41 years after fence dividing Beit Safafa was taken down, euphoria has been replaced by anxiety.
By MICHAEL GREENBeit Safafa 224.88(photo credit: Michael Green)
'It's been erased; you can't see it anymore," says Ahmad Salman of the border that once ran through the middle of his village. The barbed-wire fence that for 19 years sliced Beit Safafa into two parts - one Israeli and one Jordanian - is now only visible in the faded color photograph hung on the wall of Salman's living room alongside more recent pictures of his pilgrimage to Mecca and a framed copy of the Koran. The iconic picture shows a procession of friends, relatives and well-wishers on both sides of the barrier taking part in a bittersweet celebration for a bride and groom tying the knot on the Israeli side of the village three years before it was reunified after the Six Day War.
Although he was only 14 at the time, Salman, now chairman of the Beit Safafa-Sharafat Community Council, still remembers the atmosphere when the border came down in 1967. "For the children here there was a special happiness, not because of the war or politics but because they could meet with their families again," explains Salman, who grew up on the Jordanian side. His wife grew up in the smaller, Israeli part of the village, and they now have seven children and nine grandchildren, he mentions with pride. "Now you don't feel the difference between the sides."
Today, the one-time border is a smooth tarmac road called Ihud Hakfar, Hebrew for "unification of the village." It may be 41 years since the fence was taken down, but the euphoria has long faded and has been replaced by modern divisions and anxiety. In the face of long-term neglect by the state, locals see a widening gap between themselves and their Jewish neighbors, and there is little optimism that taking part in the imminent elections will reverse the situation.
More than 5,000 people live on Beit Safafa's 1,577 dunams, making it one of the smallest neighborhoods in the city and accounting for just 2 percent of Jerusalem's total Arab population. In comparison, the most populous Arab neighborhoods of Shuafat and the Old City's Muslim Quarter are home to some 35,000 and 26,000 people, respectively. Nearby Gilo is home to 27,000 Jewish residents.
Despite its size, Beit Safafa's population is diverse. Unusually for east Jerusalem, a significant proportion, mostly families from the pre-1967 Israeli side, hold full Israeli citizenship in contrast to those who, like 93% of Arabs in the city, have "permanent resident" status. This minority has been augmented by Israeli Arabs from the Galilee and other parts of Israel seeking economic opportunities unavailable outside the big city.
"First of all, the North is the periphery. Jerusalem is the center of the world, it's the capital. There are more opportunities, and it's close to the university, too," says Ali Ayoub, director of the Beit Safafa Community Center, who grew up in the village of Nahef near Karmiel.
Arriving in Jerusalem 24 years ago to study at the Hebrew University, where he met his wife, Ayoub eventually moved to Beit Safafa after living in the Beit Hanina neighborhood for several years. "Arabs who come from the North to go to university or to work in Jerusalem are living in a much better place than their village; therefore, it will be their permanent place to live. But for Jews coming to live in Jerusalem, they are arriving in a worse place compared to Tel Aviv, the Sharon region or even the North, like Nazareth Illit. So they prefer to go back there," says Ayoub.
And he's right. A report by the Jerusalem Institute for Israel Studies confirms that more people leave the city than choose to live there, resulting in an average negative migration of 6,700 people each year over the last decade. "It's a good reason for the government not to give me the opportunity to develop myself or open [academic] opportunities for Arabs. Maybe we will be the majority in 20 years' time," surmises Ayoub.
FOR SHABLI Nazeeh, who grew up in the Galilee and now works as a biomedical engineer at the Hadassah-University Medical Center in Ein Kerem, moving to Jerusalem was an economic decision, but his choice of neighborhood was strategic. "There are fewer opportunities in the North. Beit Safafa is at the center of the city, you have everything close to you. Talpiot and the Malha Mall are 10 minutes or less on foot," he says, taking a break from analyzing the x-ray of a patient's skull illuminated on the flat-screen monitors before him. "If you want to live in an Arab area without checkpoints, then Beit Safafa is the best solution for you. In other places like Beit Hanina or Shuafat, they put up checkpoints whenever they want - but not in Beit Safafa."
Quality of life may also be another draw, with small orchards contributing to a rural flavor amid the urban sprawl. Opposite the Community Center, members of one Beit Safafa family are busy picking olives from the trees on the grounds of their home, seemingly a world away from the shopping malls, garages and traffic in the Talpiot Industrial Zone less than 10 minutes away by foot.
"Beit Safafa is considered nice compared to other places in east Jerusalem; it's more developed," believes Salman, before adding that the infrastructure is still well behind that of Jewish neighborhoods in the city. "We receive about 50% of what we pay in arnona [property tax]."
