sunday morning & back to brutality

There's something about getting up at the break of dawn and leaving the house in a half-awake state, with the dreams of the night still circling your head; sliding down in a seat on the bus, blankly staring out the window; and then there, in the crossroad, you see two soldiers searching a guy, his hands planted on the wall, the contents of his bag spread out on the ground, the subdued back of his neck screaming at you. You never feel quite ready for it.

I've been back in Jerusalem now for almost a week. It's been good: time to catch up with people I know, socialize with new colleagues, take in the sounds and smells, remember my Arabic phrases. It feels right, in many ways, and I feel set for two more months as an ecumenical accompanier. I even got a new vest to wear, my camera's been upgraded, and I've been looking forward to revitalising my blog.

And then this morning came crashing in my face: the first checkpoint watch of the week, at Qalandia terminal between Ramallah and Jerusalem, where the soldiers sit behind bulletproof glass and iron bars and shout at us through the screeching microphone. Morning rush, people on their way to work and school, cramming their way through metal corridors.

I went to the wall - of all places - to refind humanity. To the inscriptions of hope, protest, anger, strength. To Banksy's balloon girl soaring upwards on a slab of concrete.

Back to this weird reality that is Jerusalem.