My last day has arrived and it’s time to head back to sunny London town.  Ahh, I can just imagine it now; friendly faces in the street, bidding good morning to each other as they head to the park to bask in the glow from the mid-morning sun..

My time here’s been a fantastic experience, thanks to the top bunch of people based out here both within the AFP bureau and out on the streets of Israel and the West Bank.  It’s been great fun getting to meet them all and to see how this part of the world works.  I have a feeling that I’ll be sat back in England, following Israeli politics with no-one to share my enthusiasm!

..and at the end of the trip when your expenses get handed over, it’s nice to see that you’ve made a real impression on everyone with the bureau, even the accounts department.  How did she know my alter-ego?

On your marks.. Get set.. Vote!

As a little recap, election day in Israel is here with current polls suggesting a tight race between the hawkish former premier Benjamin Netanyahu and centrist Foreign Minister Tzipi Livni, with the far-right expected to make major gains.  Following “Operation Cast Lead” in the Gaza strip and continued threats from neighbouring Iran, some parties are playing on the fears and insecurities of many Jewish voters.

5:30am alarm call.  Ouch. First call of the day was to head out to the settlement village of Nokmid; the home of far-right Yisrael Beiteinu party leader Avigdor Lieberman.  Located right in the middle of otherwise Palestinian-controlled land, the village has armed security guards as you enter and has managed to create a strong suburban atmosphere, despite being surrounded on all sides by the desolate lunar landscape of the West Bank.

With the polling station in order and the ballot box secured, the doors were opened for the small community to cast their votes.

At 8:30am, Lieberman arrived with his heavy security escort and cast his vote.  As expected, any sense of organisation in the media disappeared as people pushed, pulled and slowly crept/collapsed forward.  After a short speech in Hebrew (which I’m sure was full of messages of peace, love and unity), he headed one way and I headed the other, back into Jerusalem.

A quick liberal spraying of superglue to the screws on my very very annoying 70-200mm lens and a belly-full of pizza from the giant stack of 12 large Dominos delights in the office and a quick chance to go through my edits from this morning.

In an hour, I head to Tel Aviv for a long night of vote-count fever and a chance to complete my set of covering all four of the main political parties.  Maybe this kid’s got the right idea..

Friday?  That makes it tear-gas o’clock..  Today, I joined up with Abbas once more and headed to the village of Billin to cover the latest round of weekly clashes with the Israeli Defence Force soldiers.

Different to last week, the routine at Billin is to approach the wall along a dirt track until you reach the barbed wire-topped fence that marks the controversial line between the West Bank and Israel.  Once there, the locals try to cross through the gate, waving flags, to which the IDF soldiers react with the ever-popular cocktail of tear gas and flash bang charges.  I’d actually managed to forget what the gas tasted like until the first cloud hit us before I’d had chance to get my mask on.  Yum.

It seems that I must have some kind of Israeli homing beacon attached to me somewhere as, again, a soldier decided to take a shot at me.  Now, I’m glad to say that this will be my last gas-filled protest of the assignment as this was decidedly close.  After a few minutes of the first charge being fired, I heard a shot so ducked and immediately heard something whistle very loudly over my head.  At this point, everyone around went “woahhh!” in a 3d cinema-audience stylee.  Apparently, if I still had a head of hair, the tear gas canister would have given me a nice centre parting, passing 20cm over my head.  Okaayyyy..

Aside from that little wake-up call, this weeks protest was less dramatic as the troops didn’t come through onto Palestinian land so after everyone had received a few good lungfuls of chemicals, the group started to fade back into the village.  With a few remaining youths continuing their slingshot fire, we headed back to the car and off in search of drinks to wash away that marvellous taste I’ll miss so much.  I wonder if it’s available as a roll-on?

On Tuesday, I had the chance to go to a Ger Hassidim wedding in central Jerusalem with AFP photographer Menahem Kahana.

Living in North London, I’m used to the sight of members of the Hassidic Jewish faith and their particular style of Spodik hats and long black coats but to find myself in among hundreds of men and boys as they celebrated a wedding within their community was really something special.

With males and females directed in opposite directions on arrival at the venue, the chaps all filed into a large outdoor yard next to a religious centre where a huge PA system pumped out a looped segment from a traditional wedding song.  Although it soon became tiring to listen to, it beat Celine Dion for wedding music any day.

