grocery store (they look the </div> <div> same)? Or the number of contracts I've signed that may mean I'm signing up for </div> <div> a health club or offering my future home in fee simple to the building janitor?</div> <bR> <div> But that's the fun in trying some new isn't it? Where every mundane act</div> <div> becomes an adventure, and you learn not to second-guess what you've done</div> <div> because you'll otherwise have no time to first-guess overcoming the next</div> <div> obstacle. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, or in my case, at least</div> <div> less stupid.</div> <bR> <div> Fortunately, many people have come to my aid. My colleagues at work have</div> <div> helped me find a place to live, a place to bank, a car to drive -- important</div> <div> things. They've also endured my countless questions about the bills I'm</div> <div> receiving in the mail...what am I paying 472 shekels for? How do I fill out a</div> <div> check when I can't even read my name printed somewhere in the right hand</div> <div> corner? (Note to self: learn how to write your name in Hebrew).</div> <bR> <div> And then there are the countless others whom I don't even know. My still keen</div> <div> New York spider-senses scream at me not to trust anyone I don't know,</div> <div> especially in the Middle East. But then my hopeless situation forces me to</div> <div> admit that I have no choice, and that I have to have a little faith. So I do,</div> <div> and I have been surprised by the remarkable warmth by the people here.</div> <bR> <div> There's the retired Russian engineer who's been painting my apartment for the</div> <div> last week. He's a polyglot: he speaks Russian, Hebrew, Yiddish, German, and</div> <div> even Turkish. In a multiple choice exam, I must choose "none of the above"</div> <div> when trying to communicate with him. So we revert to sign language and</div> <div> speaking very slowly and loud to each other in our respective languages, which</div> <div> surprisingly, works. He's got my key, I leave him alone during the day. When</div> <div> I come back, not only are the walls painted, but he's fixed my broken picture</div> <div> frames (damaged in the move) and split the only telephone jack in my apartment</div> <div> four ways so that I can plug in a phone in every room.</div> <bR> <div> There's the unilingual old man at the motorcycle shop adjacent to the store</div> <div> where I bought my bicycle the other day. For some reason, the bike shop</div> <div> doesn't sell bike locks, the motorcycle one does. (Sounds like collusion to</div> <div> me). So I went over there and tried to figure out which lock I should buy. </div> <div> The man yelled to at the people in the grease-laden garage something to the</div> <div> effect of, "Does anywhere here speak English so I can sell something to this</div> <div> North American clod?" Two clients rushed over and started translating what</div> <div> the man was telling me about the locks. I think I engaged in a 10-minute</div> <div> cross-examination regarding the merits of each lock, and all three Israelis</div> <div> endured me happily, inserting their own advice at appropriate times, which</div> <div> didn't make my decision any easier.</div> <bR> <div> Everything here is an observation, a conversation piece. There's the</div> <div> insignificant: when I walk into a grocery store wearing what is seen as an</div> <div> oddity in Israel --a bike helmet (it shouldn't be, given the way they drive</div> <div> here, pedestrians should wear them too). People in the store automatically</div> <div> assumed that I was a serious biker, training in the Tel Aviv streets for the</div> <div> Tour de France. The guard at the door who inspects bags for bombs asked me</div> <div> how many kilometers I do each day. I found out he was French, and we started</div> <div> going at it. That gave me a "Get out of the grocery store free" pass for next</div> <div> time. The boy behind the meat counter probably asked me the same question, but</div> <div> in Hebrew, so instead, using sign language and rudimentary Hebrew, I ordered</div> <div> three ("shalosh") choice pieces of fresh chicken breast, which he happily</div> <div> prepared for me.</div> <bR> <div> My attempts to stay in shape have offered me a multitude of sociological</div> <div> details. Once, in the middle of a particularly heavy workout when I was still</div> <div> staying at the Sheraton, the supervisor of the fitness center came over to me,</div> <div> and asked me whether I wanted a cup of coffee. While I was working out? At my</div> <div> new health club, which is an beautiful location in the middle of a park beside</div> <div> the HaYarkon River (so heavily polluted that when a bridge collapsed this</div> <div> summer during a sports event, only one athlete DIDN'T die from being poisoned</div> <div> by the water), there's a cigarette vending machine right in the lobby. And I</div> <div> did see a couple of 50-something women, unwilling to leave their car in the</div> <div> hinterland of the parking lot, park their car, illegally, right in front of the</div> <div> door to the gym. They obviously didn't want to exert themselves too much</div> <div> before their workout.</div> <bR> <div> Yesterday, three separate people tried to help me, countless times, to acquaint</div> <div> myself with the various machines in the gym. And once again, they wouldn't let</div> <div> me do my workout in peace. There was the bearded guy with a British accent who</div> <div> pointed to my NBC Nightly News hat and said how much his family preferred</div> <div> watching Tom Brokaw to Dan Rather. And then he told me how he had been</div> <div> watching me manhandle the rowing machine, and that I was a prime candidate for</div> <div> some Mistress of Pain's bi-weekly class where true devotees of fitness show</div> <div> what they're made of. Then some octogenarian who was apparently a famous</div> <div> boxer in his day, came up to me and asked me, point blank, "What separates the</div> <div> British from the Americans?" I played dumb. "A common language!" he cackled,</div> <div> and then went on to demonstrate some of his boxing moves. I guess I'm some</div> <div> kind of novelty at the club.</div> <bR> <div> Let's see segue...how's this...boxing, Raging Bull, Robert De Niro! Martin</div> <div> Fletcher and I met with Ronnie Milo this week. He's the mayor of Tel Aviv,</div> <div> and self-proclaimed future prime minister of Israel. We tried to mine him for</div> <div> nuggets of political wisdom. But my strongest impression was that when he</div> <div> winced, he looked a lot like Robert De Niro.</div> <bR> <div> And speaking of dashed expectations, two weeks ago, we spent ten hours aboard</div> <div> the U.S. destroyer "John Rodgers" as part of the joint rescue exercise between</div> <div> the Americans, the Israelis and Turks in the Mediterranean Sea. Fraught with</div> <div> huge geo-political implications that such an alliance would bring against the</div> <div> Arab world, we were all pretty excited about the outing. And yet, what I</div> <div> remember most about that day was sitting up on deck, my back against the</div> <div> ship's huge gun, half-dozing, half reading a magazine under the winter sun. </div> <div> Oh yeah, I also watched "One Fine Day" on video in the officers' rec room.</div> <bR> <div> All this meandering to say that at this point, living day-to-day in Israel</div> <div> seems to be far more interesting (and revealing) than being a journalist</div> <div> during this very quiet time.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Tel Aviv, March 5, 1998</div> <bR> <div> The last month and a half have been full of the promise of mutually assured</div> <div> destruction, what with Iraq NOT threatening to attack Israel this time around,</div> <div> but Israel still pretending that it was 1991 all over again. So we journalists</div> <div> prepared, brought in more colleagues from London and New York, thought about</div> <div> getting contamination suits and gas masks, laid out worst case scenarios,</div> <div> wondered whether our glass office could withstand a nearby Scud attack...and</div> <div> waited...for nothing. Instead, we ended up playing tennis, having dinner</div> <div> parties, touring the country; I brushed up on my Hebrew, and generally lived a</div> <div> life of semi-leisure under the constant cloud-cover of stress and potential</div> <div> war.</div> <bR> <div> Now that that's over (for now), we can get back to the task at hand: pitching</div> <div> and producing feature stories to New York in a period of no-news (where art</div> <div> thou Cold War?).</div> <bR> <div> So we spent an early morning yesterday with the Jahalin Tribe: the Bedouin</div> <div> near Jerusalem on the road to the Dead Sea. It was quite the eyeful as we</div> <div> pulled off the road onto the rocky terrain of the Judean Desert. A few large,</div> <div> white pyramid-like tents lined the floor of a shallow valley. Closest to the</div> <div> road was a ramshackle lean-to. That was probably where the tribe prepared its</div> <div> meals: there was a hearth with smoldering embers, and a couple of kettles.</div> <bR> <div> Children stood waiting to leave for school, equipped with their small,</div> <div> colorful backpacks. A dog barked incessantly up on the hill as he looked down</div> <div> on dozens of sheep, which were braying randomly, but with much gusto and</div> <div> personality. A woman wearing a shroud escorted a donkey bearing water. And</div> <div> right at the top of the hill were two hundred modern homes looking down upon</div> <div> these people. It was because of those houses, that we had come.</div> <bR> <div> "I am a refugee here, and I am waiting for the day to return to my land,"</div> <div> Ahmed told us in Arabic. He was the mufti of the Jahalin tribe. "Without</div> <div> land, a Bedouin is nothing."</div> <bR> <div> There are now 120,000 Bedouin who live in Israel. They have been wandering</div> <div> the Middle East for thousands of years, with their large families and their</div> <div> livestock. The Jahalin originally lived in the south, in the Negev Desert. </div> <div> But the Israeli government forced them to move north when it decided to</div> <div> develop the desert. Now the Jahalin are being asked to move again, as the</div> <div> Jerusalem satellite-town of Ma'ale Adummim expands, from 23,000 people to</div> <div> 60,000 in the next ten years. The tribe is actually taking the Israeli</div> <div> government to court.</div> <bR> <div> The mufti looks to be about 50 years old. He is wearing a long black gown, a</div> <div> red khaffiyah around his head, and a pair of beat-up black Italian loafers. He</div> <div> has two wives, and twenty children. As we begin our interview, I am surprised</div> <div> that the dog, stops barking. Two sheep bray chorus-like in unison, heralding</div> <div> perhaps the beginning of our interview, and then shut up. Very courteous</div> <div> animals.</div> <bR> <div> Five men crouch in a line, just out of sight of the camera, and listen to</div> <div> their leader speak. They're wearing jeans. One has a cellphone on his hip.</div> <div> You have to feel sorry for these people who are being chased down and pushed</div> <div> out by the modern world and a growing, young country. It's hard not to draw a</div> <div> parallel with the native people of North America. But like anything else in</div> <div> Israel, nothing is black and white, and almost everything has to do with The</div> <div> Land.</div> <bR> <div> The mayor of Ma'ale Adummim is young, and very sharp. He points out that the</div> <div> Bedouin moved to where they are now, when the Israeli government had already</div> <div> designated the land as part of the town. They let them live there, and now</div> <div> they are giving them another set of land, that will be the Bedouin's for good,</div> <div> they say. They don't want the Bedouin to leave, they are good neighbors, and</div> <div> they have jobs in the town. And Ma'ale Adummim doesn't look very different</div> <div> from any other subdivision built on the edge of a booming, expanding city in</div> <div> North America. I can relate to that.</div> <bR> <div> But it doesn't end there. In this part of the world, you can argue yourself in</div> <div> circles when it comes to ownership of land. How far back in time do you have</div> <div> to go to prove a prior claim? The big question: how can the Israelis designate</div> <div> land that's not theirs? Cue: the Palestinians. Ma'ale Adummim lies on</div> <div> territory that the Israelis occupied after the war in 1967, and the</div> <div> Palestinians want back. So they're getting involved in the Bedouin fight as</div> <div> well. As Saeb Erakaat, the Chief Palestinian Peace Negotiator told us, "The</div> <div> West Bank is a single territorial unit. I don't think it's Israel's business</div> <div> to determine the fate of these people. It's OUR business." </div> <bR> <div> But then some Jews will argue that the land belonged to them 2,000 years ago, </div> <div> and now that they possess it again, why should they give it back? And even </div> <div> more Israelis will argue that Ma'ale Adummim is part of greater Jerusalem -- </div> <div> the lodestone of their faith, a city that they will never surrender. It </div> <div> doesn't help that the Palestinians insist that Jerusalem is also theirs, and </div> <div> that "Al Quds" will be the capital of their future state. It all goes to show </div> <div> that both sides, intransigent about their hold on the City of Peace, will come </div> <div> to blows before either side cedes to the other. This, says NBC's Israel</div> <div> veteran Martin Fletcher, in a nutshell, "is the story of the story." It's also </div> <div> why, both Martin and I believe that built into the peace process, is a war </div> <div> waiting to happen.