‘Today you are an honourary Palestinian’

A reflection on my trip to Palestine

The man in the vibrant red jacket frowned, and then he sighed. His internal weariness was visible on his face.

It was evident, through the tension in his posture, that he instinctively resisted the commands of the Israeli Defence Force soldier who halted our bus.

Yet, with resignation, he complied. Rasem Zatara, our tour guide, disembarked at the last checkpoint into Jerusalem along the bustling Highway 60.

With earnestness etched across his face, he attempted to persuade the soldier not to force the entire bus of tourists to disembark, advocating instead for a swift scanning of our piled passports.

But the soldier was backed by two colleagues, each hovering as if poised at the ready, fingers lightly resting near their rifle triggers.

It was clear that each passenger would be required to brave the icy winter chill and present themselves to an IDF soldier who looked scarcely older than eighteen.

She didn’t appear particularly engaged in her duties, yet barked orders with an authority that felt out of place.

Rasem’s expression mirrored the frustration of a man wrestling with an inevitable fate as he endeavoured to articulate our case.

As the order came, all sixty of us shuffled off the bus, forming a queue under the watchful gaze of a nearby IDF military vehicle.

A young soldier's voice rang out, demanding the tour leader identify himself and hand over his passport to his superiors seated in the Casper.

Having spent a day immersed in the stark realities of Hebron in the West Bank, we were making our return to Jerusalem, where I intended to spend a few days.

Earlier in the day, I had borne witness to the harshness of the Israeli checkpoints around the the Haram Al Khalili, the revered mosque of Prophet Abraham.

There was no civility. I recall a soldier vociferously reprimanding me for standing—merely standing—outside the mosque as I waited for the rest of my group.

As we trudged through the checkpoint, the look on Rasem’s face was reminiscent of the first morning we attempted to enter the Al Aqsa compound in Jerusalem.

He had sought to lead us into the Old City to gain access to the mosque- the third holiest site in Islam.

Starting at the Damascus Gate, we were met with an unwavering refusal, no reasons offered.

At our final attempt, Rasem shrugged, his shoulders drooping as if to convey, “It is what it is.”

Eventually, I managed to slip in behind a Palestinian family at Herrods Gate, entering the Al Aqsa mosque for the first time, an overwhelming experience that filled my heart with reverence.

At the checkpoint, once all the passengers had re-boarded the bus—after a long delay caused by the inspecting soldier, who, while barely out of her teens, stopped her duties to scroll through social media—Rasem’s shoulders heaved in relief.

“Today, you are honourary Palestinians,” he quipped, trying to lighten the oppressive atmosphere.

The bus driver, though seemingly accustomed to such humiliation, still bore the weight of frustration at being barked at by someone so young.

Navigating through the ranks of IDF soldiers was a predictable, albeit disheartening, facet of travelling in Palestine. A two-hour journey can take an entire day.

I was told of how a six-hour wait can result in simply being turned away- no reasons given.

‘See for yourself’

I entered Palestine by land, taking a bus from Amman, Jordan, through the Allenby border crossing.

My journey had been inspired by a fleeting comment from a colleague—the Gazan journalist Youmna al Sayed—who urged us to explore the parts of Palestine still accessible to visitors, as they, from Gaza, were unable to traverse their own country.

That yearning to “see for yourself” was further galvanised by the transformative writings of acclaimed American author Ta-Nehisi Coates.

In his poignant essay detailing a ten-day sojourn in Palestine during the summer of 2023, prior to the outbreak of war on October 7, he had stirred a sense of urgency in me.

Aside from enduring a few hours of detention without any questioning at the Allenby crossing, my entry into Jerusalem proved largely uneventful.

The absence of scrutiny, given my journalistic background, astonished many. Yet, the six-hour wait was my first encounter with the irrational exertion of Israeli enforcement. It wouldn’t be the last.

The absurdity of their policies quickly became apparent. “You let me enter yesterday,” I protested to the soldier who denied me access to the Al Aqsa compound on my second day, having glimpsed my South African passport.

It was of no consequence; it seemed a new day warranted a fresh set of rules.

On numerous occasions, I was turned away for simply presenting my passport.

Once, in a playful defiance, I had replied “Zululand” to a curt “where are you from.”

Oddly enough, that earned me entry. On another occasion a group of South Africans prayed outside of the compound on being denied entry for the morning prayer. Only to be let in as soon as they were done.

As the days progressed, it became increasingly clear that the heavily armed soldiers distributed around the compound were there not to provide security but rather to instill fear and assert dominance—a constant reminder of their power and the fragility of the life the Palestinians endured.

I cannot erase the image of the trembling hand of a Palestinian man, no younger than seventy, as he edged closer to the gate, desperately hoping for entry. His vulnerability was palpable.

“God is sufficient for me,” he whispered in Arabic, repeating it countless times as we approached the checkpoint.

They brusquely pushed him aside but granted me passage, a disconcerting moment that starkly illustrated the uneven power dynamics.

