Three years ago, Jerusalem’s light rail was billed as a ‘peace train’ that would encourage interaction between East and West Jerusalemites. TLV1’s Lissy Kaufmann went to find out if Arabs and Jews are now avoiding the monorail in light of recent deadly attacks.
It’s a sunny afternoon in Jerusalem. Next to the Central Bus Station a few dozen people are waiting for the light rail train to arrive, to take them to the city center and even further east. The atmosphere is calm, people are chatting, immersed in their smartphones or making calls. But behind this tranquility lies the fear of what might happen next in this city that has been shattered by terror attacks over the past few weeks. A 19-year-old passenger called Shir says:
We are at the starting of something but I am not sure whether it is an ‘intifada,’ the intifada was a lot bigger and more serious and not in the same sizes like this is happening, so I hope this is not an intifada, but I can’t know.
Shir, who is originally from Beit She’an, lives in Jerusalem, where she does her national service. Her job is to visit senior citizens in their homes all over the city, which makes her, like so many other Jerusalem residents, dependant on the train. Despite her fear, she uses it every day.
Yes I am afraid, I don’t know if I see someone with a big …. package or something and he is talking arabic, I suspect, with the men, don’t know. I am usually taking the train but I am trying not a lot. But as you see we have a lot of security men and stuff so I feel good but I need just to be awake and be aware of what is happening.
Yes, these are unusual times in Jerusalem. But the stops and the trains themselves are just as crowded as always. The Jerusalemites are thus sending a clear message: We won’t let anyone interrupt our daily routine. The light rail is a microcosm of the city, with its different populations represented among the commuters: Men and women, Jews and Arabs, secular and religious people. One of them is the 25-year-old Sarah:
Mostly this is my city and we will continue living in it. We’ve lived through tougher times in the city, I don’t know, you look around, you keep eyes and ears open, but you have to continue your life.
Initially meant to act as a symbol of coexistence, the light rail has become a punching bag as tensions have been rising since the summer, culminating in the recent spate of violence. It cuts through the city center, linking Mount Herzl in the west with Arab and Jewish neighborhoods in the city’s northeastern outskirts. Starting in the summer, young East Jerusalem Arabs have rioted along the rail tracks, throwing stones at the trains and vandalizing the sheds and the machinery at the stops. A sign inside the train says: “This window will be replaced soon. We apologize for the inconvenience.” 37-year-old Michael, from a Jewish neighborhood in the east, takes the train almost every day. He worries mainly about his wife:
My wife left Jerusalem 20 minutes ago, she was in the north neighbourhood in Pisgat Ze’ev. I am more concerned about for her than me, because a woman driving by herself outside of Jerusalem, is dangerous than people like man and our car is not rock proof, so it could be a problem ,and they have been throwing rocks to our house, to our yeshuv next to where we live. So I am more concerned for her than for me.
In the city center, a group of police officers boards the train. They stand in front of a group of young Arab men who look like builders or renovators on their way home from work, their gear splashed with spots of white color. But they say nothing to each other. The further the train drives into the eastern parts of the city, the emptier it gets. At one point, the police officers get off. Only a handful of Jewish passengers remain on the train until it reaches its terminal, deep in the east.
At Damascus Gate station, just outside the Old City, Arab passengers are waiting for the train in the other direction. One of them is 22-year-old Anwa:
Yes, it is very scary; this morning, for example, I was frightened to cross the road because I had a feeling there might be someone in a car who would want to take revenge and hit someone like me.
At the end of the day we need the train, it helps us reach places that are difficult to reach otherwise, or that need a lot of time to get to by bus. So it is preferable to travel by train.
Also at Damascus Gate, 20-year-old students Susan, Dina, and Shaat are waiting for the train to arrive. They also use Israeli buses, not just the train, when they need to get to the city center. They know that the Jews are afraid of them, but they also have a fear of their own, as Susan explains, from the Israeli police:
They say it’s us, we say it’s them. We use stones, and they use guns – there is a difference. We have got the right to be more afraid than they are because stones don’t kill but a gun does. If a gun shoots, we are dead, there is no equality. They accuse us of terrorism all the time, but they are the terrorists. They are walking around with their weapons. If I take a stone and put it in my pocket, am I a terrorist? No, they are. And I am not afraid that they’ll hear me say it. Because it is my right.
In the end, the girls say, the train belongs to everyone, the Jews and Arabs alike. And it goes on, even as the dogs bark.
Three years ago, Jerusalem’s light rail was billed as a ‘peace train’ that would encourage interaction between East and West Jerusalemites. TLV1’s Lissy Kaufmann went to find out if Arabs and Jews are now avoiding the monorail in light of recent deadly attacks.
This is a segment from Weekend Edition. Listen to the full show.
It’s a sunny afternoon in Jerusalem. Next to the Central Bus Station a few dozen people are waiting for the light rail train to arrive, to take them to the city center and even further east. The atmosphere is calm, people are chatting, immersed in their smartphones or making calls. But behind this tranquility lies the fear of what might happen next in this city that has been shattered by terror attacks over the past few weeks. A 19-year-old passenger called Shir says:
Shir, who is originally from Beit She’an, lives in Jerusalem, where she does her national service. Her job is to visit senior citizens in their homes all over the city, which makes her, like so many other Jerusalem residents, dependant on the train. Despite her fear, she uses it every day.
Yes, these are unusual times in Jerusalem. But the stops and the trains themselves are just as crowded as always. The Jerusalemites are thus sending a clear message: We won’t let anyone interrupt our daily routine. The light rail is a microcosm of the city, with its different populations represented among the commuters: Men and women, Jews and Arabs, secular and religious people. One of them is the 25-year-old Sarah:
Initially meant to act as a symbol of coexistence, the light rail has become a punching bag as tensions have been rising since the summer, culminating in the recent spate of violence. It cuts through the city center, linking Mount Herzl in the west with Arab and Jewish neighborhoods in the city’s northeastern outskirts. Starting in the summer, young East Jerusalem Arabs have rioted along the rail tracks, throwing stones at the trains and vandalizing the sheds and the machinery at the stops. A sign inside the train says: “This window will be replaced soon. We apologize for the inconvenience.” 37-year-old Michael, from a Jewish neighborhood in the east, takes the train almost every day. He worries mainly about his wife:
In the city center, a group of police officers boards the train. They stand in front of a group of young Arab men who look like builders or renovators on their way home from work, their gear splashed with spots of white color. But they say nothing to each other. The further the train drives into the eastern parts of the city, the emptier it gets. At one point, the police officers get off. Only a handful of Jewish passengers remain on the train until it reaches its terminal, deep in the east.
At Damascus Gate station, just outside the Old City, Arab passengers are waiting for the train in the other direction. One of them is 22-year-old Anwa:
Also at Damascus Gate, 20-year-old students Susan, Dina, and Shaat are waiting for the train to arrive. They also use Israeli buses, not just the train, when they need to get to the city center. They know that the Jews are afraid of them, but they also have a fear of their own, as Susan explains, from the Israeli police:
In the end, the girls say, the train belongs to everyone, the Jews and Arabs alike. And it goes on, even as the dogs bark.