</div> <bR> <div> These are the tongue-twisting trials you encounter every day in Israel as you</div> <div> try to remain impartial about the ongoing story you are covering. Just when</div> <div> you think you've made up your mind about an issue, someone throws another</div> <div> "but" your way. Sometimes I just give up and blame it all on the British, for</div> <div> screwing up the whole thing decades ago (the Brits had partition fever in the</div> <div> late 40's I think, look at Pakistan and India, the borders of Kuwait and Iraq -</div> <div> - even more catastrophic). It's easier that way, but still not the answer.</div> <bR> <div> After the Bedouin, I was relieved to pop into the Mayor's Conference in</div> <div> Jerusalem and meet our other camera crew as they were gathering footage of</div> <div> D.C. Mayor Marion Barry (yes, THAT Marion Barry) for a story stateside. Then</div> <div> we proceeded to a house in Ramle...formerly owned by Arabs, forced out in 1948</div> <div> during the war, occupied by a Jewish family. Jew and Arab later become</div> <div> friends, decide to dedicate the house to bringing both peoples together, so</div> <div> they open a kindergarten for Arab children, and sponsor joint activities for</div> <div> Arab and Jewish grownups. Yesterday, the mayor of Ramle's twin city, Kansas</div> <div> City, MI, brought a group to visit. The Arab director of the house shook them</div> <div> down for funds to help support the house. And the daughter of the family that</div> <div> lived there last tried to shake us down for money for an interview with her so</div> <div> that she could tell us the story of her family and the house. I think we'll</div> <div> politely shy away from this piece.</div> <bR> <div> Back at my own house, exhausted, and a bit put off by the whole day, at least</div> <div> three men phoned, looking for Moishe. I wondered who Moishe was, and why</div> <div> everyone thought he was here. And then I decided to give up thinking...at</div> <div> least for the rest of the day.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> TEL AVIV, April 11, 1998</div> <bR> <div> As I looked down from my room on the 27th floor at the top of the Ramses</div> <div> Hilton in Cairo, listening to the incessant squawking of the car horns from so</div> <div> far below, I realized that my life in Tel Aviv didn't quite qualify as part of</div> <div> the "Arab world."</div> <bR> <div> True, there are similarities between Arabs and Israelis. Technically, they're</div> <div> both Semitic people: which makes them by default excitable, mercurial, and</div> <div> hospitable -- qualities that tend to exhibit themselves all at once. And</div> <div> true, when they drive, they both demonstrate what I call "the Middle East</div> <div> drift"...an inability to drive straight without slowly drifting over the</div> <div> dotted white line, blocking both lanes just enough to stop you from getting by</div> <div> them before they do something REALLY stupid.</div> <bR> <div> But that's where the similarities stop. Israeli drivers are still</div> <div> incompetent, while, for example, Egyptian drivers know exactly what they're</div> <div> doing, but that doesn't stop them from being totally bonkers at the wheel. </div> <div> Also, in Egypt, there's no doubt that you're not in the developed world. </div> <div> Cairo is ten times the size of Tel Aviv, with eight times the population. </div> <div> That makes it a tight squeeze, but nevertheless, still a dynamic, energetic</div> <div> place. Similar to India, merchants and beggars accost you in the street. But</div> <div> unlike the subcontinental assault on your ears and your wallet, Egyptians take</div> <div> 'no' for an answer. You can get by well there on a smile and a few polite</div> <div> words. We were less successful with the Egyptian government. We were forced</div> <div> to have Ahmed accompany us on all our shoots in public areas. He's a</div> <div> government escort, keeping an eye on us, making sure we weren't there to</div> <div> offend any Egyptian sensibilities. Not quite the openness we are used to in</div> <div> Israel, where anyone will speak to you anywhere, anytime. Seeing Israeli</div> <div> soldiers on the streets with their Uzis still astounds me, but nothing</div> <div> compares to the security coverage in Cairo, with virtually a policeman or</div> <div> solider on every other street corner.</div> <bR> <div> We were there for a few days to do a story for the Today Show on how Egyptian</div> <div> women were shaping up, fitness wise. Not exactly hard news, but it was fun to</div> <div> do, and a welcome relief from the stifling boredom and claustrophobia of the</div> <div> Israeli/Palestinian saga. But for me, the excitement lay in finally stepping</div> <div> foot on the African continent, into a place that I had heard and read so much</div> <div> about.</div> <bR> <div> And what a place. Cairo is clearly not a city burdened by its past. My first</div> <div> evening there, I ended up shooting the Egyptian jet-set as they waited</div> <div> patiently in line to get into the newest hip place in Cairo...T.G.I. Friday's:</div> <div> that paradigm of American bar food, with hustling waiters who spoke English to</div> <div> everyone, served beer and bacon burgers to tourists and natives alike, as we</div> <div> chatted with Niraj, the Indian manager, and W.W. Gregory, Yassir Arafat's</div> <div> American pilot who happened to be there that night, and also happened to be a</div> <div> bit tipsy as he gave us the scoop on his boss.</div> <bR> <div> You can see the Pyramids in the distance...when the smog from the cars isn't</div> <div> obscuring them. And yet, the highlight of my trip was riding out by horse,</div> <div> over the powdery sand of the Sahara desert, towards Cheops, Chephren, Menkaure,</div> <div> and the Sphinx. We deliberately took the long way around, trotting behind a</div> <div> ridge which obscured the full impact of those four thousand-year old structures</div> <div> until the last minute, when we were forced to really gaze upon them and</div> <div> contemplate the enormity of their conception and significance (and I had a</div> <div> chance to dismount and contemplate my saddle soreness and the significance of</div> <div> my lack of prowess at the reins).</div> <bR> <div> . . . .</div> <bR> <bR> <div> People who don't live in the Middle East sometimes throw up their hands</div> <div> helplessly in disgust and wonder why we just can't forget about the Arabs and</div> <div> the Jews and leave them to their own devices, and destruction. It's the</div> <div> simple, "just nuke 'em", answer. I live here, and I sometimes think the same.</div> <bR> <div> Recently, I went down to Gaza a number of times, to try and convince</div> <div> Palestinian authorities to let us have access to Arafat. Each time I crossed</div> <div> the "border" (an hour south of Tel Aviv), I had to set my watch back an hour,</div> <div> because the Palestinians didn't recognize the Israeli's early observance of</div> <div> daylight savings time (which starts a week earlier than in Europe, apparently</div> <div> at the religious Jew's insistence). It made it difficult to make our meetings</div> <div> with the Palestinians because we were never sure whether the time we were given</div> <div> was "Israeli time" or "Palestinian time." (We later discovered that</div> <div> "Palestinian time" also involves promises like "ten more minutes, I will meet</div> <div> with you," "call back in two hours, I'll have an answer for you," "tomorrow,</div> <div> tomorrow, no problem." -- another sure sign that you're no longer in the</div> <div> developed world). When you come across something as basic as this, you can't</div> <div> help but wonder how these people will ever come to terms: how can you recognize</div> <div> a nation's borders when you can't even recognize each other's time zones?</div> <bR> <div> Today, in 40 degree (104 degrees for you backwards Fahrenheit people) weather,</div> <div> we went to cover an Israeli settler "demonstration" in mostly Palestinian-</div> <div> controlled Hebron. Ten thousand people showed up, wearing t-shirts like</div> <div> "Hebron Forever." A teenager with a megaphone shouted incessantly in Hebrew</div> <div> that "every shekel used to buy something from an Arab" would be used on bombs</div> <div> to blow up Jews. A black-suited, black-hatted Israeli sat innocently beside a</div> <div> toothless old Arab man wearing a white and black khaffiya around his head. </div> <div> The Israeli put his arm around the man and said in Hebrew that he wanted</div> <div> nothing more for the Arab to leave Hebron forever. The old Palestinian man</div> <div> smiled (he clearly didn't understand what the Israeli was saying), and the</div> <div> Israelis witnessing the spectacle cheered and laughed.</div> <bR> <div> So yes, when I see things like that, I too throw up my hands in disgust. But</div> <div> in moments of introspection, I realize that it's foolish, and far too simple-</div> <div> minded to distance myself from these people. The Middle East, this embattled</div> <div> area, gave us Western Civilization with its three monotheistic religions, its</div> <div> ten commandments, and its codes to dictate how we shall live civilly with</div> <div> ourselves -- created by a few hundred desert nomads, a carpenter, a merchant,</div> <div> and a cast of thousands of other swarthy characters throughout millennia of</div> <div> foment and unrest. So if the place that spawned who we are is going to unsettle</div> <div> us from time to time, so be it. It remains a region of incredibly concentrated</div> <div> intensity that sometimes changes the world, but more often than not, just</div> <div> leaves us gasping for breath.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> MAY 16, 1998, KARACHI, PAKISTAN</div> <bR> <div> Deported. With that, I join the ranks of the desperate, the drug mules, and</div> <div> the undesirables. I have never experienced anything like this before. But</div> <div> here I am, sitting in the same seat (2c), on the same Royal Jordanian Airlines</div> <div> Airbus 300 that I boarded six hours ago in Amman. Heading back to my port of</div> <div> embarkation. Busted in Karachi at 5:50 a.m. local time, I now feel in my</div> <div> stomach the hollow sensation of failure, compounded by utter exhaustion.</div> <bR> <div> It shouldn't have been a problem. NBC wanted me to proceed to Islamabad, the</div> <div> capital of Pakistan, to cover the possible nuclear test that India's rival was</div> <div> about to conduct, in retaliation for India's two tests earlier that week. I</div> <div> was to work with a London-based correspondent and crew. Geography and</div> <div> geopolitics were on their side -- Pakistan's embassy in London issued them</div> <div> emergency visas in less than 24 hours. But as an Islamic nation, Pakistan</div> <div> does not recognize Israel, hence no embassy, hence no visa for me (and no</div> <div> direct flights either, forcing me to commute to Jordan). We had been told that</div> <div> I could get a temporary visa upon arrival in Pakistan, so I quickly packed my</div> <div> things, (enough for two weeks, and enough to handle the 43 degrees Celsius</div> <div> temperature (111 F) there), cancelled plans to attend my first Israeli </div> <div> wedding, and had my friend and colleague Amikam drive me to the Jordanian </div> <div> border near the Sea of Galilee.</div> <bR> <div> At the Hussein bridge crossing, I encountered my first problem. I would use</div> <div> my first Canadian passport to leave Israel. That was the one that had my</div> <div> Israeli work permit, and various other Israeli entry stamps in it. But should</div> <div> I use it to enter Jordan? It wouldn't be a problem to do so, given the peace</div> <div> treaty between the two countries (but in effect, with stalled negotiations</div> <div> between Israel and the Palestinians, more like a "cold peace.") But I was</div> <div> thinking that I would have more credibility at the Pakistani airport if I had</div> <div> Jordanian stamps in either my OTHER Canadian passport or my British passport. </div> <div> This is the game that foreign journalists have to play in the Middle East: the</div> <div> passport shuffle. How to enter an Islamic country with a passport that does</div> <div> not reveal your ties with Israel.</div> <bR> <div> It was a difficult decision. First, I ruled out my other "clean" Canadian</div> <div> passport, because it was not as "clean" as I thought it was: twice-sullied with</div> <div> a visa that the INDIAN embassy in TEL AVIV had recently given me (India and</div> <div> Israel, entering Pakistan? Forget it). Then I decided that my thoroughly</div> <div> stamp-free British passport wouldn't appear so innocent if I had "Jordan</div> <div> Valley Crossing" stamps in it. Any immigration official with a good sense of</div> <div> the Middle East would know that that meant I had crossed from Israel. So I</div> <div> went for my "Israeli" Canadian passport, paid thirty-six Jordanian dinars</div> <div> (about $55 U.S., THE most expensive visa to enter Jordan), got some very</div> <div> pretty stamps placed on one of the pages, and made my first mistake.