Many of the streets have sidewalks, so pedestrians don't have to compete with traffic; and uncollected garbage isn't a major eyesore - two common complaints in many of Jerusalem's other Arab neighborhoods. "Maybe you'll find better conditions here than in Um Tuba or Ras el-Amud, but if you compare the infrastructure to Gilo or Katamon, it's much worse," says Ayoub.
Responding to the residents' complaints, the Jerusalem Municipality said that it is working with the community management in Beit Safafa "to promote and develop the infrastructure in the village."
"Over the course of the last two years many resources were invested in the village. Traffic arrangements were carried out, including two new traffic circles, an access road to the Sharafat neighborhood, placing speed stripes adjacent to all the schools in the village and many other streets (at the request of the residents), an integrated road was paved in the village center that includes comprehensive care of infrastructure, drainage and sewage," said a municipal spokesperson. "There are currently a number of projects in the final planning stages preparing for the start of implementation, for instance, the A-Tantur Junction, a road in Sharafat and others. In addition, the municipality is advancing the preparation of a new plan for Beit Safafa with funding from the Ministry of the Interior that will create solutions for the infrastructure and public open spaces."
When asked what the best thing is about Beit Safafa, Salman replies without hesitation: "Education." New schools have been built, and the community received a large budget from the Jerusalem Fund, as well as smaller sums from the municipality and Ministry of Education. "One outcome is that students are now going to university," he says with visible pride. This year, 60 students from the area will be studying at the Hebrew University, the Technion in Haifa, as well as in Ramallah, Bethlehem and Jordan - although these achievements did not arrive without a struggle in lobbying their case at the municipality. Every two or three years a new school was being built. Why? Because there is a strong [community] management here," says Salman.
As well as a stunning panorama of the north of Jerusalem, the top of the hill boasts a large elementary school, opened by Ehud Olmert in 1997. Despite its modern appearance, more than 40 pupils are crammed into a single classroom, and some lessons are held in the bomb shelter and library due to a shortage of classes. "We're still suffering from a lack of classrooms and overcrowding. There's no doubt that this affects academic achievement," argues Ayoub, who stresses that the "development" of the neighborhood is not just about physical improvements like new pavements or sewage. "It's about education, people's dreams and goals." But he is frustrated by what he calls a "glass ceiling."
"You're young and have lots of dreams, but it's very hard to progress as an Arab. Arabs will always remain behind, and the gaps will only increase."
Attractive red-tiled villas and low-rise apartments may line Beit Safafa's quiet streets, but many remain out of reach for young couples or the less well-off, some of whom are leaving the village for more affordable pastures, says Ayoub. Rental costs, which have risen by one-third in recent years, have been inflated by demand from Palestinians fleeing homes stranded beyond the security barrier, the high cost of obtaining building permits, as well as areas designated as "state lands" and thus off-limits for Beit Safafans to build on.
IN PAT, to the north of the disused railway track, dozens of flags supporting mayoral hopeful Nir Barkat flutter in the breeze from the whitewashed apartment blocks. But on the other side of the olive grove that fills the plateau between Pat and Beit Safafa, the lack of enthusiasm for Barkat or any of his competitors is palpable. Despite complaints about the municipality's neglect of the village, the prospect of casting a ballot on November 11 isn't getting locals excited. "In my opinion, it doesn't matter. The candidates aren't investing here, and they're not coming to persuade people to vote for them, apart from maybe Gaydamak a little," says Ayoub.
Salman estimates voter turnout in Beit Safafa at around 20%, considerably higher than the east Jerusalem average because many of the residents hold Israeli citizenship. He attributes the low level of participation overall to two factors:
"The first is political," he says referring to the boycott of elections in protest at the Israeli rule of east Jerusalem since 1967. "Second, the municipality doesn't invest enough here. But the political reason is the most important. In the east of the city, people don't believe in the 'unification' of Jerusalem. The truth is, I haven't decided. They haven't made any real changes here in the last four years, and the work on the roads should have come 30 years ago. [Former mayor Ehud] Olmert's term was the best period that I have been here. There was work on roads, sewage and schools. They invested a lot, but it's gone down since then," says Salman, pulling out a photo of himself next to the outgoing prime minister from a time when Olmert had a fuller head of hair than he does today.
But one decision Salman has made already is not to mark his polling card with Russian oligarch Arkadi Gaydamak. "We know who he is. He's got a court case in France," he says, referring to charges against Gaydamak of illegal arms sales to Angola in the 1990s. A more likely candidate comes in the shape of Nir Barkat's sharp suit and tie. "I might go in his direction," says Salman.
