Waiting for the W.

On Wednesday, January 9th, 2008, George W. Bush made his long-awaited- and highly overblown- visit to Israel and the West Bank.

His plan: blow through a series of closed-door meetings with Israeli and Palestinian officials, thump his Bible in Bethlehem, and then head east for tea and conspiracy with the petro-states of the Persian Gulf- America's loyal vassals.

All in three days.

Why? First: to lay out his vision for an independent Palestinian state in 2008. (That's this year. Hahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa.)

Second: to shore up a coalition of (1) oil-rich sheikhdoms whose autocrats have lucrative dealings with US corporations and gov't leaders (Saudi, UAE, Bahrain, Oman), (2) states propped up by US foreign aid (Jordan and Egypt), and (3) Israel... against the Evil, Soon-To-Be-Nuclear Empire of Iran and its sidekick, Syria.

None of these states have anything in common- except that they (more accurately, their ruling classes and families) benefit from American Hegemony... and are directly threatened by the looming ascendance of Iran as a regional power.

That's all the politics I'll subject you to.

* * *


The Israelis were tripping over themselves to toss Bush's salad.

Security. They called it "Operation Clear Skies". The King David Hotel was evacuated for His exclusive use. 10,450 cops hit the block, shutting down businesses and closing down streets where Bush's convoy would pass. 1500 flags were manufactured for the visit and strung on streetlamps- in lieu of cheering crowds, I guess.

At about 12pm, Jan 29th, Bush stepped off Air Force One, was greeted by the entire Israeli Cabinet, and stood to attention for the Star Spangled Banner. He then headed into Jerusalem in a cloud of dust and self-congratulation.

I didn't see any of this. In the first place, the whole area was in lockdown. Secondly, I was in Ramallah, in the West Bank.




* * *


Bush wasn't scheduled to show up in Ramallah till the following day, Jan 10th. He was supposed to meet the Palestinian president, Abu Mazen, at the Muqatta, the administrative compound where Yasser Arafat had been besieged for several years during the last intifada.

But I'd wanted to arrive early in case they shut down the entrances to the city ahead of his arrival. I also wanted to see a protest that I'd been told would be held that day at the Manara, Ramallah's town square.

Long story short. There was no protest to be found. In fact, the locals were eager to assure me that there would be no protest. It's safe, don't worry, it's safe! No protest today. Please, welcome to Ramallah. Welcome to Palestine.

Shit. But what about tomorrow? Will there be a protest then?

Worried looks. Well, maybe tomorrow. But be careful!

These people didn't seem to understand that I wanted to see a protest. And why would they? They live in the bloody West Bank. A protest is a novelty to me, a Facebook photo-op. For them, it's a hazard and an inconvenience.

Ramallah's shopkeepers were more concerned- and resentful- that Bush's visit would cause all of Thursday's commerce and community to grind to a halt.

Every street and business within a 3km radius of the Muqatta was to be shut down. Moreover, the Israelis would clamp down on travel within the West Bank. Every checkpoint in the Bank and on roads into Ramallah would be doubly... er... "vigilant"... on the lookout for terrorists. Which means: a twice-as-long-as-usual wait at the checkpoints on the way to your job or your family.

Silent streets, poor business, canceled plans, and hamstrung mobility. Most of Ramallah will be staying home... and wishing Bush had done the same.


* * *

Cops and press everywhere.

Cameramen speed-walked around with their bazooka-sized newscams, getting Before-The-Storm B-roll: footage of ordinary townsfolk strolling the streets, frying felafels, hawking clothing. Correspondents coiffed their hair and adjusted their microphones, speaking in those lifeless "He's dead, Jim," monotones they must have beaten into them at Reporter School.



Despite the absence of a protest, the cops had showed up early, and in force. Already, they were beginning to shut down the streets for the next day. From what I know about Arab efficiency, those cops would need all the time they could get.


By the way, those cops confirmed every thought I've ever had about Third World public services.

Check this out.

First, they stood in a huge clump by the side of the street for an hour, drinking tea and shooting the shit. Then the Biker Convention began. Half of them got onto motorbikes and roared off in a thunder of engine-reving and sirens. Ten minutes later, they came rocketing back towards us, parked their bikes, and held a conference in the middle of the Manara... then saddled up again, and rode off in the opposite direction.

And ten minutes later, they were back again. What the fuck were they doing? Riding in circles around the city? Didn't they have a job to do?

The climax of all this busyplay came when a reporter asked the police chief to stage some footage for the gathered press.

Cops ran to the streets leading into the Manara's traffic circle, halting incoming cars. The flock of bike-mounted cops then proceeded to speed-race five or six howling laps around the Manara, while newscameras on the street corners lapped it all up. Watch for it on the six o'clock! The watching standers-by and drivers shook their heads at this staged showboating.


You would not believe how much "live footage" is actually staged. I've been learning this over and over again. The next time you watch the news and you see a live, genuine, battlefield shot of a police bikes racing to a crisis, or a Palestinian sling-shot a stone, remember this:

There are probably fifteen unseen videocameras and news crews watching, all clustered together, out of each others' line of sight. More importantly, it's all as planned and performed as a theater production; a series of takes edited by the network into "live footage".

* * *

I got bored after a while, so I went back to the Muqatta and the tomb of Yasser Arafat, which I'd visited once before. He'd requested to be buried in East Jerusalem. The Israelis laughed.

The Old Man's honor-guard was dressed in gaudy, ostentatious frippery, and armed with obsolete rifles that had probably last saw action in the American Civil War.

How fitting.




Oh, Bush is long gone by now. Good riddance.