</div> <bR> <div> On the other side of the gate, Mohammed, our Jordanian driver welcomed me. In</div> <div> his red Mercedes, we drove through the very scenic Jordan River valley, past</div> <div> small towns, farms, always climbing away from the valley and the Dead Sea,</div> <div> making the hour and a half journey to Amman. It amazed me how much Jordan</div> <div> resembled Israel: verdant plains, hills covered in pines, and the desert. Of</div> <div> course it shouldn't have come as that much of a surprise, the border that</div> <div> created Israel and Trans-Jordan in the early half of this century was merely</div> <div> splitting one land into two. As I entered the attractive (and clean) city of</div> <div> Amman, I realized that if a country like Jordan (population four million, 2.5</div> <div> million of that formerly Palestinians) could create such a pleasant, civilized,</div> <div> place to live (albeit fairly undemocratic), what could the Palestinians</div> <div> achieve, once peace finally settled over the land on the other side of the</div> <div> border?</div> <bR> <div> I met briefly with NBC's representative in Amman, Hisham Ayyad -- a sharp,</div> <div> handsome, warm-hearted Jordanian, with a healthy mustache (like all good Arab</div> <div> men: being clean-shaven classified me as a woman), and two wives. We had a</div> <div> nice chat, and then I set off to Queen Alia Airport for my flight.</div> <bR> <div> At the Royal Jordanian check-in counter, I handed over my Israel-stamped</div> <div> Canadian passport and my British passport along with my ticket. The clerk</div> <div> raised his eyebrows, and ran off to consult his supervisor. I knew that he</div> <div> was wondering whether he could let me on the plane without a visa for</div> <div> Pakistan. They both looked up the rules on the computer. I reached over to</div> <div> take a look at the screen. The rules said something along the lines that if</div> <div> the passenger was travelling for business reasons, and his home country did</div> <div> not have Pakistani representation, he could board the plane, and complete</div> <div> customs formalities upon arrival. They let me board the plane, but not before</div> <div> my attempt (I was getting nervous) to get the Jordanian customs official to</div> <div> stamp exit visas on both my Canadian and British passports, so I would at</div> <div> least have SOMETHING in my British passport. No dice.</div> <bR> <div> The flight to Pakistan was uneventful. While on the plane, I met up with</div> <div> Keith Miller, the correspondent I would be working with. I watched Muslim</div> <div> pilgrims from India, dressed in flowing white garb board the planes, carrying</div> <div> plastic jerry cans of sanctified water from their pilgrimage to Mecca, and I</div> <div> settled down to read my sheaf of papers about the Pakistani nuclear program.</div> <bR> <div> After spending an hour on the ground in Dubai, we landed at Karachi airport. </div> <div> Keith let me go through immigration first.</div> <bR> <div> The official leafed through my British passport, puzzled at the lack</div> <div> of...anything in the document. I explained that NBC was told by the embassy</div> <div> in London that I could get a temporary entrance visa. He referred me to</div> <div> another official. I tried another tact with him, recalling the rules I had</div> <div> read on the Royal Jordanian computer, saying that I was a journalist, and that</div> <div> I had to travel to Pakistan without advance notice, which is why I didn't have</div> <div> a visa. He told me to speak to the supervisor, and pointed in that person's</div> <div> direction.</div> <bR> <div> My immediate reaction was that I was looking at a more malign-looking version</div> <div> of the Star Wars character, Jabba the Hut. Four stars on his epaulette, a</div> <div> mustache that curled around his lips, and a gut that hung over his belt, as he</div> <div> looked bemusedly over the hordes of passengers entering his country. I went</div> <div> through my story with him.</div> <bR> <div> "No visa, no good. Go back," he mumbled. I pretended I didn't hear him</div> <div> properly, and repeated my story.</div> <bR> <div> "Are you trying to argue with me?" he said menacingly.</div> <bR> <div> "No sir, I would never think of arguing with you," I backtracked. I felt like</div> <div> things were taking a turn for the worse, so I decided to play all my cards. I</div> <div> explained that I was working for an American television network, but was based</div> <div> in a country that did not have a Pakistani embassy, which was why I didn't</div> <div> have a visa. I then took out my Canadian passport to show him my Jordanian</div> <div> visa. It only made things worse.</div> <bR> <div> "You know we have no relations with Israel," he said, mercilessly. He pointed</div> <div> towards an office. I thought he was going to relent, so I gestured to Keith,</div> <div> who had gone ahead to get our luggage, and explained to him what was</div> <div> happening. I told him that I was going to go over to the office to see how we </div> <div> could get out of this mess. Keith immediately tried to charm the supervisor, </div> <div> who reacted almost violently to pursuing any further conversation on the </div> <div> matter.</div> <bR> <div> "Why are you so angry?" Keith purred, using all of his correspondent's guile. </div> <div> "You must be married," he joked, trying to find a common thread to hang on to.</div> <div> That seemed to soften him up.</div> <bR> <div> I was still waiting to see if Keith could do anything before walking off the</div> <div> office. My colleague then tried to play the dumb foreigner routine in an</div> <div> effort to prostrate ourselves to the higher developing country bureaucratic</div> <div> power. "My friend here is young, he didn't know any better, won't you please</div> <div> help him out?" The official said gruffly that I didn't have a visa, and was</div> <div> from Israel, so there was nothing he could do. At that point, I went to the</div> <div> office, to see what I could do.</div> <bR> <div> Apparently nothing. As soon as I sat down, another immigration agent began</div> <div> filling out my personal details on a coarse brown form. Using my great</div> <div> ability to read upside down, I saw the heading "PASSENGER REFUSAL FORM." I</div> <div> knew I was in very big trouble. I ran out to Keith.</div> <bR> <div> "I think they're going to deport me," I said.</div> <bR> <div> "I'm afraid they're quite serious," Keith replied sympathetically. We quickly</div> <div> discussed our options. We decided that he should move on to Islamabad,</div> <div> because we were afraid that the Pakistanis were going to conduct their test</div> <div> soon. I could either remain in Karachi, and wait for the Interior Ministry to</div> <div> open in about three hours (if lucky), and appeal to them for a visa. Or I</div> <div> could accept the deportation order, and turn right back around and return to</div> <div> Amman, where at least I could appeal to the embassy there, and have Hisham help</div> <div> me. Thoughts of bureaucratic limbo and potential jail time in Karachi ran</div> <div> through my exhausted brain, and I opted for Amman (many of my NBC colleagues</div> <div> later told me that I had done the right thing, they had all experienced no-</div> <div> visa-airport-limbo-for-days-on-end at least once in their careers).</div> <bR> <div> So I informed Jabba that I would return on the next flight, which luckily</div> <div> enough was within the hour, on the same plane I had come in on, and</div> <div> embarrassingly, with the same flight crew. I gathered my luggage, and</div> <div> waited for the Royal Jordanian agent to process my ticket and papers, standing</div> <div> at the threshold of the Karachi immigration desk, feeling a whole lot of</div> <div> despair that a story was about to happen without me.</div> <bR> <div> Funnily enough, my tormentor took great pity upon me. With an imperial flick</div> <div> of his hand, he gestured to a man dressed in grey overalls, who came up to me,</div> <div> and poured me a cup of steaming hot, sweet, milky tea. It was just what I</div> <div> needed. I drank the tea in two gulps and ambled over to the official. I</div> <div> thanked him for the tea, and apologized for creating such a problem. He</div> <div> smiled, and said that he was sorry as well, that I was sure to get a visa from</div> <div> Amman in an hour, and that he would be happy to welcome me back to his</div> <div> country, "in'sha'Allah" (God willing).</div> <bR> <bR> <div> POSTSCRIPT</div> <bR> <div> God didn't will it. I made a petition to the Pakistani embassy upon my return</div> <div> to Amman, and returned to Tel Aviv, leaving it in Hisham's hands. I figured</div> <div> that I upon being approved for the visa, I would re-enter Jordan, and this</div> <div> time, get my British passport stamped (but by flying into the airport, rather</div> <div> than crossing at the river). I never had the chance. Despite speaking to the</div> <div> Consul at the embassy, and despite their assurances that I would probably get</div> <div> the visa, inexplicably, I was refused the visa yesterday afternoon. My only</div> <div> recourse now is to fly to London and try the embassy there. But by then, it</div> <div> might be too late.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> August 7, 1998 TEL AVIV TO NAIROBI</div> <bR> <div> I could not have been more bored, hot or frustrated this morning. Operating</div> <div> on two hours of sleep after a late night script approval process with the New</div> <div> York office, before having to get up at 6 a.m. to drive to Jerusalem to shoot</div> <div> a standup with my correspondent, Martin, before he left for his vacation.</div> <bR> <div> Nothing had happened in Israel in such a long time, I wondered why I had even</div> <div> bothered to return from my own vacation. We were scheduled to do a non-story</div> <div> about the non-existent peace process for the weekend show. Needless to say, my</div> <div> adrenaline was not pumping.</div> <bR> <div> I went home for a quick nap. Twenty minutes later, I was awoken by Yael on</div> <div> our assignment desk. There had been two explosions near the U.S. embassies</div> <div> in Kenya and Tanzania. NBC teams from London, or anywhere else could not</div> <div> possibly get to Nairobi in time to file for the evening newscast. We were</div> <div> "it."</div> <bR> <div> Easier said than done. It was a few hours before the start of Shabbat in</div> <div> Israel, and aircraft were full of weekend travelers. We only had one</div> <div> solution: to hire our own plane.</div> <bR> <div> I returned to the office, half-thinking that there was no way we were going to</div> <div> pull this off. A few phone calls later, and that feeling was even stronger. </div> <div> There was only one charter available: a Boeing 757, for $70,000. It would</div> <div> take six hours, and once we said 'yes,' we would be liable for a $10,000</div> <div> cancellation fee -- even if the pilot was unable to secure last-minute landing</div> <div> rights at Nairobi airport.</div> <bR> <div> I duly reported this to New York. But by then, the other networks began to</div> <div> realize that they were in similar straits as us. In the space of ten minutes,</div> <div> I received calls from ABC, CBS, CNN, CBC, Fox, and even Sky in London. They</div> <div> all wanted to see what we could come up with. Despite being competitors, that</div> <div> was not such a bad thing, since we could all split the cost. So at 3 p.m., we</div> <div> got the final word to get to Kenya, regardless of the cost. An hour later, I</div> <div> was at the airport, ready to board a plane, that might not even be allowed to</div> <div> land.</div> <bR> <div> We took off, almost on time. The captain told the 28 journalists aboard the</div> <div> 200+ capacity plane that he still had not secured landing rights, but that we</div> <div> would make the attempt anyway. If we couldn't land, we would have enough fuel</div> <div> to take us back 3/4's of the way back to Tel Aviv...landing us somewhere in</div> <div> Eritrea.</div> <bR> <div> So here we are, 30 minutes from landing, and all is well. The only question I</div> <div> have now, will we make Nightly News?</div> <bR> <div> ----------------------------------------</div> <bR> <div> Warned by those who have made the trip to Kenya numerous times, I expected the</div> <div> airport to be chaotic, laden with long lines and corrupt officials hunting for</div> <div> bribes. That was not to be. (I found out later that the U.S. State Department</div> <div> had asked the Kenyan government to open its doors to the media).</div> <bR> <div> I decided to give my long-empty British passport its first stamp (a $50 visa --</div> <div> the most expensive one, Canadians only paid $25 -- I guess the Kenyans didn't</div> <div> take too kindly to their former overlords). Correspondent Tom Aspell and I</div> <div> left the rest of our team behind to deal with their equipment, and we zipped</div> <div> out of the airport, and found a driver, all within 15 minutes of landing.</div> <bR> <div> We decided to pass by the site of the bomb blast first, before heading to KBC</div> <div> (the Kenyan Broadcast Corporation) for our satellite feed to New York. David,</div> <div> our soft-spoken driver, took us there in his white Toyota Corolla.