With some extra time to travel after finishing our semester at the American University of Cairo, my friend and I sat considering the possibilities. Sharm al-Sheikh, Luxor, Alexandria, or Aqaba. It was not an easy decision, but eventually we chose to go to Palestine where we visited Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and Hebron.

While excited to finally see for myself the land I had devoted so much of my education to studying, I was also nervous when packing amidst discouraging news headlines and daily alerts from the American Embassy. I wondered if it was safe, how we would be treated by Israeli security forces at the border and beyond, and if it was ethical to be a tourist in a place so full of suffering. 

The night before I left Cairo, embarking on a 14-hour bus journey to Taba, I was telling my friends about the trip. Dima, a Palestinian who had spent her entire life in Gaza before moving to Egypt in 2024, has always wanted to see Jerusalem but never been permitted. She was excited for me, encouraged me to visit Al-Aqsa, and made me promise to send pictures. 

I was still questioning if the trip was a good idea from a safety perspective when Dima looked at me, with my light skin, blonde hair, and American passport, and said, “It will be too easy for you.” Over the course of the week, I gradually began to realize just how right she was. 

The Land and Its People

We first arrived in Jerusalem’s Old City, which I quickly found was like nowhere else I had ever been. The city felt alive, with shops, cafés, and markets crowded with people. I’ve spent months in the region, but the falafel and hummus I had for breakfast on my first morning in Jerusalem were unlike anything I had tasted before. The narrow cobblestone streets of the Old City were something of a maze, and we spent hours letting ourselves get lost. 

In the Armenian Quarter, I stopped at a small café owned by Arab Christians. When they heard me speaking Arabic, the owner and his wife invited me to sit with them and drink karkade as their guest. Elias, the owner, had previously lived in Amman and we spent the afternoon exchanging stories about Jordan. 

Later we met Imad, a passionate tour guide in Jerusalem who told us that, since October 2023, he had seen only about five tour groups. As we walked around Jerusalem, we got to know him. I was shocked to learn that he has an American passport, which has expired, but is not interested in renewing it or returning to the United States. He told us that it had been too easy for him to leave, move to America, and get citizenship. He worried that if every Palestinian who had the opportunity to leave did so, there might soon be no Palestinians left on the land. For Imad, choosing to stay in Jerusalem despite the daily challenges of the occupation was its own form of resistance.

The next day we took a bus from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, and I was struck by the beauty of the landscape. From the bus window I watched countless olive trees, green rolling hills, and flowers and gardens stretching between towns. I didn’t know what to expect upon entering the West Bank, but I found that I felt safe and at peace in Bethlehem, which generally lacked the heavy Israeli military presence we had felt in Jerusalem.

Upon checking in at our hotel in Bethlehem, we met Bashir. As we talked and laughed with Bashir it became clear that he took genuine pride in his work at the hotel and was excited to show us everything. We asked Bashir for a recommendation for dinner, and he insisted on driving us there himself.

That evening, we went to a local jewelry store and met Bashir’s friend George, the owner, and his son, who was in his early twenties. When the conversation turned to politics, his son told us that he didn’t really care about any of it. He just wanted to get married, have children, and make enough money to support them. I was struck by how normal his concerns were. After spending so much time thinking about Palestinians through the lens of the conflict, I found this interaction to be a good reminder that here too, are young people simply concerned about their futures.

In Western media, Palestinians are often portrayed either as victims or as fighters. Over the course of my time in Palestine, I met dozens of people like Elias and his wife, Imad, George and his son, and Bashir, and none of them fit into either category. What I found instead were people living ordinary lives in the face of extraordinary circumstances. We felt a remarkable sense of safety around the Palestinians we befriended, and were met with a warmth and generosity that often made us forget where we were. More than once, people seemed to go out of their way to shield us from the occupation. The Palestinians we encountered were quick to reassure us, take care of us, or steer us away from situations they thought might be dangerous, even though we had far less to fear than they did.

The next morning, as we ate breakfast at the hotel, Bashir added that he did not want us to be nearby at 2 p.m. I asked why and laughed when I heard that the soldiers were coming. It took me a few minutes to realize it really wasn't a joke. He said Israeli soldiers had seen us enter the hotel and told him they would return at 2 p.m. the next day. We sat with him as he anxiously waited, wondering what would happen, or if they were really even planning on coming at all. I saw the fear on Bashir’s face and realized then that it almost didn't matter whether the soldiers came. The threat itself had already done what it was meant to do.