My initial education on Palestine unfolded during my childhood in the early 2000s, when I participated in protests in the bustling Durban CBD to support Palestine.

There was a poignant song we sang, one that reverberated in my heart and mind even years later:

“I was a grapevine in Palestine, where I lived with a family on a farm.”

The stanzas continued, recounting the heart-wrenching tale of dispossession:

“Then the day came I will never forget when they pulled our roots from the soil. They chopped every tree, and they slashed every vine; every chicken in sight was killed.”

As children, we sang along, blissfully unaware of the metaphor and its deep connection to the Nakba of 1948.

Yet, I recalled those lyrics as I gazed out of the bus window, observing the olive trees lining the farms, their trunks truncated and testament to loss.

Just a few days later, a shopkeeper selling olive oil near the Damascus Gate confided in me that, for the first time in years, olive oil production had come to a standstill due to the ongoing conflict.

Sales were dismally low, he lamented, as the influx of visitors to Al Aqsa had diminished. Olive trees, and by extension, olive oil, are a source of pride for Palestinians. It is the symbol of their homeland and the connection to their homeland.

Driving across Palestine reveals a landscape unlike that of South Africa, yet there’s an uncanny familiarity to the enforcement of apartheid that cannot be ignored.

For Ta-Nehisi Coates, this reality conjured memories of the injustices faced by his parents during Jim Crow.

Hearing the stories of displacement stemming from the Nakba brought forth vivid recollections of my own grandmother, Mina Hunter, and the way the apartheid government uprooted her family from the historic District Six neighbourhood in Cape Town.

The separation of roads for Palestinians and Israelis, the large wall that runs through the country, the Bantustans, the checkpoints- it looked and felt like apartheid.

International law defines the crime of apartheid as “inhuman acts committed for the purpose of establishing and maintaining domination by one racial group over another, systematically oppressing them.”

Coates eloquently writes: “This definition matched everything I saw on the ground during my trip.”

On the whole, my time in Palestine was punctuated with laughter as I fumbled through attempts at speaking Arabic, relishing the delights of Ka'ak al Quds, hot fatayer- pillowy bread layered with cheese or spices.

Simply walking through the streets, the fragrant offerings of fruit wafting through the air would leave me salivating.

Memories of my moments spent at the Dome of the Rock are peppered with well-dressed Palestinian 'aunties,' each insisting on presenting me with something—bread, fruit, a cup of the most sublime mint tea.

At other times, an elderly woman would pass me dates as if she was sharing contraband. I laughed a little too loud.

I joined Sheikh Junaid Kharsany from Durban on tours highlighting the area's history and revelled in the stories he related. We explored the area steeped in historical and religious significance and marvelled at it all. The walls and trees of the Al Aqsa compound hold centuries of stories and history.

The birthplace of Mary. The birthplace of Prophet Jesus (AS). The place where the Prophet Muhammed (SAW) descended during Isa and Mirage. The remnants of the crusaders. The legacy of the Ottomans. History became real.

Tea and tears

When Umm Suleiman learned I was visiting from South Africa, she welcomed me into her home, an intimate apartment in the old city of Jerusalem, where she resides with her husband and two grown children.

Her third daughter lives in the West Bank, barely two hours away by car, yet familial visits are infrequent, fraught with the frustrations and dangers posed by the war, she confided.

She told me how life in the Old City had become unbearable since the start of the war and how she and her family were constantly under surveillance.

With open arms, she presented plates of fruit and tea, accompanied by pistachio biscuits baked by her neighbour—a widow with two young sons—that were the epitome of perfection, buttery shortbread encasing a rich pistachio cream.

Yet, tea was not enough for Umm Suleiman; she insisted I return for a meal and then another.

She prepared maqluba, an exquisite upside-down rice dish crowned with chicken topped with roasted pine nuts, alongside a generous serving of eggplant and yoghurt.

We dined at her table with Al Jazeera Arabic softly filling the background, our conversation flitting from the weather to her travels in South Africa and the joys of food until our chat was interrupted by the distressing images on the television. Five babies had frozen to death in Gaza.

Tears welled in her eyes, her body visibly shaken. She offered fervent prayers to God for assistance and, with a heavy heart, emerged to prepare another pot of tea.

The only other time she teared up was when she told me how in September, a few months before my visit, IDF soldiers destroyed her balcony because her door had a picture of the Dome of the Rock on it.

“That balcony was my joy and pride,” she said.

Roula, whom I met after the sunset prayer at Al Qibli Mosque, carried a beautiful tote bag emblazoned with the Palestinian flag, its design entwined with olive branches and a keffiyeh.

Complimenting her bag forged an instant bond and led to her enveloping me in her family's warmth and generosity. They were not from Jerusalem and had Israeli passports as her father and grandfather did not leave during the 1948 Nakba, she said.

Her father, an English professor whose work I had encountered a few years prior, was unbelievably kind to me upon hearing that I, too ,was a writer and that I was from South Africa.

I could not leave until I took a handful of fruit with me.