</div> <bR> <div> The floodlit scene was surreal. A 20+ story building, slightly charred, all</div> <div> the windows blown out. The U.S. embassy to the right, seemingly intact. And</div> <div> in the middle, nothing but a huge pile of rubble, a building that used to be.</div> <div> Dozens of Kenyan rescue workers clambered over the pile, patiently digging with</div> <div> their hands, wearing white surgical mask to keep out the dust. It was a cool</div> <div> night, about 15 degrees Celsius. The air reeked with a smoky dankness, the</div> <div> smell of burnt plastic, and maybe, something worse.</div> <bR> <div> Hundreds of Kenyan soldiers looked on quietly, but let us pass without a</div> <div> challenge. I was glad I was wearing my boots. My feet crunched over thousands</div> <div> of pieces of glass strewn over the ground. I didn't dare look too closely at</div> <div> what else lay around me.</div> <bR> <div> Tom and I took in the scene for a few minutes, chatted with some other</div> <div> journalists, then drove to KBC. We got there around 12:45 p.m. (5:45 New York</div> <div> time, 45 minutes before the start of the newscast). I immediately phoned the</div> <div> foreign news editor at Nightly. The KBC facilities were shoddy -- one tape</div> <div> deck to feed video, a camera in front of a white wall with a torn map of Africa</div> <div> for a background for any live shots we may want to do -- but functional. But</div> <div> all our efforts had been pointless, Nightly News decided they would not take</div> <div> us for this broadcast. We ended up recording a narration and shooting a</div> <div> standup for the MSNBC show "The News with Brian Williams," and feeding that to</div> <div> New York. We were tired and disappointed. We left KBC, and checked into our</div> <div> hotel.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> August 15, 1998 FRANKFURT TO TEL AVIV</div> <bR> <div> This is the first time I've had a chance to sit down and think about what has</div> <div> transpired over the last eight days. My journal consists of single paragraph</div> <div> scrawlings, in between the satellite feeds, interviews, telephone calls, live</div> <div> shots, and script approvals. Seven straight days, eighteen hours a day,</div> <div> dreamless nights, nervous mornings, near-disastrous days, brutal evenings. </div> <div> How to service two morning shows (Sunrise, Today), a twenty-four hour news</div> <div> channel (MSNBC), an incredibly demanding evening newscast (Nightly News), a</div> <div> highly-produced prime-time newsmagazine (Dateline), along with the Specials</div> <div> Unit, the weekend shows, and Meet the Press? And with only twelve people (two</div> <div> correspondents, two producers, three camera crews, one editor, and one</div> <div> coordinator (thank goodness we brought Gila, the head of our assignment desk</div> <div> in Tel Aviv), we were a far cry from the resources-in-triplicate of ABC News --</div> <div> which also had its own satellite dish, placed conveniently beside the swimming</div> <div> pool at the Hilton Hotel.</div> <bR> <div> Our situation began to hurt us as early as the first full day that we were</div> <div> there. I had been lulled into a false sense that everything was going to work</div> <div> logistically, after our successful feeds the night before at KBC. </div> <div> Unfortunately, that was the best it was going to get.</div> <bR> <div> That Saturday, we had five satellite feeds booked, beginning with Weekend</div> <div> Today, which involved a live crosstalk with Aspell and a guest from the BBC.</div> <div> We spent the morning on the phone with KBC confirming that they had the feeds</div> <div> listed in their records. But as we found upon our arrival at the feedpoint</div> <div> half an hour before our first live, what they said on the phone, and what they</div> <div> actually did were two separate things. KBC said they had no record of the</div> <div> feed, or for that matter, any other NBC feed for the rest of the day: and that</div> <div> meant MSNBC, and even worse, Weekend Nightly News. We ended up doing the</div> <div> lives on the satellite phone that I had brought, just in case (there were no</div> <div> long distance phone facilities at KBC).</div> <bR> <div> Our London satellite desk couldn't figure out what had happened. Everything</div> <div> had been booked and confirmed. My stomach had dropped out of my body at about</div> <div> 1 p.m. that day, and wasn't returned to me for another 12 hours, when I ate a</div> <div> piece of cold pizza and finally realized that the satellite fiasco wasn't my</div> <div> fault. At best, KBC wasn't organized enough to handle the foreign TV</div> <div> onslaught. At worst, we had heard that the only successful outfits able to</div> <div> feed throughout the day were German and Japanese TV. Suspicions arose: were</div> <div> the former Axis powers throwing around a lot of cash to make sure they were</div> <div> assured satellite time out of Nairobi? (I had to pay $700 per feed, cash, in</div> <div> addition to the minimum of $2,300 NBC was billed per ten minute window).</div> <bR> <div> After attempting a few Band-Aid solutions, we realized, late in the day, that</div> <div> nothing at KBC was going to work. NBC finally bit the bullet and decided to</div> <div> use the ABC satellite facilities. That's $2000 for the first 10 minutes, $200</div> <div> per minute thereafter. We did it, and we made it.</div> <bR> <div> So unfortunately, even with the huge tragedy occurring around us,</div> <div> technical logistics were my preoccupation for the first couple of days in</div> <div> Nairobi. They didn't sort themselves out until Reuters got their dish up</div> <div> and running on Sunday morning. Then I could concentrate on the story. </div> <div> But I felt scarred by the KBC experience, and realized, that from time to</div> <div> time, to prevent myself from going crazy when something didn't work (which</div> <div> happened at least twice a day), I would have to repeat the mantra of dark</div> <div> continent veterans: "This is Africa." </div> <bR> <div> -------------------------------------------------</div> <div> Despite those periodic nightmares, Kenya was an incredible experience. As</div> <div> Rajiv Bhatia, the Indian High Commissioner to Kenya (and family friend) told</div> <div> me over lunch later in the week once things had calmed down, "The people are</div> <div> Kenya's greatest asset."</div> <bR> <div> I've become accustomed to the overheated temperaments of the Middle East:</div> <div> overblown and often too loud. The Kenyans I encountered were extremely</div> <div> courteous, gentle, and dignified. A smile and the Swahili greeting "jambo"</div> <div> could get you very far, either with a bureaucrat, and policeman, or with</div> <div> someone on the street you wanted to interview. During my daily visits to the</div> <div> bomb blast site, I was often overwhelmed by the silence of the Kenyan rescue</div> <div> teams, on-lookers, and soldiers.</div> <bR> <div> This was a place that saying you were "Press" actually accorded you access to</div> <div> cordoned-off areas without an argument. Although local politicians and</div> <div> newspapers were incendiary in their calls for the U.S. to atone for its lack of</div> <div> assistance after the blast, as well as its implicit guilt by bringing this evil</div> <div> thing to Kenya, the people on the street refused to give us those negative one-</div> <div> liners that we feed off too often. They were thoughtful and intelligent. The</div> <div> Kenyan Muslims I spoke to at the Jamia Mosque did not even think of condemning</div> <div> America for what had happened. Instead they spoke of the harmony of Kenyan</div> <div> society, and the fact that Muslims had been initially blamed for the Oklahoma</div> <div> City bombing. Kenyans on the street told us that the Americans had every</div> <div> right to help their own people first -- they would have done the same thing.</div> <bR> <div> I was most struck by something I witnessed on Thursday morning. It was cool</div> <div> and cloudy at the site. The rubble had been mostly cleared away after</div> <div> rescuers had given up hope of finding more survivors. Office workers were</div> <div> lined up patiently to get into the still standing Cooperative building to</div> <div> reclaim their personal effects.</div> <bR> <div> And then, from down the road, a group of young Kenyans began to march and</div> <div> sing, as they approached us. They were brandishing signs that I could not yet</div> <div> read, as well as brooms and shovels. I expected trouble. Perhaps they were</div> <div> going to confront the American investigators who had amassed around the</div> <div> fenced-off embassy. We waited for them.</div> <bR> <div> It was a brigade of Kenyatta University students. They walked right by the</div> <div> barbed wire installed by the U.S. Navy. They were singing quietly, and quite</div> <div> beautifully...Christian hymns. The signs they held would give pause to even</div> <div> the most cynical journalist: "Sacrificial Lambs? NO!," "We thank the</div> <div> International Community for their support." The group stopped before the</div> <div> remaining rubble of the site of the secretarial college. People spoke. We</div> <div> listened. All I remember is one young woman who gave a beautiful speech</div> <div> without notes, perhaps begging forgiveness from those who died. "We're so</div> <div> sorry," she began.</div> <div> ------------------------------------------------</div> <bR> <div> POSTCRIPT -- OTHER FRAGMENTED OBSERVATIONS</div> <bR> <div> - Watching the Israelis search and rescue team arrive on the scene,</div> <div> immediately bringing much needed energy to the bomb blast site, with their</div> <div> yellow helmets, sniffer dogs, and a single-minded determination to get the job</div> <div> done. I have to admit to feeling a tinge of pride for them as I saw them trot</div> <div> steadily from their vehicle to the pile of rubble. It was nice to be able to</div> <div> flash my Israeli press card to Kenyan soldiers and be accorded courtesy that</div> <div> even an NBC card couldn't get me at that point. They were definitely the</div> <div> heroes of the day.</div> <bR> <div> - Watching the Kenyan Red Cross workers bring a body down from the rubble, and</div> <div> pass right by me. It was a man, most of his body covered by a brown blanket. </div> <div> His bare legs, covered in dust, remained uncovered. I realized then how sad,</div> <div> and unfair, this whole thing was. What could drive someone to do this?</div> <bR> <div> - Spending most of the day at the site as rescue operations went on. </div> <div> Clambering up onto the pile of debris as workers dug with their hands around</div> <div> me. I found it difficult to associate any distinguishing characteristics to</div> <div> the shards of concrete, bits of office furniture, and pieces of paper around</div> <div> me. I had to really concentrate and use my imagination to picture what these</div> <div> everyday items may have looked like intact. I recovered a green form from the</div> <div> wreckage and pocketed it: "Branch Emergency Loans Only, Ufundi Sacco Society."</div> <div> Maybe someone was filling it out at the time of the bomb. That night, when I</div> <div> blew my nose, whatever came out was very grey</div> <bR> <bR> <div> A Day Unlike Any Other, by Hanson R. Hosein, Producer, NBC News</div> <bR> <div> TEL AVIV September 30: The sun had set. Three men stood at the head of the</div> <div> room inside Beit Brodetsky, a synagogue for conservative Jews. Two of them</div> <div> held the scrolls of the Torah -- the scriptures known to Gentiles as the Old</div> <div> Testament. The congregation recited in one voice, in Hebrew: "All vows we</div> <div> take, all promises and obligations we make to God between this Yom Kippur and</div> <div> the next we hereby publicly retract in the event that we should forget</div> <div> them..."</div> <bR> <div> It is the "Kol Nidrei," a legal formula that allows Jews to annul all vows</div> <div> they may make to God in the coming year. The idea is that it is a sin not to</div> <div> fulfill such a promise. So, by relieving you of the obligation in front of</div> <div> this symbolic court of three men, you are relieved of the guilt of committing</div> <div> such a sin.</div> <bR> <div> I stood with the rest of the congregation, struggling to read the prayer book</div> <div> with my rudimentary Hebrew (luckily there was an English translation on the</div> <div> other page), pondering this amazing concept of the absolution of guilt. It was</div> <div> the start of the holiest of days in the Jewish calendar: Yom Kippur -- the day</div> <div> of atonement.</div> <bR> <div> My colleagues at NBC here in Israel had told me that my predecessor had once</div> <div> said that every country should have its own version of Yom Kippur. This being</div> <div> my first one, as a non-Jew and a North American, I have to agree. Beyond the</div> <div> religious importance of this day ("in the seventh month, on the tenth day of</div> <div> the month, ye shall afflict your souls, and do no work at all" -- Leviticus</div> <div> 16:29), it is an incredibly peaceful and introspective time. For twenty-four</div> <div> hours, all of Israel comes to a halt.