At first, it has to be said that it’s quite a daunting experience as there certainly weren’t many happy reactions to me when they saw my regular clothes and cameras but hopefully the kippah loaned to me by Menahem gave me some credit points.

Wandering round the area, we stumbled across five brothers who were deep in discussion but seemed happy to be photographed as they talked and as we both took pictures, I could see that this was breaking the ice a little among the other men.  After this, my confidence had increased and everyone else relaxed a little so I could start actually taking pictures!

As some of the group held hands and danced in large circles, others queued to access the building for a chance to meet the Rabbi.  This seemed to be quite a popular idea as towards the end of the day, the orderly queue became a little more frantic with old guys clambering over railings to jump the line.  This was the only part that I was asked not to shoot and, thanks to them allowing me to shoot the rest of the event, I respected their wishes (although it was amusing to watch..)

As the afternoon drew on and the guests filed out from the building, thirsty kids queued for soft drinks from a long table near the exit as the men gathered up their belongings.  The Police arrived and again closed the roads as the tide of black hats made it’s way back home.

After a morning of inter-photographer violence in the Yehuda market place in Jerusalem as Benjamin Netanyahu visited, a quick tally of damage showed no physical damage to me but a rather deformed pair of sunglasses.  With a quick edit out of the way, a decision was made to head into the West Bank to Bethlehem for lunch.  Yes, I know.  Insane, isn’t it?

Making our way through the streets of the West Bank, the technique involves driving at a constant speed and in no way stopping near any security officers or police.  This is down to the fact that Israelis are forbidden to enter this area and even though everyone had passports of varying nations, it’s better just to avoid having to go through the motions of showing documentation etc.  It would be easy to blend in if it wasn’t for the yellow Israeli license plates on the car.  Ahh.  Thankfully, we arrived with no problems at the Abu Shanab restaurant on (wait for it..) Manger Street.  The food was unbelievably good with a whole table full of dips and pickles and sauces and.. erm.. just “stuff” for starters followed by lamb cutlets and lamb kebabs.  Awesome.  If you ever go to Bethlehem, go to Abu Shanab.  Anyway, religion..

With a belly full of lamb, it was time for a gut full of religion so I headed up the road to the Church of the Nativity and the epicentre of many of the world’s religions.

Now, as you may have picked up over the course of these blog posts, I’m not a religious man.  If anything, I’ll admit to being quite anti-religion in many ways.  I disagree with anything that has caused so many rifts, wars and unhappiness over the years while going under the name of peace.  However (and it’s quite a big however), I have great respect for those who follow religion on a personal spiritual level, subscribing to the “peace to all and help one another” kind-of-thing and it is with this in mind that I headed into the Church.

Like many people, I grew up with religious hymns in school and even used to read a children’s Christmas edition of the bible that essentially cut out all the waffle and just went for the kid-friendly manger/mini-donkey/Wise Men bits when I was feeling all festive as a nipper.  The places that were featured always seemed more like another planet, never mind another country so when you actually walk into the Grotto of the Nativity (not a Santa in sight, I might add..) and see the point on the ground were Jesus was supposed to have been born (below) followed by the manger where he slept, it’s impossible not to feel awe-struck.

Luckily for me, a large group of tourists was just leaving as I arrived so I managed to get a few minutes between coach-loads to wander around the different chambers and crypts alone.  The manger itself (below) is surrounded by marble, covered with hundreds of tiny crosses, carved over the centuries by the worshippers who visit the site.  As hard as I searched, there was no “Jesus was here 1AD” to be seen though.

It was interesting to see how many people were crying as they sat around the Grotto area but apparently this is all very normal.  While up to this point I thought that the “Jerusalem Syndrome” referred to the need for every driver to beep their horn just as the traffic light turns from red to amber, it seems that it’s actually a recognised phenomena.  Having only seen one real casualty of this so far (a man dressed as Jesus, walking through the market) I can’t say I’ll be ditching my jeans for a white smock just yet.

