If a bus stop becomes too crowded, the overly cautious (like me) will opt to stand a good 30 feet away. Before boarding, everyone eyes each other and his carry-ons discreetly. Anyone who looks Arab is suspect. Crudely defined, that means having a dark complexion, thick eyebrows and coarse facial hair. If someone fitting this description is already seated or walks on, some passengers will simply get off.
Living under terrorist threat, you pick things up fast. I’ve been here just over a month as a volunteer in a communal settlement, or kibbutz. I work in the kitchen six days a week, seven hours a day, feeding the 300 Israeli men, women and children who live here. In exchange, I get free room and board–a perk I’d heard about for years among the global backpacker set.
But lately, journalists have outnumbered travelers in this country. “You’re the only tourist in Israel,” a cashier deadpans as I exchange my U.S. dollars. This sort of comment is generally followed by an incredulous “Why did you choose to visit now?” I usually have to explain that I’m not Jewish, I’m a Korean-American trying to make sense of the region. As news coverage of the violence intensified earlier this year, so did my interest. I wanted not only to understand the centuries-old discord between Arabs and Jews–but to live it.
A handful of the workers on the kibbutz are Arab, but here they are recognized by name, not creed. “This is what they don’t show you on CNN,” jokes Idan, a Jew by birth, who pals around with Omar, a Muslim, in the kitchen.
Just east of here is the village where Omar lives. Last month a bomb exploded in the courtyard of the all-Arab school his brothers attend. Luckily, no one was seriously hurt. Three times this month, Omar has been subjected to a military roadblock search on the street outside the kibbutz. He didn’t seem perturbed at having to exit his car under gunpoint, and lift up his shirt to prove he wasn’t wired with a bomb.
At night occasional bursts of automatic-gun fire and the thud of a tank shell echo in the distance. It was jarring at first; I’d only ever been awakened by car alarms in the sleepy suburb where I grew up. Bethlehem, a few miles to the south, has been a war zone since the Israeli military pushed deep into the West Bank. But based on the relaxed expressions of the families in the dining hall at mealtimes, you wouldn’t know anything was amiss. When I first got here I found it vexing how Israelis press on with life–sitting in cafes and shopping in open-air markets during suicide blitzkriegs. I realize now that their psychological defense mechanisms are at peak performance. “We can’t feel everyone’s pain because there’s too much of it going around,” explains Hadar, the kibbutz nurse.
Despite a recent U.S. State Department warning urging American travelers to leave Jerusalem (and the hand-wringing e-mails I’ve received from my family: “Keep your head down when the shooting starts,” my brother warns), I plan on completing my two-month stay. Leaving now seems alarmist when few Jerusalemites are in a state of panic. If they do reach that point, I’ll book the first flight home. For now, since the kibbutz is relatively secluded from the rest of the city, there’s a palpable air of calm and security within the grounds. Oftentimes I forget that I’m in Israel at all.
Outside, of course, is a different matter: I’ve had plenty of scares. On a recent Saturday night, another Jerusalem cafe was ravaged by a suicide bomber while I was en route home on the No. 7 bus after strolling around downtown. Sirens wailed and soldiers appeared out of nowhere to conduct vehicle-to-vehicle searches for accomplices. As the bus neared Hebron Road, two soldiers with rifles drawn motioned for the driver to stop. I sat numbly as the pair stormed through the steel double doors, their muzzles aimed precariously forward. Completing their sweep, they darted out the rear side door.
I don’t think the young woman sitting across from me ever stopped chatting on her cherry red Nokia. For her and for thousands of others in the most politically volatile capital in the world, it was just another night. As I peered out the window, I realized that soon I would feel the same way.