</div> <bR> <div> In fact, I had to ride my bike to Beit Brodetsky, because once the sun went</div> <div> down, no one was allowed to drive until sunset the next day. As a Jew, you're</div> <div> supposed to deprive yourself of comfort and luxury on Yom Kippur as you atone</div> <div> for your sins. All of the synagogue's congregants had walked to the service.</div> <div> Most were dressed casually in simple dresses and khaki pants. Some were more</div> <div> religious than others: one man, wore a dark suit and tie, but with sneakers</div> <div> and a cloth belt (leather is considered a luxury).</div> <bR> <div> As I left the synagogue after the two-hour service, I had to pedal around the</div> <div> children who had flocked to the streets with their bikes and rollerblades. It</div> <div> was their revenge against all the drivers who had deprived them of their space</div> <div> and freedom during the other 364 days of the year. They had taken back the</div> <div> streets.</div> <bR> <div> This morning, I woke to...silence. I slid open my picture window that looked</div> <div> out upon a busy main street, and the Mediterranean Sea in the distance. A</div> <div> weekday, with no cars, no buses, no trucks. The air was entirely clear and</div> <div> clean; the sea, bright turquoise blue. For once, I could leave the window</div> <div> completely open, not having to worry about car horns, ambulance sirens, diesel</div> <div> fumes, and dust. Then, I decided that I had to take advantage of this unique</div> <div> opportunity.</div> <bR> <div> I took my bike out and hit the road. I could not believe how relaxed I felt,</div> <div> not having to worry about the traffic. It was time to be audacious, I turned</div> <div> right and took the entrance ramp -- onto the highway.</div> <bR> <div> In this way, I rode southbound, across the top of Tel Aviv, on a road upon</div> <div> which vehicles normally roar by at 100 km/h or more. A few police cars did</div> <div> pass me. Their lights were flashing, but they refrained from using the siren. </div> <div> And they gave me the benefit of the doubt, and the road, leaving me lots of</div> <div> space to ride in the middle lane of the highway. A couple of civilian cars</div> <div> also drove by. I wondered whether they were on legitimate emergency</div> <div> business, or transgressors, taking advantage of the early hour, thinking that</div> <div> most religious people were either still asleep or at morning service. Two</div> <div> teenagers rollerbladed ahead of me, and then exited on Laguardia Street.</div> <bR> <div> I took the next exit -- Bat Yam -- and found myself in southern Tel Aviv. The</div> <div> streets were entirely empty. I stopped to take in the silence. I noticed that</div> <div> there seemed to be more flies than usual. I suppose that unmolested by</div> <div> pollution and people, they feel free to take to the skies and look for garbage</div> <div> that has not been picked up because of the holiday.</div> <bR> <div> I have had to struggle to find metaphors to describe this day. There is a</div> <div> certain post-apocalyptic feel to Tel Aviv on Yom Kippur. It is hard not to</div> <div> think that -- with a few people walking the streets with their prayerbooks,</div> <div> kids running amok, shops and offices shuttered tight, cats reigning supreme in</div> <div> the alleyways -- the end of the world has come and gone. But that is too</div> <div> negative of a comparison to draw. Let us just call it a surreal, somber, day-</div> <div> for-night feeling, which everyone should have the chance to experience -- if</div> <div> only once a year, or just once in a lifetime.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> THE WEST BANK, FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1998</div> <bR> <div> I had so far drawn a blank on how to make this story any more interesting than</div> <div> the slew of hundreds of other stories we had done before about the</div> <div> interminable, sometimes interesting, often repetitive Palestinian-Israeli</div> <div> conflict. Today was the day that Israelis were finally set to start pulling</div> <div> back from a whole two percent of the occupied West Bank. What could be shown</div> <div> and told that hadn't been done before?</div> <bR> <div> I set out from Tel Aviv with the camera crew -- Jeff and Levy -- at 8:30 a.m..</div> <div> It was a beautiful Friday morning: the sky became progressively more blue as we</div> <div> headed northeast up the coast, and then through the hills of lower Galilee.</div> <div> Reminding myself that 23 degrees Celsius (about 70 f) and sunny was undoubtedly</div> <div> better than the weather I would be submitted to in either Europe or North</div> <div> America at this time of year, my mood improved slightly.</div> <bR> <div> As we crossed the "Green Line" (the almost imaginary boundary between Israel</div> <div> and the West Bank), we began to encounter heavier traffic, and our media</div> <div> colleagues who were already stopping along the way in this journalistic</div> <div> scavenger hunt to pick up soundbites and elements that would help illustrate</div> <div> the momentous pullback. Three cameramen would surround some hapless</div> <div> Palestinian posing in front of a newly minted red sign in Hebrew and Arabic</div> <div> proclaiming how this particular land had transformed into "Area A" from "Area</div> <div> B." Four-wheel drive vehicles and Volvos rented by the foreign press would</div> <div> pull over to the side anytime their occupants saw an Israeli military vehicle,</div> <div> or a flatbed truck hauling out the washing-machine size yellow and brown</div> <div> concrete blocks meant to delineate the newly expanded territory of the</div> <div> Palestinians.</div> <bR> <div> Feeling sorely tempted by the monkey-see, monkey-do attitude (we are</div> <div> journalists after all, and our main insecurity lies in missing "the story,"</div> <div> hence our pack mentality ), we soldiered on, albeit reluctantly, knowing we</div> <div> could rely on the AP and Reuters for their generic agency pix of the day.</div> <bR> <div> Around 10:30 a.m., we pulled into Qabatiah. This town of 17,000 people is</div> <div> nestled between hills in the Dotan valley, nearer the larger city of</div> <div> Jenin. It's famous for its agricultural industry, for being the source of</div> <div> the bleach white "Jerusalem stone" so pervasive in the Holy City</div> <div> ("Qabatiah stone" is much less exotic-sounding I suppose), and for being</div> <div> the site of the first lynching of a Palestinian collaborator during the</div> <div> Intifada (he was strung up on a telephone line for having worked with the</div> <div> Israeli army). </div> <bR> <div> Hundreds of people had gathered along the main drag of town. They were</div> <div> waiting for the triumphant entrance of the Palestinian police, which would</div> <div> symbolize the transformation of Qabatiah from occupied area to an</div> <div> autonomous area under full Palestinian rule. Friday being the Muslim</div> <div> weekend, residents were taking advantage of their day off, and the great</div> <div> weather, to come out and celebrate. They were all in an ebullient mood</div> <div> and were happy to talk to us. One young man spoke to me in perfect, if not</div> <div> flowery, English. He had decided that it was his "duty" to help the</div> <div> visiting journalists get acquainted with his town -- which he did</div> <div> willingly, without expecting anything in return. </div> <bR> <div> There are some huge advantages to covering this part of the world. Israelis</div> <div> are exceptionally media-savvy, always have an informed opinion, and are</div> <div> usually quite happy to share it with you at any time -- which makes our job</div> <div> much easier. The Palestinians are far less sophisticated, but make up for it</div> <div> with their incredible warmth and hospitality. Without fail, anytime I'm in a</div> <div> Palestinian area, someone will come up to me and ask, "Where are you from? </div> <div> Are you Hindu?" Depending on the situation, I'll either confess to my working</div> <div> for American television, or my Canadian nationality. Their smiling response is</div> <div> usually, "You are welcome."</div> <bR> <div> Another helpful Palestinian dragged me away from a conversation I was</div> <div> having with a couple of men in a blue Mercedes, just as I was about to</div> <div> give up on hanging around for another two hours to wait for the police</div> <div> procession. "I have someone who speaks good English," he told me in his</div> <div> own pretty good English. He took me across the street to the, wait for it,</div> <div> "Qabatiah Billiards Hall and Coffee Shop." </div> <bR> <div> Inside, the rules are posted on a large sign in Arabic: no gambling, no</div> <div> playing for free games, no standing around and watching the games. The</div> <div> unwritten rules were, no alcohol served, and no women.</div> <bR> <div> About thirty young Palestinian men were sitting around the three pool</div> <div> tables watching their friends play, at a cost of 50 cents a game. Some</div> <div> were excellent, sinking balls decisively and forcefully -- the ball</div> <div> springing up one last time in the pocket, almost incredulous that it had</div> <div> succumbed so easily, before moving on to its final resting place. Others</div> <div> scratched their shots mercilessly, occasionally making the white ball a</div> <div> projectile which you could hear bouncing on the floor from time to</div> <div> time. But they could be forgiven for their lack of experience as they</div> <div> played a watered-down version of American eight-ball -- the Qabatiah</div> <div> Billiards Hall and Coffee Shop had only been open for a week, the only one</div> <div> of its kind in town, and conceivably, in the West Bank. I had found my</div> <div> anecdote. </div> <bR> <div> Thirty-five year old Maher Al-Hag Hasan owns the club. Hasan is a man of the</div> <div> world, having lived most of the last fifteen years in India, Bangkok and Tokyo</div> <div> (he has an Australian girlfriend in Japan). He greeted us warmly, and</div> <div> immediately declared his entire three-roomed premises to be ours. We were</div> <div> served delicious, thick and black Arab coffee, as well as freshly made apple</div> <div> shakes. He sat us down in the back room, with a view of the pool room, on</div> <div> pink plastic chairs. Later, he would put on a Jean-Claude Van Damme</div> <div> kickboxing movie on the VCR (dubbed down many generations, with Hebrew</div> <div> subtitles), for the young men who eventually joined us in the back.</div> <bR> <div> We spent an enjoyable two hours with Maher, as he explained in fluent English</div> <div> (I swore he had a Swedish accent, as he punctuated his phrases with "yeah?" and </div> <div> "sure") why he had come back home, after having seen so much of the world. </div> <bR> <div> Like most Palestinians, he wants his own country. "When you have a country, </div> <div> you'll be more respected, sure, you'll be more free, you'll be a free person," </div> <div> he said.</div> <bR> <div> What intrigued me most was that the Israelis had denied him a license for</div> <div> his establishment, fearing that young Palestinian men congregating in one</div> <div> place were most certainly up to no good. It was only after the</div> <div> Palestinian Authority established civilian rule that he was able to get a</div> <div> license. For Maher, this was the freedom and opportunity that the future</div> <div> Palestinian state promised. For his clients, they had gone from being</div> <div> hardened throwers of stones during the Intifada, to contented shooters of</div> <div> pool and viewers of American action movies. </div> <bR> <div> "It changed not only my life, but the life of many people here," Maher told me. </div> <div> We had given up on waiting for the Palestinian police calvacade and had</div> <div> started to drive out of Qabatiah, after having exchanged warm good-byes</div> <div> with Maher, when we suddenly passed two baby blue jeeps stuffed with</div> <div> 20-something Palestinian policemen with square jaws and Kalishinikovs</div> <div> pointed upwards (in a silhouette, it would look something like the</div> <div> Charlie's Angels logo, with firearms pointed askew). We made a quick</div> <div> U-turn, and followed them back into town. An instant traffic jam ensued</div> <div> as the people swarmed around them jubilantly. Being young men with guns,</div> <div> the police in their shades-of-blue-camouflaged-pajama uniforms got caught</div> <div> up in the moment, and started firing willy nilly into the air. Spent</div> <div> cartridges flew to the ground, nailing a few supporters in the head; </div> <div> people watching from their rooftops, instinctively ducked, knowing from</div> <div> experience that bullets from the air eventually have to land somewhere. A</div> <div> commanding officer yelled at them to stop firing, which worked, for a</div> <div> while. We caught up again with Maher who had come out to watch. </div> <bR> <div> He was so emotional, he could barely speak. "It's a big day, it's a very big </div> <div> day," he said.</div> <bR> <div> Crossing back over the Green Line on our way to Tel Aviv, Israeli security was</div> <div> being more diligent than usual. When it was finally our turn, the soldier</div> <div> looked at me on my cellphone, Levy in the back seat, blonde mustached-Jeff in</div> <div> the driver's seat, in our Israeli-licensed utility vehicle -- a sight that</div> <div> screams "ISRAEL" -- and had the insight to actually pursue a line of</div> <div> questioning that began with, "Where are you from?"