Yesterday I was faced with my first day off since arriving so decided to head out and see some of the sights on offer.  Using my trusty Satnav, I punched in “Dead Sea” and headed off down Route 1.  Having been told before that it was only an hours drive, I was surprised to see that it was 180km but assumed the time suggested had just been a casual suggestion.  Off I trundled before realising that I was heading wayyy down South, turning and coming all the way back up North again.  It turns out the Israeli Satnavs have an option to avoid that nasty Palestine country.  Just when I thought that damned GPS couldn’t annoy me any more, it finds a new way.

Anyhow, trundling towards my destination, I passed a sign for Masada and remembering senior photographer Marco Longari‘s advice of places to see, I opted to go and check it out.  Having passed warning signs informing me I was entering a dead end, the twisting road led me 20km across the desert, without passing a single car on the way.  Let me say, after driving like this for 15km, you start to instinctively have flashes of “The Hills Have Eyes” or at least start looking out for the odd “Tusken Raider“.

Anyhow, after driving on a stretch of road that car advert makers dream of, I arrived at the end of the road and the fortress ruins of Masada.  Perched on the top of 400m cliffs sit the ruins of palaces, homes and storerooms that were the scene of a siege by the the Roman army.  Surrounding the mountain-top fortress, the Romans eventually got through the defences in 73AD to allegedly find all 936 people inside dead, having chosen to kill themselves rather than surrender.  Bummer.  The Roman garrison site where they planned their entry during the three month siege is still visible (below, left) from the top of the mountain.  It must be quite a feeling to have a whole bunch of soldiers camped within shouting distance for three months, watching them prod and probe the walls of the fortress every day as they try to get in.  Sheesh..

As you can see from the image below, the original structures were pretty damned dapper and would certainly have featured heavily in “MTV Cribs – Sicarii Special Edition”.

Anyhow, back on the road home again, the newly defeated satnav gave me a much more sensible 90km route home, even throwing in a camel-train as way of apology.

Holy Land? More like Holy Fu..

On arrival, I’d been told about the “Friday protests” where there’s always a few scuffles between security forces and those with anger to vent so I wasn’t surprised to be told I was to cover one this week.  My assigned protest was to be the weekly rumble between fired-up Palestinian and members of the Israeli Defence Force (IDF) in the rural village of Nilin near the Israel/West Bank border.  Teamed up with AFP photographer Abbas Momani, I drove back into the West Bank to meet up with him.  Warning bells began to ring as he asked me where my gas mask was as I climbed into his car..

After picking up another photographer, it’s fair to say that as the kilometres of winding mountain roads and crumbling villages passed and we neared Nilin, my nerves were starting to build.  As we arrived into the village, heavily-armed IDF troops checked our Ids before we weaved through the concrete road blocks and drove the short distance to the hilltop car park that each week becomes the centre of events.  Getting out of the car, a area near a pole carrying the Hamas flag was pointed out to me that was the scene of a protestors death a few weeks before. Ah. Okay.

After twenty minutes of prayers, the protestors joined up with a small group of Israelis who support the Palestinian cause and headed down into the olive groves. By now, TV crews wearing body armour had arrived and were already wearing their gas-masks as they filmed the chanting group so I decided to follow their lead and get prepared.

At this point, I should break away from the story to point out that however surreal this situation sounds, it can’t capture just how insane it was to be there.  Finding myself gasping for breath through my mask as Palestinian youths all around me start to break out slingshots and launch rocks at lethal speeds just over my head at the approaching heavily-armed IDF troops is an experience that I won’t forget in a while.

It didn’t take long before the IDF returned fire as volleys of tear gas canisters and flash-bang charges whistled back towards us, bursting through the olive branches.  As I built my confidence and started to work out when and where I could move to, Abbas showed his experience and confidence by disappearing deep into the clouds of smoke.

Hiding behind rock outcrops and trees, the game of “Tom and Jerry” (as Abbas called it) began with the photographers trying to get between the youths and the soldiers to capture expressions while constantly advancing and retreating with the flow of the fight.

After an hour of fighting in the olive grove, the action moved back down into the village. As soldiers tried to come around from different angles, the Palestinians ducked and jumped over hedges, walls and fences and ran through the gardens of homes nearby.  All of the time, there was the constant action of shooting pictures, running for cover, looking for troops and listening for shouts while checking for moments between gas bursts where I could pull the mask off for a second and fill my lungs with fresh air.

