One barrier, two separate worlds along West Bank

From the vitality and beauty of Jerusalem, the drive to the Alfei Menashe Jewish settlement… From the vitality and beauty of Jerusalem, the drive to the Alfei Menashe Jewish settlement in the West Bank is long and depressing. Green trees fade into dryer land. The number of people grows sparse, until there is hardly anyone in sight. Houses turn into shacks that can be seen far in the distance. From the vitality and beauty of Jerusalem, the drive to the Alfei Menashe Jewish settlement in the West Bank is long and depressing. Green trees fade into dryer land. The number of people grows sparse, until there is hardly anyone in sight. Houses turn into shacks that can be seen far in the distance. Police cars patrol the area. And then, barbed wire – a fence that runs for miles and miles. Further away, a wall stands ominously, dividing lives that seem to be worlds apart.

Despite its dismal surroundings, Alfei Menashe itself is a quaint, appealing community. There are handsome apartment buildings and houses, all with the same orange-red rooftops. Children play games and laugh in the streets. An observation area offers a beautiful view of Tel Aviv. While there, my group and I stopped for lunch at a falafel restaurant and ate our sandwiches outside in a nearby courtyard.

It’s almost hard to believe that Alfei Menashe is about two kilometers from the Green Line, the armistice lines of the 1948 Arab-Israeli war that established the boundaries between Israel and the Palestinian territory. And it is this closeness that makes Alfei Menashe’s insertion into the Israeli side of the Line controversial, to say the least. It is because of Alfei Menashe that the “security fence” or “wall” or “barrier” – terms of contention between Arabs and Israelis – runs so far into the West Bank. The barrier encircles the settlement, cutting off several Palestinian villages from the neighboring territory.

My group and I were given a tour of the barrier by a 21-year-old lieutenant in the Israeli Defense Forces, a young man named Eran who spoke about the borders and settlements in a professional yet somewhat detached way.

“Now, I know we have many names for the security fence,” he said. “Some call it the ‘apartheid wall,’ some call it the ‘West Bank barrier,’ some call it I don’t know what. I really don’t care about politics. The point is, it works. That’s a simple fact.” As if to lighten the heavy mood that was suddenly hanging over us, the lieutenant told us about his operations base and how the soldiers learn that someone or something has touched the barrier.

“The soldiers in the operation room got sick of the traditional ring that sounded every time the fence was touched,” he said. “So they had a special technician come, and he changed the ring of the fence. Now, every time somebody touches the fence, it sings ‘Another One Bites the Dust.'”

We all laughed with him, but there was something terribly upsetting in what he had told us.

I remember thinking how strange it was that someone who worked so closely to and with the issues of the conflict could be so removed from what I feel is the heart of the matter – the lives, the individual people who are affected by this barrier day after day.

Both sides have different stories to tell. Settlers feel safer. They feel that they are a part of Israel, that they can go about their daily lives not having to worry about being harmed.

The Palestinian side, hidden from our view by the barrier, was sadly more difficult for us to understand. The lieutenant took us as close as we could get to the actual wall, and we stood a mile away, awestruck and speechless. I had seen Alfei Menashe, but I had no idea what was on the other side of the barrier. I couldn’t see how the people lived, how the barrier was affecting their everyday, personal lives. I only knew what I had heard from diplomats and journalists during my trip. Palestinians feel caged, like prisoners on their own land. They feel that they are being collectively punished for the crimes of others.

If I only learned one thing that day, it was the painful affirmation that on each side, there are vastly different worlds, close only in proximity. The barrier stops terrorism, the lieutenant had told us, but I simply could not look at the wall – concrete and cold – in a positive light. I thought, how unfortunate that people must be separated in order to lead safe lives. Standing there made me feel that peace was light-years away.

The bus ride back to our hotel in Jerusalem was long and calm. I leaned my head against the window and watched the people and buildings whiz by. After spending two overwhelming hours in the West Bank, it was an almost jarring change to find myself in the quiet bus, the engine’s constant whir nearly lulling me to sleep.

E-mail Elham at elk23@pitt.edu.