</div> <bR> <div> Jeff just looked at him and said, "Mars." They both smiled, and we were waved</div> <div> through.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> FACIAL HAIR IN THE MIDDLE EAST</div> <bR> <div> What bothers me most about international travel is airport security. Although</div> <div> I'm a television news producer with a relatively clean record, I still find</div> <div> myself getting a little self-conscious when it comes to crossing foreign</div> <div> borders. That's because I have a dark complexion, fast-growing facial hair and</div> <div> an Islamic-sounding last name. It has gotten me into some trouble in the past,</div> <div> and it continues to do so, especially because I am presently based in Israel</div> <div> for my news organization. In this part of the world, your Canadian passport</div> <div> only gets you so far, and then after that, you are merely suspicious along with</div> <div> the rest of the swarthy. Which was why I always shaved just before getting on</div> <div> a plane.</div> <bR> <div> So why did I do it? Why did I grow a beard? The last time I had sprouted a</div> <div> dark thicket of facial hair was during an exceptionally cold winter in Montreal</div> <div> while I was still a student at McGill. I got rid of it then because icicles</div> <div> had begun to form on my chin when I went outside. But now was different. It</div> <div> was time to take a stand. If border guards already suspected that I was a</div> <div> terrorist, then why beat around the bush? Let them target me at first sight. </div> <div> I would relish the challenge, even if it got me into even more trouble.</div> <bR> <div> The event that set off my defiance occurred just before Christmas. I had</div> <div> driven my car to Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion airport, where I was going to leave it</div> <div> while I was away. But before I could even get to the terminal, Israeli</div> <div> security officers pulled me over in my car, after having examined my passport</div> <div> at the checkpoint, and noticing my last name. Despite my having lived in</div> <div> Israel for over a year, working for an American network as a journalist, and</div> <div> being a Canadian, they insisted, over my protests, on searching my bags, my</div> <div> person, and my car (engine, trunk, and upholstery for traces of explosives). I</div> <div> was furious, hence, the catalyst for the beard.</div> <bR> <div> Upon my beard's premiere, after my return to Israel, I felt like a terrorist</div> <div> walking the streets of Tel Aviv. Were people looking at me? Did women clutch</div> <div> their purses a little tighter? Were those security officers at the entrance to</div> <div> shopping malls searching through my bag a little more carefully? It was almost</div> <div> a relief when I had to travel to Jordan to cover King Hussein's return. A</div> <div> Jordanian colleague of mine had once told me that not to have facial hair was</div> <div> effeminate. So off I went with a two-week old beard into the land of the</div> <div> bearded and free, where the much loved monarch and I even shared a similar-</div> <div> sounding name.</div> <bR> <div> But upon my arrival in the Hashemite Kingdom, I was picked up by a cleanly-</div> <div> shaven Jordanian driver. And the majority of men whom I met during my</div> <div> assignment there were either of similar countenance, or had neatly trimmed</div> <div> mustaches. I began to worry that I was looking a little unkempt with my</div> <div> straggly beard. Even in the Arab world, I was an outsider.</div> <bR> <div> And when we returned to Tel Aviv, Israeli security could not be less interested</div> <div> in me. I even passed through security and customs faster than my Israeli-born</div> <div> cameraman. I was beginning to feel a little foolish, especially when many of</div> <div> my friends were telling me how good the beard looked, including my chic Israeli</div> <div> hair stylist.</div> <bR> <div> The icing on the cake was my solo encore at Ben Gurion Airport, as I was set to</div> <div> depart for Rome one weekend. By now, my beard was full and menacing, or at</div> <div> least so I thought. The men in uniform barely looked at me as I drove by</div> <div> them. The guy who took care of my car at the Hertz parking lot thought I was</div> <div> Italian, a fellow passenger asked me if I was English, and the woman at the</div> <div> duty-free check-out counter assumed that I was Israeli. To add insult to</div> <div> injury, it took me five minutes to pass security at the airport in record time</div> <div> for those who are familiar with the stringent security procedures there, where</div> <div> interviews can last up to an hour and culminate in a strip search.</div> <bR> <div> So maybe I was wrong all along with my hang-up about having facial hair. </div> <div> Perhaps I even look less menacing and more distinguished. I had called my own</div> <div> bluff, and my fears and assumptions had been totally unjustified. But I wager</div> <div> that my social life will suffer, I hear that women hate men with beards...</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Death of a King</div> <bR> <div> My brother Ian remarked insightfully over the weekend that either, I was very</div> <div> lucky, or just a bad luck charm. Two royal funerals in less than two years:</div> <div> Hussein and Diana, and on both occasions, I was a witness at the end of the</div> <div> road for both of these larger-than-life figures: Althorpe in September 1997 as</div> <div> Diana's hearse passed me by, covered in flowers, Amman yesterday as the King's</div> <div> coffin was lifted by eight Bedouin soldiers from a truck bed, also layered in</div> <div> flowers and wreaths.</div> <bR> <div> I was close enough to catch the fragrance as the truck passed by. But my eyes</div> <div> were fixed on the calm stateliness of the proceedings. Hussein's four sons</div> <div> were there, faces stoic, their arms linked. And then their brother, the new</div> <div> King Abdullah, joined them. The red kaffiyeh wrapped around his head seemed</div> <div> longer and more ornate than the others, but that may just have been my</div> <div> imagination getting the better of me. It was difficult not to be impressed by</div> <div> a King, and the successor to Hussein at that.</div> <bR> <div> But even Abdullah could not keep my attention for long. I have been in the</div> <div> presence of heads of state before, maybe one or two at a time. However,</div> <div> yesterday was a moment rarely seen. It was a casual orgy of who's who in the</div> <div> world. As I stood there outside the gates of the Raghadan Palace I watched</div> <div> Prince Charles, Hafez Assad, Bill Clinton, Jacques Chirac, Tony Blair,</div> <div> Binyamin Netanyahu...and an ailing Boris Yeltsin in his boxy black Zil</div> <div> limousine...a few feet in front of me. Many of these people would not</div> <div> normally find themselves in each other's company, at least in public. But they</div> <div> found the will to all show up, without their usual accoutrements and formal</div> <div> hang-ups -- Khadaffi's son was staying a few rooms down from me at my</div> <div> hotel. These were just people, who happened to be in charge of small and big</div> <div> countries alike, popping by to pay their respects to a man who had charmed the</div> <div> world.</div> <bR> <div> For me, this assignment in Jordan was surreal. I had spent the last few weeks</div> <div> waiting to see what would happen to the King. It was only three weeks ago</div> <div> that I had been standing in the cold rain, waiting for King Hussein to drive by</div> <div> in his motorcade, his triumphant return to his kingdom after his six month</div> <div> absence due to his cancer affliction and treatment in the States. </div> <bR> <div> I was so used to people's cynicism about their governments during this end-of-</div> <div> the millennium seen-it-all-before phenomenon, that it was refreshing to speak</div> <div> to the Jordanians who had lined the procession route that day. They told me</div> <div> that it was their returning King who had brought the rain -- that it was</div> <div> actually good omen: precious drops so sorely needed during a winter drought in</div> <div> this desert kingdom. They spoke with genuine emotion about the love for their</div> <div> king. There was no anti-democratic coercion at play here, Hussein's people</div> <div> adored him. Even the Israeli camera crew I was with were enamored, saying that</div> <div> if King Hussein ran for Prime Minister of Israel, he would capture twice the</div> <div> votes that Bibi would. And then when the King's motorcade drove by, His</div> <div> Majesty standing on a platform at the rear of a vintage white Mercedes,</div> <div> assailed by the wind and rain, the three hours we had all waited to see him for</div> <div> a mere ten seconds, all seemed to be worth it. The photograph that I took at</div> <div> that moment captured the magnetism of the man: clearly focused at the center of</div> <div> the frame, King Hussein with his kaffiyeh bundled around his face, wearing an</div> <div> anguished look, and everything else, a blur.</div> <bR> <div> And the day he died, it rained hard again. Jordanian TV suddenly switched</div> <div> from regular programming to prayers from the Koran, the first sign. I called</div> <div> our New York office to let them know, and minutes later we confirmed it with</div> <div> our sources at the palace. And just like that, the mood around us changed.</div> <div> Moufaq, our tough local fixer had tears in his eyes as he tried to cater to</div> <div> our breaking news demands. The hotel staff suddenly sprouted black ribbons on</div> <div> their lapels, affixed by golden crown pins. As we moved into a frenzied state</div> <div> of live shots, crashing stories, and figuring out when the funeral was going</div> <div> to happen, the rest of Jordan seemed to slow down as it became somber and</div> <div> solemn. And today, the day after the funeral, life is slowly returning to</div> <div> normal, as the sun shows itself for the first time in nearly a week. In the</div> <div> end, I must admit, I was very lucky to have seen all of this.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> IN ISRAEL, LIFE'S A BEACH by Hanson R. Hosein</div> <bR> <div> I'm a British-born, Canadian national with an Islamic-sounding last name,</div> <div> and parents who were born in Trinidad and Tobago. To make matters more</div> <div> confusing, I'm a journalist who works for an American news organization.</div> <div> I barely speak Hebrew, and have lived in Israel for nearly two years.</div> <bR> <div> Come to think of it, this all-over-the-map background more than qualifies</div> <div> me to write commentary about what it's like to live in this eclectic and</div> <div> perplexing country as a foreigner. I must admit that the relationship</div> <div> between myself and Israel is one of Love-Frustrate -- it's a crazy,</div> <div> interesting, endearing, annoying place to live. So with that</div> <div> understanding in mind, yallah.</div> <bR> <div> I would think that my tour of duty here has made me an expert on what it's</div> <div> like to live in Israel. I can more or less reconcile myself with the</div> <div> endless security checks, the incompetent drivers, and the aggressive</div> <div> personalities. I like the modern, cosmopolitan life in Tel Aviv, the</div> <div> weather, the modern amenities, and the people. But as each day passes, I</div> <div> know that living here is not that simple. This place is unlike any other.</div> <div> Indeed, I continue to rely on a number of travel guidebooks to navigate</div> <div> this country's sites and culture.</div> <bR> <div> For example, the introduction to the most recent edition of the Rough</div> <div> Guide to Israel reads: "Sooner or later...even on the most hedonistic</div> <div> beach vacation, you're going to come face to face with the complexities</div> <div> and contrasts of a region that eludes easy definitions."</div> <bR> <div> Coincidentally, I was reading that paragraph as I was lying on the beach a</div> <div> few Sunday ago. As a consummate North American, I insist on maintaining</div> <div> my traditional Saturday/Sunday weekend. Besides, it gives me a day of</div> <div> freedom as the rest of the country rushes around on the first day of the</div> <div> week.</div> <bR> <div> The rest of the country that is...except for the hundreds of</div> <div> Ultra-Orthodox women who had flocked with their children to the religious</div> <div> beach in northern Tel Aviv. They arrived in buses, vans, and cars packed</div> <div> with kids, probably looking forward to a day of frolicking and fun after</div> <div> Shabbat.</div> <bR> <div> Access to this part of the beach is blocked off by a wall, to preserve the</div> <div> modesty of those who choose to partake in an afternoon of frivolity, but</div> <div> still want to adhere to their orthodox lifestyle. But that didn't stop me</div> <div> from being exposed to them as I faced their beach a few hundred meters</div> <div> away, lying on a strip of sand that jutted out from the mainland behind</div> <div> the Hilton Hotel.</div> <bR> <div> I watched incredulously as more and more of them settled onto the beach.</div> <div> From a distance, they looked like multi-colored ants at a picnic. And at</div> <div> that point, the contrast between my situation and theirs became even more</div> <div> pronounced.