By AshleyLe
"Today, we finally acknowledge the obvious: that Jerusalem is Israel’s capital. This is nothing more, or less, than a recognition of reality. It is also the right thing to do. It’s something that has to be done."
When President Donald Trump declared these words on December 6, millions of Jerusalem, Palestine, and Arab residents cried out in response. The following 72 hours became the long Days of Rage, with men, women, and children assembled together to mark the beginning of something else, of something more. They were fired up. They were ready to fight. They were not afraid to make their outrage heard.
In the midst of their cries of pain, their calls for justice, and their longing for peace, I witnessed so much more. I knew there was something greater than just what I saw with my eyes, like a magnet that kept pulling me back.
Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus Christ according to Biblical text, was brighter than normal. But instead of the streets decking out in Christmas lights and decorations, it slowly became battle grounds. Bethlehem's main street was covered in fire and tear gas. The roads turned black, the city turned grey, and its people turned red. More than 5 hours after the beginning of the first day of rage, thousands of Palestinians were still on the street. Despite extreme pain caused by tear gas, they knew better than to give up. To many Palestinians, Christians and Muslims alike, there was a need to scream, to demonstrate, and to fight, in order to win back hope.
Ramallah, the de facto capital of the Palestinian Authority, reacted similarly. Throughout the day, Palestinians youth and young men clashed with the Israeli Defense Force soldiers, just meters away from the Kalandia Checkpoint separating Isarel and Palestine. The main road was engulfed in flames, cars stranded on the side of the streets. Protesters threw stones at Israeli soldiers, who responded with tear gas and rubber bullets in an attempt to disperse the crowd and reduce the violence. Every now and then, a young woman would appear among the group of male protesters. She cheered them on, joined them in the chants, and embrace them when they got hit.
Then there was Jerusalem. The holy city. The reason to fight. The reason to hope.
Hours after President Trump announced his decision, Jerusalem fell into a surprising complete and utter quietness. The Old City was empty and silent, as if it was bracing itself for the unforeseeable reactions about to come. In West Jerusalem, a large flag of the United States was put up for the first time side by side with the State of Israel flag at the Jerusalem City Hall. News anchor lined up throughout the city for their stories. Foreign tourists joke about what they think might happen, while local Israelis scrolled through online news for the latest update on what this decision might mean to their beloved and holy city. Throughout the night, world leaders have taken turn condemning President Trump's announcement, while Palestinians leaders called for a new "intifada".
The morning after finally came. The Old City was quiet. A scheduled Christmas Market was postponed due to the expected unrest. Shops and restaurants in the Muslim quarter were closed. Men sat in front of their houses and gazed into space, while women kept track of their children, who were given a day off from school as part of the strike declared by the Palestinian authority the night before. As expected, Damascus Gate became the gathering place for Palestinian and Arab protesters. The crowd started with a dozen, and grew to hundreds within a few short hours. Muslim women led the chant in peace. It was non-violent, it was safe, it was, to the Israel Police, a threat. Every half hour, IDF soldiers marched toward the crowd and attempted to push them away from the Gate, out to the street. But they kept chanting, kept standing up, kept uniting together, like they have always been, and always will.
Needless to say, reactions weren't limited in Bethlehem, Ramallah, and Jerusalem alone. Thousands of demonstrations broke out in the rest of the West Bank, Gaza, dozens of Arab nations, and even in the United States. Many protested out of anger, some believed it was the right thing to do, and others chose to stand together in solidarity. Two weeks later, reactions consistently continued, despite fatalities, despite the risk of war.
As a foreign exchange student and an American citizen, I was warned by countless of individuals and organizations to avoid areas with expected demonstrations and unrest, while my friends expressed concerns when they learned of my plan to observe these stories in close range. But like every other storyteller, I had to follow the stories, even if they weren't exactly my story. I knew the risks I had to take, and the potential price I could have had to pay. In Bethlehem, I was hit by tear gas in more than three occasions, and every time, I wanted nothing more than just to go back to the comfort and safety of my dorm. As the temporarily pain passed by, however, I picked up my camera and went again to the front line. In Ramallah, I was caught in the crossfire between IDF soldiers and Palestinian protesters. But even when I thought there was no way I could have gotten out without physical harm, I was strengthened by the idea that for the first time ever, I will be able to see their stories, feel their pain, and hear their cries, all using my very own senses.
I vividly remember when I had just been hit by tear gas for the first time in Bethlehem and couldn't see, a Palestinian shop owner graciously took me in and offered me tea. He told me the stories of his family, of how they have never once in their life been able to visit Jerusalem. He asked if I was American, and I hesitantly said yes. He answered, "I don't hate Americans, I never did. I hope you don't hate me. I hope Americans don't hate Palestinians." I was speechless. I couldn't respond on behalf of the American people, not when the American president had just taken away their hope.
In the same manner, I can never forget the IDF soldiers who took me to safety when I was in the middle of a crossfire in Ramallah. We joked about American pop culture, talked about Vietnamese cuisine, and laughed as I attempted to converse in broken Hebrew. In the brief 10 minutes exchange before they proceeded to fire tear gas at protesters, I felt their longing for the end to what has been an eternal battle that had just been ignited again.
Before I knew it, I was back to Jerusalem, enjoying the abundance of food, water, and safety. Despite anything and everything that happened or could have happened, it was still a fairly easy journey for me. I had the privilege and right to travel back to a comfortable life, to take a break from the heat and risks at demonstrations. But to the millions of Palestinians, privilege is a luxury.
Two-state solution and one-state solution are politics. Palestinians and Israelis are human lives, strengthened by compassion, fueled by love, and driven with hope.