Tear gas is an interesting thing as, hours later as I sit here in a restaurant back in Jerusalem, I can still taste it in my nose and throat despite having worn a military-grade gas mask.  The protesting youths that turn up every Friday to pray and fight have only scarves.  In between volleys of canister fire, groups of men came spluttering and wretching back through the clouds of smoke into the arms of the Red Crescent medical teams who sprayed a liquid onto their scarves that counteracted the effects of the chemical.  Within minutes, the men were back on their feet and searching for fresh rocks to launch across the tree-line.

As we ran between gardens and down alleyways, the sounds of domestic life would come through house windows which made me suddenly realise just how ordinary all of this was. My adrenaline was charged and I was shooting nearly everything that moved but all around me, people got on with their weekend as though nothing was happening just outside their homes.

The car carrying the tannoy speaker that a short time before had been broadcasting prayers to the congregation was now blasting out Arabian-sounding music, providing a strange soundtrack to the experience.

Then, as soon as it had started, Abbas gave me the nod and it became clear that it was over for another week.  Neither side had gained any ground, neither side could claim victory but the anger of the Palestinian protestors had been vented and the IDF had successfully controlled the situation.  “Tom and Jerry” looks set to continue every week for as far as anyone can see.

Yesterday, I hitched a lift with AFP driver Mano and headed into West Bank for a press conference and another grip’n'grin with man-of-the-moment US envoy George Mitchell at the Palestinian HQ, the Mukata.  Heading into West Bank was quite an eye-opener for me as, until I saw it myself, I had assumed that it would be as developed as Israel but probably a little rougher around the edges.  Once we were through the checkpoint, it soon became clear just how barren the area is.  Like a lunar landscape with outcrops of houses and huts formed by Palestinian Arabs or Jewish settlers, it’s a world away from the coffee shops and internet cafes of Israel.  While it is often assumed that the Jewish settlers on the land have dug their feet in and are gripping tight to their beliefs (as is certainly the case with some), there are also communities on this side of the border that are here for simple economic reasons.  While a house on the Israeli side may cost $700,00, here in West Bank, a similar property may set you back as little as $150,000.  While it can’t be easy to live in an area with such tension always at hand, it’s understandable to see that some here simply couldn’t afford to move across the border if they wanted to.  A very strange situation and one I expect may earn me a number of lecturing emails from either side.  Excuse my ignorance if I’m wide of the mark with my opinions!

With our offices right next to Yasser Arafat‘s tomb, it would have been an error to miss the chance to visit.  Not speaking that much Arabic (i.e. none), my thoughtful reading of the tomb inscription was hopefully convincing enough to the two soldiers on duty.  I can’t imagine I was fooling anyone though.

Arriving at the AFP office, I always like to make an impression so with the class and panache of Clouseau, within minutes of arriving, the back of my chair collapsed, knocking my fresh Arabian coffee over the desk of one of the reporters, soaking his notebook.  Marvellous.  I really do excel at times.

The job itself proved to be all as expected; man arrives, man smiles, man walks into building, man sits down next to other man, men smile, I get herded out again.  In an attempt to feel like a stalker, I then found that my other job of the day was to photograph, you guessed it, US envoy George Mitchell meeting up with the Palestinian PM Salam Fayad at the US consulate.  Just so you can live the dream and see how exciting these shots can be, here you go.  This was quite an exciting one as they shook hands. Most of the time, they sit and look at the camera, remaining stationary for the duration of the 20 second shoot.

Anyway, that was yesterday.  Today was quite different..

With a slim idea of what daily life will entail for me now beginning to form, I took the chance to head back to the Old City this morning for further exploration.  Aside from pre-determined jobs that are called through to me, I know that the rest of the time I’m just “on duty”.  While in London, these dead times can be frustrating as I try to think of new things to shoot that haven’t been over-documented but with the fresh city, politics, lifestyle and options available here, it’s (I have to ask forgiveness before I even write this word) “nourishing” to have so much choice.

Having checked out the Western Wall in the Jewish Quarter on Sunday, I turned left through Jaffa Gate and headed into the shops and stalls of the Christian Quarter.  It’s an unavoidable cliché but the sights, sounds and smells really do make an unforgettable experience.  If you can time your visit to coincide with the call to prayer coming from the Muslim Quarter as you walk through the spice markets, you really are transported to some  text-book version of what you always imagined the Middle East to be.