</div> <bR> <div> Our lifeguard barely paid attention to us as we waded into the neck-high,</div> <div> but sedate waters of the Mediterranean. Meanwhile, across the way, the</div> <div> lifeguard policing the religious beach sounded like a 1930's radio</div> <div> sportscaster as his voice screeched constantly in Hebrew through a</div> <div> megaphone at the women and children in his care. He seemed to be</div> <div> genuinely concerned that they would drown the second he stopped</div> <div> admonishing them for their poor swimming abilities.</div> <bR> <div> "Lady, if you don't watch all your children today, I'll tell your husband</div> <div> tomorrow," he threatened one mother, knowing full well that the religious</div> <div> men's turn to hit the surf would come the next day.</div> <bR> <div> "Mrs. Greenberg, your son is here...Mrs. Greenberg, your son is crying..."</div> <div> And then suddenly, a youngster's voice cries out on the loudspeaker,</div> <div> "IMA!!!! [Mama!]"</div> <bR> <div> Throughout this cacophony, the inhabitants of my beach appeared to engage</div> <div> in more and more sinful behavior as the afternoon wore on. In fact, it</div> <div> almost seemed as the closer the swimmers and beach bums go to the</div> <div> religious beach, the more decadent they became. It was like an adverse</div> <div> reaction. Gay men touched each other affectionately in the water. A few</div> <div> women pranced around in g-string bikini bottoms. Some even sunbathed</div> <div> topless. But most amazing of all, both beaches had no difficulty in</div> <div> coexisting peacefully -- albeit with a great deal of din -- and</div> <div> separately.</div> <bR> <div> The symbolic possibilities were numerous: call it Tel Aviv versus</div> <div> Jerusalem, the religious versus the secular, the God-fearing and the</div> <div> sinners. Or perhaps, just a more simplistic North American explanation:</div> <div> no matter what you might believe, everyone loves the beach.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> It was if I had died and gone to Wisconsin. This place is damp, </div> <div> dark and cold. Its flat geography is adorned with clumps of pine </div> <div> trees, large Wal-Mart-type stores and burger joints with </div> <div> drive-thrus.</div> <bR> <div> But this is not Wisconsin. And it is clearly not Israel. This </div> <div> is a place where taxi drivers are polite, don't expect to be </div> <div> tipped, accept credit cards (which can be approved via a quick </div> <div> wireless link to the local bank), and refuse to drive over the </div> <div> speed limit. Here, people are pale, thin, withdrawn, law-</div> <div> abiding, courteous, and show their true colors at the breakfast </div> <div> buffet in the morning when it becomes full-body contact </div> <div> all-you-can-eat. This, is Finland.</div> <bR> <div> I'm here in the land of department stores brand-named "KKK" and </div> <div> young blonde female janitors to do a story about the largest </div> <div> cruise ship in the world, the "Voyager of the Seas" as it sets </div> <div> out on its maiden voyage to Miami. I wasn't crazy about doing </div> <div> another "largest cruise ship in the world story" as I had</div> <div> done one last year, in Barcelona and it turned out to be a lot </div> <div> of work as we scramble around a leviathan of ship trying to get </div> <div> everything shot in two days.</div> <bR> <div> Still, I thought a bit of time in a Nordic country wouldn't be </div> <div> such a bad thing. I half expected my Finnish-made Nokia </div> <div> cellphone and Suunto wrist "computer" (that's what the </div> <div> manufacturer calls it, because it's blessed compass, altimeter, </div> <div> barometer) to rejoice upon my touching down on hallowed Finnish </div> <div> soil and break into Sibelius' "Finlandia", happy to finally end </div> <div> their involuntary exile. And aren't these the things this </div> <div> country is best known for?</div> <bR> <div> But nothing of the sort happened. Instead, I observed the </div> <div> Finnish shipmaker Kvaerner-Masa put the finishing touches in an </div> <div> incredibly efficient manner on this $600 million vessel in its </div> <div> shipyard. I couldn't help but marvel at the irony of such a </div> <div> conservative, small nation contributing to the "more is more"</div> <div> grandiosity of this clearly American, floating version of Las </div> <div> Vegas. I snickered when I heard European journalists question </div> <div> cruise line executives at the press conference: why are the </div> <div> non-sea view rooms that look out on to the SHOPPING MALL of the </div> <div> ship more expensive? why not a two-week cruise through the </div> <div> Caribbean instead of one (code for "who takes only a week </div> <div> vacation?" deciphered into not Europeans who get more time off </div> <div> than retirees in Florida)? And why so BIG? </div> <bR> <div> I have to admit that I was perfectly content with my assigned </div> <div> room aboard the Voyager of the Seas: cabin 1260, deck 10 -- a </div> <div> huge 5-star room with balcony overlooking the port, a king-sized </div> <div> bed, couch and love seat, and a fairly nice bathroom. Along </div> <div> with the largest restaurant in Europe, the largest slot machine </div> <div> on the seven seas, the La Scala theater (larger, of course, than </div> <div> its inspiration and namesake in Milan) the ice skating rink, the </div> <div> rock climbing wall, the Leonardo de Caprio "I'M KING OF THE </div> <div> WORLD" photo opportunity space at the bow of the ship (doubles </div> <div> as a helicopter landing pad), three miles of deck space, and </div> <div> probably the shortest cruise ship captain in the world (at 5 </div> <div> foot 5, Svein Pettersen from Norway) this thing is clearly Over </div> <div> The Top.</div> <bR> <div> But don't cry for me Argentina, or for that matter, Kosovo or </div> <div> Turkey -- this ended up being a difficult, challenging and </div> <div> premature assignment. Upon our arrival, although the ship was </div> <div> intact, much of it was just not ready for prime time. That left </div> <div> me with the unenviable task of justifying NBC's faith in</div> <div> splurging on this story (they love cruise ship anythings, and </div> <div> saw this as an "exclusive" look at this ship before it went into </div> <div> service). There were no passengers, the wedding chapel and the </div> <div> Royal Suite were still being built, workers in candy-colored </div> <div> hard hats got in the way of every possible shot. How were we </div> <div> supposed to do this story about this luxury Caribbean cruise </div> <div> liner with the low cloud cover, perpetual dampness and the </div> <div> constant interruptions over the PA as they tested the </div> <div> loudspeakers in absolutely every room and cabin on board? It </div> <div> took us three tries to interview the president of the cruise </div> <div> line, as each time he would launch into something pithy, we </div> <div> would be cut off by the unintelligible Finnish language. I knew </div> <div> the announcements were for the welfare of the ship and its </div> <div> passengers, and that they were saying nothing more</div> <div> than "testing, one, two, three." Still, as our frustration </div> <div> grew, I decided that it sounded more like "toxic testicles are </div> <div> NOT for Liza Manelli." Or something like that.</div> <bR> <div> Okay, it was still fun to see a bit of this part of the world. </div> <div> And I was happy to catch the last bit of autumn here. Living in </div> <div> the Middle East, I really do miss the change of seasons (and </div> <div> efficiency and customer service, and...).</div> <bR> <div> The food on board was quite tasty, especially what I suspected </div> <div> were reindeer ribs in barbecue sauce. The multi-ethnic crew </div> <div> were exceptionally courteous, cosmopolitan and smart, recruited </div> <div> mainly from developing countries (where the labor force was </div> <div> either happy to put up with hard work and low wages, or was</div> <div> just looking for a way to see the world for free -- something </div> <div> that a Liberian-flagged ship could exploit as it circumvented </div> <div> strict U.S. labor laws), which includes India, the Philippines, </div> <div> Jamaica, and even Quebec (I know cheap shot, Montreal is </div> <div> booming... ). And they were more friendly than the Nordic</div> <div> breakfast crowd at the Naantali Resort and Spa. One evening, </div> <div> when I went to get a bottle of water in the galley the woman who </div> <div> was policing their distribution asked me where I was from. I </div> <div> couldn't tell whether she was wondering about my professional </div> <div> affiliation or my origins, so I guessed correctly and</div> <div> said "Trinidad and Tobago." She beamed appreciatively and said </div> <div> that she knew it the minute she saw me. She then proceeded to </div> <div> point out how she was dressed in the colors of our shared </div> <div> nationality: red, white and black.</div> <bR> <div> The greatest attraction of this assignment was that I was </div> <div> supposed to sail on the Voyager of the Seas for the first 48 </div> <div> hours and get off in Denmark before it continued on to Miami. </div> <div> But a delay in departure (caused by high winds they say, caused </div> <div> by unfinished business I say), and Nightly News' desire to make</div> <div> this a breaking news feature for Monday night compelled us to </div> <div> wrap things up before it set sail. That meant having to get up </div> <div> early enough to get off before they did away with the gangway </div> <div> for good. Which left me in great fear the night before that I </div> <div> might NOT miss the boat. Which isn't a particularly</div> <div> proper journalistic concern, is it?</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> I was surrounded. Palestinians ahead, Israelis to the left and right. I</div> <div> couldn't be too sure who was on my side and who was against me. My shirt</div> <div> was soaked with perspiration, although it was more a product of exertion</div> <div> than from anxiety. Happily, I was not in mortal danger, but I was under</div> <div> attack. </div> <bR> <div> The predicament was my own doing. I had opened the Pandora's box. Up to</div> <div> then, my presentation to the twenty Israeli and Palestinian journalists</div> <div> had stuck to basic pre-production news skills - the art of research, the</div> <div> pre-interview, and character selection -- showing them my old stories</div> <div> about how Nigerian con-artists were ripping off innocent Americans, and</div> <div> about landmine victims eking out a living in Bosnia. But then, I decided</div> <div> that my parting shot should be about objectivity, and I showed them a</div> <div> story that pitted Israeli settler against Palestinian farmer on the West</div> <div> Bank. I had thought it was a fair story and an interesting one: two</div> <div> former New Yorkers - American citizens - who were now fighting over the</div> <div> same land, both believing they were right. But many people, especially</div> <div> the Palestinians, begged to differ. </div> <bR> <div> "I think this story is a nice story, but it's not nice as an issue," was</div> <div> the first response. </div> <bR> <div> "The comparison between a settler and one who is native, this is not</div> <div> good," another Palestinians participant said. "It's not fair. He is</div> <div> living in a settlement on the West Bank. He's not from Tel Aviv. It is</div> <div> not a good comparison." </div> <bR> <div> "On both sides we are always very sensitive about how we are projected. </div> <div> And we have to admit that we can't be objective about it," a seasoned</div> <div> Israeli TV producer said. "For me it was too much equal, it was too much</div> <div> contrived. In television, I would rather have something that is not so</div> <div> equal, and have more of a story." </div> <bR> <div> I wasn't going to win with this one. </div> <bR> <div> "They made the settler legitimate, and he's not, in the eyes of most</div> <div> Israelis as well," and Israeli woman said. "It enabled me to see</div> <div> something that I had not seen before." </div> <bR> <div> At least there was something positive they could take out of this</div> <div> particular example: both sides agreed that it was not the kind of</div> <div> sensitivity they would have used to make such a story. So I too learned</div> <div> something in the process and my skin got a little thicker. </div> <bR> <div> It was all part of an ambitious effort by the Tel Aviv-based Peres Center</div> <div> for Peace to help teach skills to the staff of a joint Palestinian-Israeli</div> <div> talk show for teenagers. "Meeting Points" is co-hosted by two young</div> <div> people who speak in both Hebrew and Arabic to a mixed audience. They</div> <div> discuss heavy issues like terrorism, children in war, poverty, and</div> <div> culture, and will hit Israeli television next month. As a foreign</div> <div> journalist, I was ask to present a seminar that was part skills-oriented,</div> <div> part opportunity to have both sides in the room in an educational</div> <div> atmosphere to air their opinions, and as I found out, grievances. </div> <bR> <div> "The American media always misunderstands the Palestinians," a</div> <div> well-traveled participant said. "You feel that it will never