Notes From the Faisal Hostel

“I want a private room too,” I say to one of the hostel managers, a thickly-mustached Palestinian.

“You don’t need a private room,” he says. “You don’t have a girlfriend.”

A low-end journalist, I sleep with my piles of notes in one of the dorm rooms. The managers, who at night cook pots of rice for their guests, are interested in what I write about.

“Palestinian nonviolence activists,” I say.

They cluck their tongues and shake their heads. They don’t think non-violence will work, and they don’t think violence will work. They think I am naive. A point of view I find almost companionable. It makes me feel right at home.

Shortly before I checked into the Faisal, an Israeli security team descended upon the hotel to whisk away members of the pro-Palestinian ISM (International Solidarity Movement.) The sole remaining ISM member responds to my questions as if he is Tony Soprano and I am the Feds. But I always get a smile and a bow from the Korean Christian pilgrim who sleeps in the bunk beside me with his two small sons.

Community Connection

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