Bearing Witness

Despite the beauty, warmth, and hospitality that defined my experience in Palestine, the violence embedded in daily life was impossible to ignore.

I visited Aida Refugee Camp in Bethlehem, described in a 2018 study as the most tear-gassed place on earth, and saw used tear gas canisters with “Made in the U.S.A.” printed on the side. I walked along the separation wall in Bethlehem and saw automatic weapons and surveillance equipment positioned above it, as well as the countless bullet holes that dotted nearby houses.

I watched an IDF soldier in a watchtower, a young girl who looked about 18, end a FaceTime call with her friend to record us as we walked past. I saw bottles of urine on the ground, which residents told us had been thrown onto Palestinian cemeteries and neighborhoods from nearby watchtowers.

I saw the segregated roads and buses, with different license plates to designate Israeli cars from Palestinian cars. I noticed several parked cars with Palestinian license plates that, according to local residents, had been destroyed the previous night by IDF soldiers. I sat in the car as a Palestinian friend drove with shaky hands, on the lookout for the Israeli settlers that had been throwing rocks at Palestinian cars. 

I witnessed hundreds of Israeli military vehicles entering the West Bank as part of the military raids and mass arrests announced by Netanyahu following an incident in Nablus on July 24th. 

I watched as countless Muslim worshippers were prohibited from entering the Al-Aqsa Mosque based on their nationality, their skincolor, or the whims of the IDF soldiers that stand at the entrance. I myself was barred from entering the mosque area. And despite this, the following day, over 4,000 Israelis illegally entered Al-Aqsa to mark the Jewish holiday of Tisha B'Av. 

I saw Israeli civilians carrying assault rifles through the streets of Jerusalem. I noticed IDF soldiers preventing Palestinians in Jerusalem from entering the gates of the Old City each night, and watched as they stopped my Muslim friend on the way back to our hotel. 

Above all, I was struck by the absurd normalcy of everything I had witnessed. Life continued as normal in the face of blatant discrimination, daily violence, a pervasive state security apparatus, and the unrelenting atmosphere of fear and intimidation. 

Safety and the Privilege of an American Passport

After every alert from the embassy, every checkpoint, every news article, and every sudden noise, my friend and I exchanged the same look. After a few days we didn’t even need to say the words, we both knew what that look was asking: “Do you still have your passport?” Each time we would frantically ruffle through our bags, and I couldn’t help but hold my breath until my hand found it. There was comfort in having our passports; in knowing that we could leave at any time, and that if we were stopped by Israeli soldiers we would likely experience preferential treatment. 

Not only did my American passport grant me the privilege of entering and leaving the country, but it allowed me to pass through blissfully unaware of the restrictions that are a significant part of everyday life for locals. One example of this was our visit to the Ibrahimi Mosque in Hebron's Old City, where I was surprised to find we were the only people there. 

The mosque is in the heavily-militarized H2 zone, part of Hebron that has been under Israeli control since 1997, where Palestinian movement is restricted. There are dozens of checkpoints throughout the zone and Palestinians face regular violence and intimidation from Israeli settlers, including the 1994 massacre of 29 Palestinian worshipers at the Ibrahimi Mosque. As a result, stores are closed, streets are silent, and the mosque is empty. 

It was only later, after we told locals we had been to the mosque, that I began to understand how unusual our visit was. Again and again, people told us we were so brave.

I had gone without even understanding that there was anything to be afraid of. My visit to the mosque was just one of many instances that made me realize we existed in an entirely different reality from the locals surrounding us. What had been a casual afternoon for me was something many Palestinians would not have considered possible.

Later that night, our bus was stopped at a checkpoint as we left Hebron. We were told to get out and lined up in a narrow, fenced-in area while soldiers searched and interrogated passengers. I held my American passport up for them to see and was waved through without question.

Leaving

I felt myself breathe again when I saw the Jordanian flag as we crossed the bridge separating the West Bank from Jordan at the King Hussein Border. Only then did I recognize the extent to which the tension had been affecting me. It was a shock when we arrived in Amman later that day, realizing we didn't need to carry our passports with us any longer; there would be no more checkpoints and no segregated roads on our way to dinner.

I think about those I met who may never get to feel that exhale, or those like my friend Dima, who were forced into making the decision to flee their home while knowing that leaving may mean never going back. I now know, in a way I could never have comprehended before my trip to Palestine, just how lucky I am to be able to visit, and leave, as I please. It truly was too easy.