3 weeks ago I was given a data to go to Jerusalem and extend my visa. This is what’s happened thus far.

After patiently waiting for three weeks, the day before my visa extension data at the Ministry of Interior in West Jerusalem, in the Jewish quarter, rolls around. After finding out the students have shut down the school due to displeasure at a 25% tuition hike, I continue on to Ramallah, where I catch a “Servic” to Jerusalem.

After spending the night at the wonderful Jerusalem hotel, run by a local Palestinian family on the Israeli side of the wall, I head over to the Ministry of Interior office on Queen Shlomozion road to finally extend my visa.

I walk into the chaotic visa office, filled with Jews from all parts of the world successfully extending their stay, and take a seat where I can hear my name called. About 15 minutes later a woman calls me to a desk, the first thing out of her mouth is “What are you doing here?” I explain to her I’m there to extend my visa to the three months advertised on the Israeli Ministry of Tourism website. She asks where I’m living, and not lying I say “Bir Zeit.” A scowl comes over her face and she tells me I can’t extend my visa for Bir Zeit there, I need to go to HAEGGOZ… which she writes in Hebrew on a yellow sticky note. I ask her just where that might be and she points over her shoulder “You can get there in 15 minutes if you walk.” I thank her and proceed out the door, a little frustrated after the trouble I went through to get the 1 minute meeting.

I walk around for 10 minutes looking for “HAEGGOZ” in Hebrew on a sign or something, but finally give up and ask a cab driver. He doesn’t know. Bad sign. I find another cab, this time one with a GPS. After he unsuccessfully attempts to look up the name, I realize something is wrong. I walk back to the ministry and find someone who speaks Arabic.. turns out the woman meant “Wadi Joz.” Yeah.. I can forgive her the GOZ part, since there isn’t a J sound in Hebrew, but there’s no excuse for fucking up the other part. Whatever… I wander back to East Jerusalem to talk to one of the Palestinians who will definitely know what I’m talking about.

The first Palestinian I ask looks at me with pity, as if I’d just showed her a doctor’s diagnosis for cancer. She calls a cab for me who takes me right to the front door.

Wadi Joz, in contrast to the administrative feel of the Ministry at Shlomozion, feels more like a jail than a visa office. I get in line to enter, and the Israeli guards separate the men from the women, calling us in 1 at a time.

After a 30 minute wait in line I make it past the metal detectors and stupid questions “Why is this keychain so big?” I take a ticket and sit down in a room in the basement of the building. The desks of the visa extension people are behind a glass window, and guards patrol the room, occasionally berating the people inside. I wait for 3 hours before I’m able to talk to someone… who asks me where I’m staying. “Bir Zeit” I say, rather proud of my adoptive home town. (Bir Zeit rules!) Immediately a frown comes across the man’s face “It’s illegal for me to give you a visa extension for Bir Zeit.”

Now at this point I’m a bit perplexed. So, it’s ok for you people to come over to Palestine, steal 78% of the land from the inhabitants, murder them, humiliate them, and even disallow them from visiting most of their own land, but you can’t take the responsibility of granting a goddamned visa there?

Thanks Israel. TODA, really.

After accepting the fact I’m going to have to return to Jerusalem, and thereby sign up for another body cavity search in 3 weeks I catch a taxi to Bir-Zeit, just outside Ramallah. On the way there the taxi driver serves as a sort of guide, doing his best to explain to me the effect of the Apartheid Wall on the Palestinians who were living here when it was created on their land. 90% of this wall is built on Palestinian territory, often separating children from schools, farmers from their land, and everyone in Palestine from “Israel” the occupying entity.

I grab a couple of photos as we approach the wall, and for a split second I shit kittens as we approach the first checkpoint. For the most part people aren’t checked on the way into the West Bank, only on return. For example, from Jerusalem to Ramallah is now about 17km, and it normally takes about 30-40 minutes. The way back, though the same distance, takes about 2 hours if everything goes well. It’s like they’re saying “sure, fucking leave… just don’t try to come back.”

As we approach Ramallah the cab driver asks me if I’d like to see the tomb of Yasir Arafat. Hell yeah, I would. Flanked on the left by stone carved written by the recently deceased Mahmoud Darwish, the tomb is inside a modest white structure. Two guards stand at attention as I snap a photo. The greyed building behind them is where Arafat holed up for the last 3 years of his life.

I arrive in Bir Zeit without event.

Even though they KNEW I didn’t have a flight until the middle of November they screwed up my visa, just to screw with me. When the guy handed my passport to me he said “Ok, well.. welcome” and didn’t mention that minor detail. A chill ran down my spine as I realized it was most likely intentional, aimed at causing me to overstay my visa and thereby win myself a spot on Israel’s “most unwelcome list.” Well nice, now I have to attempt to extend my visa by arranging a meeting with the Ministry of Interior.

Since it’s Friday noon when I notice the treachery I decide to go ahead and book a room for another 5 days. Israel’s “weekend” is Friday and Saturday… awesome. I spend the weekend collecting about 6 numbers that could be the right number to call the Ministry. On Sunday I score a SIM card for Israel so I can call them since I notice on the Ministry website you have to CALL in order to schedule an appointment.

After a day of calling, and calling, only to hear what seem to be Hebrew messages to the effect of “This number is disconnected, fuck you very much” I decide to just go down there. After going through security I wait in line to attempt to get an appointment… and notice a piece of paper on the wall with a number and notice to the effect you MUST get them on the phone to arrange an appointment. After 2 days of calling I decide to ask anyway. When I finally arrive at the front of the line a middle aged woman, thrilled with her job, tells me I need to call. I tell her I have been calling, and calling, and then she confesses the office is closed that day. Nice.

I return the next day, wait in the line again, then am directed to wait in another line, where I’m given a piece of paper with the same number on it by a woman who’s trying in vain to answer a flood of phone calls. In Jerusalem, it turns out, all attempts to extend a visa are answered by one woman, and only from 8:00 to 13:00.

I go back to the line, and begin feverishly calling the number over and over again, as if I’m trying to win a free TV or something. After about 30 minutes of this I make it to the head of another line and am told I need to call to make the appointment. Well… neat. I finally return to the office that gave me the number only to notice that at that point the phone was ringing and the lady had stopped answering it completely, because the number of people in my position had grown and we were all mobbing her office attempting to talk to someone, anyone. She gives me an appointment – in 3 weeks. Fucking awesome. I take it, because it’s really the only thing I can do at this point.

That evening I’m IMing with a few folks and they ask me how it is in Palestine. I explain to them I haven’t made it yet because I’ve been “occupied.”