After building up the sufficient sales-blocking defences when I walked into the more-touristy outskirts of the lanes, it was a pleasing surprise to find that half of the time when I was deeper into the lanes, the shopkeeper who called my name or beckoned me to stop was genuinely just wanting to talk.  One man was in the process of finishing a book on the antiques that he sold and wanted advice on whether his photographs were good enough and how he could improve them.  One man simply wanted to talk to me about my experiences so far and asked me to do all I could to get into Gaza to see for myself what’s been happening.

There were of course the expected amount of traders who thought that because they either guessed correctly that I was English or  said the words “Fish and Chips” to me, I’d become financial putty in their hands.  No joy, guys.  I’ve made a policy of only  buying things at the end of my time here.  That way, I learn to avoid the Israeli equivalent of the straw donkey or sombrero.   Having said that, I couldn’t resist the contradictory fridge magnets at the end of this blog.

So, back to today; aside from a trip to the Presidential compound where I got to meet the apparently decent chap that is Sky correspondent Dominic Waghorn and to get a picture of the new US envoy arriving (or rather a car driving through a gate), my only job was to get Tzipi Livni, leader of the Kadima Party, meeting the same said US envoy, George J. Mitchell.

Having waited for an hour at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, it was a reality check to see that pointless photo calls don’t  just happen in the UK.  My picture managed to perfectly capture the back of Livni’s head as she shook Mitchell’s hand while stood in the wrong place.  Ah well, at least it allowed me to use today’s desperately called-for pun in the title..

With my grasp of Israeli politics now so strong, it’s comparable to the vice-like grip of a sleeping toddler, I headed off on my first real assignment today as Benjamin Netanyahu formally launched the Likud Party’s election campaign.

I say first real assignment  but this doesn’t include yesterday’s mission to cover the funeral of a leading figure in an ultra-orthodox area of Jerusalem.  The first problem of the day was to find the place.  Having got hold of my car the other day, I also opted to get a sat-nav for the duration of my stay.  Having been warned that there may be some problems with translations by my boss, I soon discovered that the Hebrew translations of the road names are very different to the English version.  “Jaffa Road?  Ah, you’ll be looking for Yafo.  Of course.  How silly of me.”  When I pointed the problem out to the guy in Hertz, he said “Ah yes, many road names are not included.  Also, if the road you are looking for isn’t there, try the Hebrew spelling.”  Genius.

Anyhow, my only pictures filed through the AFP system so far have been less-than exciting shots of political party stickers and posters for a feature angle.  It’s very different from English elections in that, so far, the advertisements seem quite limited in their placement.  This may change as the day draws closer but, for now, I had to settle for stickers that are handed out at junctions by enthusiastic kids and a few posters.  It doesn’t help that if the poster doesn’t have a photo of the leader on, I’m currently trying to identify the names of the parties (in their original Hebrew script) with names like “the one with the first letter that looks like Elvis’ profile”.  I’m dead intelligent, me.

It’s strange working in a location that is always potentially close to “something” happening.  In London, everyone is prepared to some extent but photographers have to have their cameras with them here AT ALL TIMES.  Breakfast, bathroom visits, popping down one floor of the building to get a sandwich; it’s all included.  It would feel quite ridiculous if it wasn’t for the level of security that’s there to remind you of possibilities.  Nearly every restaurant has an armed guard outside and bills include an optional “security fee”, most parking garages have a guard that checks the boot of your car, young kids that in England would be hanging around on street corners are walking the streets in uniforms with assault rifles.  Actually, there’s not that much difference with that last one..  *Switches back out of Daily Mail-mode*

So, after a long wait involving lots of friendly Bibi fans wandering over for a chat before realising there was a decided language barrier and wandering off again, Netanyahu made his grand entrance.  As usual, seconds before he walked in, a quick agreement between all the photographers not to rush forward collapsed as everyone just decided to monster him.  Being far too British and polite, I ended up being one of the last to go for it.  Thankfully, London has sharpened my elbows enough to get stuck in if there’s a shot worth having.

Not speaking Hebrew, I can pretty much say that he said all the usual things you’d expect a politician to say when fighting a political battle and the audience lapped it up.

So the battle has officially begun.  With a terrible dawning feeling, I remember that in political war, the first casualty is usually sleep.  I think I need to grab some advance slumber..