The day after I admired her bag, she was met with scorn from an IDF soldier who denied her access to Al Aqsa due to the symbolism of the artwork.

Later that day, I attempted to purchase Palestinian paraphernalia from shopkeepers in the Old City, only to meet their wary gazes.

They are prohibited from selling anything that bears the Palestinian flag or map, a reminder of how even the most innocuous displays of national pride have become criminalised in the current climate of war.

It dawned on me that the hope of statehood has since become a crime under the oppressive regime.

On my last evening in Palestine, I reunited with an old childhood friend from Durban in Al Aqsa, eager to catch up over coffee.

The shops in the Old City closed early due to a persistent curfew, and an air of trepidation filled the streets, especially with an overwhelming IDF presence around the compound. Despite this, we indulged in Palestinian sweets and coffee.

As I returned from the Damascus Gate to my hotel, Umm Suleiman's worried voice echoed in my mind.

She requested I message her upon my return to ensure my safety. “It’s the time of the annual settler Talmudic rituals, and the occupation forces go crazy,” she cynically warned.

I dismissed her worries, assuring her I would be fine.

After finishing my coffee and parting ways with my friend close to her hotel, an uneasy solitude enveloped me as I embarked on my walk back.

The rain-soaked streets lay deserted; a heavy mist hung in the air.

As I wandered, I chanced upon a mochi store that had miraculously stayed open. The allure of Asian frozen desserts in the Middle East was too tempting to resist.

I savoured each spoonful of ice cream, yet soon realised the streets were empty because of a siren warning of missile activity from Yemen targeting Jerusalem.

I did not rush back to my hotel. Instead, I felt an urgent need to soak in my final moments in this land. I stumbled upon the Educational Bookshop and dashed inside, eager to stock up on literature about Palestine.

The words of Coates resonated deeply within me as I thumbed through the shelves, selecting books rich with perspectives and stories patiently waiting to be told:

“This elevation of complexity over justice is part and parcel of the effort to forge a story of Palestine told solely by the colonizer, an effort that extends to the proscribing of boycotts by American states, the revocation of articles by journals, the expulsion of students from universities, the dismissal of news anchors by skittish networks, the shooting of journalists by army snipers, and the car-bombing of novelists by spy agencies. No other story, save one that enables theft, can be tolerated. But there are other stories, and we who bankroll apartheid are more ignorant for not hearing them directly from storytellers like Deanna. I know that there are a lot of writers who believe they have access to a kind of artistic magic that allows them to inhabit any community in the world and write about it as if it is their own. I think those writers overestimate the power of their talent and intelligence and underestimate how wisdom accrues over time, among nations and peoples across ancestry.

He wrote further: “Even my words here, this bid for reparation, is a stranger’s story—one told by a man still dazzled by knafeh and Arabic coffee, still at the start of a journey that others have walked since birth. Palestine is not my home. I see that land, its peoples, and its struggles through a kind of translation—through analogy and the haze of my own experience—and that is not enough. If Palestinians are to be truly seen, it will be through stories woven by their own hands—not by their plunderers, not even by their comrades.”

With a heavy heart, I departed Palestine, my bags filled with books and olive oil, ignited by an unwavering pursuit of justice. A fire burned within me as I reflected on the stories I had heard and the emotions I had felt. Words can’t fully describe it.

In the days that followed my departure, I learned that just as I left Palestine, a group of settlers stormed the compound as part of the Talmudic incursions, praying in the mosque while under the watchful guard of IDF soldiers. These soldiers made life unbearable for Palestinians attempting to enter the compound, obstructing their access with relentless authority.

The realisation then, and the clarity I now possess, is undeniable: Palestine is not a complex issue. It is not merely a conflict that began 15 months ago; it is 76 years of oppression. You witness it within the Al Aqsa compound, and you feel it resonate throughout the West Bank. Even though the genocide in Gaza was too far to see and hear, the consequences were apparent. It is unfathomable that there are people who deny what is so visible with the naked eye.

My journey through Palestine evoked profound emotions, and as I departed, I read a poem that still haunts my thoughts, a reminder of the struggles and resilience of a people longing to be heard. I am filled with a sense of justice. Justice for oppressed, displaced and vulnerable people everywhere.

1948 by J.M Zahria

A land with people they claim was vacant

My grandfather, a figure of imagination

His house invisible

His olive trees mythical

They settled on our lands stolen from our hands

They burned our rights away

They blundered our world in 1948

The world cries false in their favour

Their media lies remain unwavered

The ‘terrorists’ that exit in Gaza

Are no different from those in Warsaw

Genocide under Nazi abuse

No one denied what you went through

Victims transform into sullen oppressors

Caution: You're protected by a fallen empire

You have the power to make peace

Yet you demand and mislead

We are victim of oppression

Stop denying your aggression

The abuse, the torture, the brutal occupational

You are too black for total subjugation.

In part two, I will explore a theme that I recounted in my mind during my trip: when the victim becomes the oppressor.

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You can listen to my interview about my trip on Radio Islam HERE.