Gaydamak has spoken publicly - notably at last Saturday's Jerusalem Post "town hall" event for mayoral candidates at the Great Synagogue - about the "injustice" and "neglect" of Jerusalem's Arabs and, according to haredi candidate MK Meir Porush, "There is a need to invest in their neighborhoods, just as there is a need to invest in the Jewish neighborhoods." But only time will determine whether such pledges are anything more than lip service.
Some in the village say that the decision to vote is connected to citizenship and identity. "It's hard for many people to vote," says Ayoub of Beit Safafans from the formerly Jordanian side. "If you go to vote, you're giving legitimacy to Israeli rule in east Jerusalem."
For Dr. Muhammad Jadallah, a surgeon who grew up on the Jordanian side of the border and traces his family back 18 generations in the village, the issue of identity is clear cut. "I'm a Palestinian. But Israel doesn't recognize me as a Palestinian and on top of that gives a third nationality: It says that I'm a Jordanian, that I belong to a third country."
"It almost never happens that Palestinians in Jerusalem take Israeli citizenship," explains Haim Ehrlich, coordinator of policy and advocacy at Israeli NGO Ir Amim. "At the beginning they didn't want to; and even if they chose to now, it would be too difficult."
Residents who migrated from the Galilee took an alternative approach to identity in interviews with In Jerusalem. "I am an Arab Israeli. I live in the state, I'm loyal to the country, and I live by its laws. We are praying for peace and everything, but I am anxious for the future," maintains Ayoub. "Believe me, the government helps us a lot to know that we are Palestinians."
"To live in the State of Israel as an Arab, with all of the same rights as Jewish citizens, this is the ideal way for us, as Arabs who live in Israel," says Nazeeh, as he alternates with ease between Hebrew, Arabic and English with hospital colleagues and telephone calls. Although he has an Israeli passport and the right to vote, Nazeeh doesn't plan to break his habit of not voting this year, albeit for pragmatic rather than political reasons. "Whether you vote or not, religious Jews will control the municipality, so I think it's a waste of time."
He doesn't think that the secular Jews standing as mayoral candidates are worth the trouble of going to the polling booth in 11 days' time. "Gaydamak and Barkat belong to the Right of Israeli politics, so it's hard to vote for them. For example, Barkat says that he believes in settlements in east Jerusalem and in the occupied territories. These are not peaceful people, and we can't put our trust in them."
BUT THE decision of whether or not to vote isn't just a local issue in Beit Safafa or even the city's municipal politics. It reflects the tension over a much bigger, national question: the future of Jerusalem itself. "Until there is a political agreement between Israel and the Palestinian Authority, you won't find people [in east Jerusalem] voting," stresses Ayoub. "Uri Lupolianski tried to reduce the gaps between Jews and Arabs, but he couldn't. Why? To act like this needs the support of the [national] authorities and their budgets, but they won't give it. Therefore, there needs to be a political solution [for Jerusalem]."
Nazeeh agrees. "You can end all of these problems with a political solution: You have to divide the city. Israel will keep the Israeli parts and treat them like Israeli citizens, and the Palestinian Authority will keep the Palestinian parts and they will deal with them. You can't solve the problems now, it is too complicated."
The very mention of "dividing" Jerusalem often arouses fierce opposition among Israelis, including Barkat, who is never shy of reiterating his commitment to keeping Jerusalem "united." But the same word has an altogether different meaning in Beit Safafa: not physical partition or resurrecting the long-gone fence but an opportunity to take control of the community's future.
Fence or no fence, Jadallah is more than certain about which side his village is on: "Israel has to leave this place. After over 40 years of neglect, I don't expect things to get better. This is occupation," he says. "The people here are Palestinians and Arabs and should belong to their own people. We will not give up Beit Safafa as part of the Palestinian Territories."
Nazeeh is more reluctant to commit to which side he would prefer to live on: either under the control of the Palestinian Authority or a case of "better the devil you know" and remaining under Israeli rule. "Nobody knows what will be the best in the future; it depends on the economic situation. At the moment, there is a bad situation in the Palestinian Authority, and people get health care and a higher standard of living in Israel."
In any case, he is doubtful that Beit Safafa will be up for grabs by the Palestinians in a peace deal. "It's in the center of the city, not on the borderline like Beit Hanina, and is surrounded by lots of places that Israel won't withdraw from like Malha, Talpiot and Gilo. The Israeli government doesn't know what to do with east Jerusalem - to return it to the Palestinians or to invest in it. But if they return it, then the investment will be wasted."
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