be fair." </div> <bR> <div> To everyone's credit, the discussion never got out of hand, no one ever</div> <div> raised their voice in frustration or anger. These were people who were</div> <div> still getting to know each other and were happy to talk it out, speaking</div> <div> freely, with eloquence and sharp insight. </div> <bR> <div> I realized that the Israeli media tradition is quite similar to the North</div> <div> American one: good pictures, graphics, short soundbites, conflict, lots of</div> <div> reporting. The Palestinians are building their journalism institutions</div> <div> from the ground up, and they sometimes have a different perspective on how</div> <div> to do things. </div> <bR> <div> They were very sensitive to bias, and felt that in any news story, all</div> <div> points of view should be represented. That afternoon, my German colleague</div> <div> from RTL showed a traditional piece about Israeli settlers on the Golan</div> <div> Heights protesting against their own government about any potential peace</div> <div> agreement with the Syrians. But the Palestinians immediately jumped on</div> <div> the fact that no one had bothered to speak to the Syrians, the Palestinian</div> <div> refugees in Lebanon, or the Druze Arabs who now lived on the Israeli side. </div> <div> They wanted to pack it all into one story - something that I thought would</div> <div> have muddied the issue, making it more complicated for the viewer to</div> <div> understand. It would have also expanded the piece into a ten minute</div> <div> documentary. Still, it was a worthy point and showed that they were not</div> <div> interested in creating simplistic stories for an audience with a short</div> <div> attention span. Even more interesting to me was how they insisted that</div> <div> the traditional Western media practice of omitting graphic violence when</div> <div> talking about war or terrorism was not objective either - that life was</div> <div> harsh, and we had a duty to show it. </div> <bR> <div> Frankly, I think I may have learned more than the attendees did, and it</div> <div> was a more inspirational experience than I could ever imagine. These</div> <div> people were also visionaries: trying to promote co-existence and</div> <div> normalization between two nations who were exceptionally mistrustful of</div> <div> the other. That made their job far more difficult than mine could ever</div> <div> be. How could you persuade interview subjects hostile to the other side</div> <div> to cooperate with the program if, for example, there had just been a</div> <div> terrorist attack, or negotiations had broken down and the border to the</div> <div> West Bank had been closed? </div> <bR> <div> "It's very difficult because not all the people are happy to work with the</div> <div> Israeli side," said one of the Palestinian participants. "It's a big</div> <div> problem we have." </div> <bR> <div> Amazingly, they persevere. Five years ago, many of these journalists</div> <div> would never have thought they would be sitting together in the same hotel</div> <div> room in Tel Aviv. Take Fadil for example. He was a PLO fighter in the</div> <div> 1960's, his family refugees from Jaffa, victims of the 1948 war between</div> <div> the Arabs and the Israelis. He smuggled weapons from Syria along the</div> <div> Mediterranean coast, and got caught on this third attempt - and spent</div> <div> fifteen hard years in a prison in Israel for his efforts. Now, he acts as</div> <div> a conduit between the Palestinian and Israeli police and writes novels</div> <div> about his past life (one book has been printed six times in Jordan). He</div> <div> believes strongly in peace, and wants "Meeting Points" to be a success. </div> <div> And today, he's happy to sit at the same table with Israelis. Also</div> <div> neither he, nor his colleagues, minded talking to an itinerant Muslim such</div> <div> as myself when I finally revealed my family name, but confessed to not</div> <div> knowing very much Arabic. </div> <bR> <div> "Then you don't read the Qu'uran!" one woman said. I was on shaky ground. </div> <bR> <div> "I know, it's terrible," I replied. I figured that confession was the</div> <div> only defense for my lack of faith. Thank goodness they all laughed. </div> <bR> <div> As far as experiences go as I enter the third year of my assignment in the</div> <div> Middle East, this was an amazing one. It was a chance to meet people who</div> <div> do the same work as me, but face much greater obstacles in their quest for</div> <div> peaceful co-existence and dialog. When it was all over, I received a</div> <div> great many invitations: to produce a documentary, to visit studios, and to</div> <div> go for coffee in Ramallah. I think I may accept them all. </div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> MAY 18, 2000 on the Lebanese border</div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="3855e070.jpg" border=0 width="350" height="263" ALT="Israeli army on the Lebanese border, minutes before a katyushah attack, May 18, 2000 Hanson R. Hosein" ALIGN="LEFT" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0">A BRUSH WITH KATYUSHA ROCKETS (FROM MSNBC.COM)</div> <bR> <div> Hanson R. Hosein, NBC News Producer (Tel Aviv) </div> <bR> <div> (LIVNE, Israel): I was getting impatient. It was already mid-afternoon, and we still had to do a few more interviews before tackling the arduous two and a half hour drive from Israel's northern border with Lebanon back to home base in Tel Aviv. But NBC cameraman Chaim Dekel insisted on</div> <div> getting a few more shots of the Israeli army's fortification of the border in preparation for its impending pullout from southern Lebanon, after twenty years of unsettled and tense occupation.</div> <div>  </div> <bR> <div> I got out of our four-wheel drive vehicle to prod Chaim and soundman</div> <div> Amikam Cohen to wrap up quickly. As I walked by two camouflage-green</div> <div> tanks parked along the side, I noticed that an Israeli officer was</div> <div> speaking fervently to our tall, imposing cameraman. I wondered whether we</div> <div> had outstayed our welcome, and that we were being asked to leave. After</div> <div> all, what government in its right mind would allow a nosy news crew to</div> <div> poke around a sensitive military construction site in clear view of a</div> <div> number of Lebanese villages as it erected electric fences and concrete</div> <div> bunkers? </div> <bR> <div> Half-expecting a reprimand myself, I was instead surprised to hear a sharp</div> <div> explosion detonate unsettlingly close to us. </div> <bR> <div> "Katyushas!" someone yelled. </div> <bR> <div> We were under fire - the dreaded Katyusha rocket, the deadly weapon of</div> <div> choice of the Syrian-backed guerrilla army Hizbullah, was being used once</div> <div> again to strike fear against the residents and soldiers along the northern</div> <div> border. The first rocket struck the place where we had been taping only</div> <div> five minutes ago. A puff of smoke rose from the mound of dirt. </div> <bR> <div> Everyone ran for cover - wherever it could be found. Amikam is built like</div> <div> a truck, but he somehow managed to fit into the front-end shovel of a</div> <div> yellow bulldozer that was parked near our vehicle. It looked like a safe</div> <div> place to me, facing away from the direction of the rockets, so I joined</div> <div> him. We temporarily lost sight of Chaim, but I suspected that like most</div> <div> experienced overseas cameramen, he felt a certain obligation to shoot what</div> <div> was going on - albeit from as safe a position as possible. Thankfully,</div> <div> NBC News policy was quite clear in this situation: no one should lose</div> <div> their lives for the sake of a story. </div> <bR> <div> Our editor, Paul Goldman, had decided to join us on our outing. He wanted</div> <div> to get out of the office and get a sense of how we worked. It was a good</div> <div> idea, because Paul is a genius with news footage, and if he could also</div> <div> give us a sense in the field of what he liked in the edit room, all the</div> <div> better. It also turned out to be a bad idea as I watched Paul jump for</div> <div> cover into the ditch near our vehicle. </div> <bR> <div> The incoming rockets sounded like gunfire. I was unable to see them land,</div> <div> but as they got closer, I could feel the ground shake. Amikam decided to</div> <div> take advantage of the intimacy of our confines in the shadow of the</div> <div> bulldozer to explain that the army officer was trying to tell us to leave</div> <div> as soon as possible because he had just received a radio report about</div> <div> incoming Katyushas. The warning had come too late. It takes less than a</div> <div> minute for the rockets to fly their arc-like trajectory over the</div> <div> Israeli-occupied twelve-mile "security zone" (established to protect</div> <div> northern border towns from guerrilla attacks) in southern Lebanon to hit</div> <div> inside of Israel. </div> <bR> <div> "PSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!" </div> <bR> <div> We could now hear the whisper of the rockets as they streaked through the</div> <div> air. The seventh or eight explosion managed to spray dirt and gravel</div> <div> against my leg. We pushed further against the bulldozer and yelled at</div> <div> Paul to join us. He ran towards us, and we all squeezed in together. </div> <div> Perversely, I found myself patting myself on the back for having had the</div> <div> foresight to have changed into more outdoorsy clothes before I left my</div> <div> apartment this morning. I was coated in dust and dirt. Less perversely,</div> <div> I was afraid. We all were. We didn't know where the next Katyusha would</div> <div> hit. </div> <bR> <div> The next one landed very close - about thirty feet from our position. I</div> <div> saw a dust cloud rise above us to the right. I was worried that we would</div> <div> actually see the following salvo, perhaps as it even hit our vehicle. Not</div> <div> for the first time during my career as a journalist, I was reconsidering</div> <div> my choice of profession.</div> <bR> <div> Then I heard a deep explosion in the distance. The Israeli Air Force was</div> <div> bombing the Hizbullah. For now, there would be no more Katyushas. </div> <bR> <div> I saw Dekel run for the four-wheel drive, his trusty camera still hoisted</div> <div> on his shoulder. I knew he had gotten something. He started the engine</div> <div> and yelled us to get a move on. We crawled out of our improvised shelter</div> <div> and started for the car. But Amikam then turned back. </div> <bR> <div> "Hanson, my cellphone!" he yelled at me. </div> <bR> <div> Amikam had lost his mobile telephone in the melee. I could not believe</div> <div> that in a volatile situation like this, he was actually concerned about</div> <div> recovering a possession. Then again, it was company property, and if</div> <div> nothing else, Amikam was a true professional. I was about to dial his</div> <div> number with my cellphone to see if we could somehow hear it ring in the</div> <div> maelstrom, but luckily I was saved the effort by a construction worker who</div> <div> found the phone nearby and handed it to our intrepid soundman. We ran for</div> <div> the crew car. </div> <bR> <div> We made it to the nearby border village of Zarit where people were just</div> <div> beginning to surface from their homes. We met Shimi Biton, a twenty-five</div> <div> year old who had lived all his life in this tense area. I had a newfound</div> <div> appreciation for the people who had decided to make the northern region of</div> <div> Israel their home. To live under such conditions for over a decade seemed</div> <div> to be intolerable - bomb shelters for basements and the constant fear of</div> <div> attack. Nonetheless, Shimi told me that Israel had to withdraw from</div> <div> Lebanon. Ethically, it could not occupy another nation, even if guerrilla</div> <div> forces continued to threaten his home and refuse to recognize the</div> <div> existence his country. Almost in passing, he told me that his father had</div> <div> died fighting in Lebanon. It was crucial to make sure that no more</div> <div> Israeli soldiers lost their lives on foreign soil. </div> <bR> <div> As Israel withdraws from southern Lebanon over the next two months, the</div> <div> Hizbullah has made it clear that it plans to make the occupying army's</div> <div> departure as harsh and difficult as possible - to make it look less like a</div> <div> pullout and more like a retreat under fire. It has all the makings of a</div> <div> difficult summer. </div> <bR> <div> The radio relayed news of the attack as I headed back to Tel Aviv with my</div> <div> colleagues. We were all relieved to have escaped our ordeal unscathed,</div> <div> and determined to enjoy the spring, while we could. </div> <bR> <div> #30</div> <bR> <div> And my horoscope for that day:</div> <bR> <div> Aries: Things may get a bit out of hand today. Expect a time of dealing</div> <div> with explosive control issues. Do your best to stay calm as events back</div> <div> you further and further into a corner. Getting angry or losing your temper</div> <div> will only make matters worse. Don't give up -- there may still be a door</div> <div> or window that will provide an easier escape. Listen to your intuition</div> <div> when dealing with a difficult personal situation this evening. </div> </td> </tr></table></body>