From Tel Aviv to Haifa to Akko, going north to the far east coast of the Mediterranean, almost to the border with Lebanon. I watch from the ramparts of the old town towards the sea, bathed in this light so strong as to `make it look almost yellow to blue, and I think out there somewhere there `s Italy, then another sea and then Spain and then the` Atlantic. This is the extreme point of our sea. Perhaps it is her start as it has no real purpose: its purpose is mixing with the ocean.
Akko I captured her heart. Akre, as they say the Arabs, Acre, the Christians were saying at the time of their domination.
This tiny town has gone through an amazing succession of different domain (the Egyptians, Phoenicians, the Ptolemies, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Crusaders, again the Arabs, Mamelukes, Ottomans, Albanians, the British the Arabs for a few months (had been allocated by `UN partition plan of Palestine in the` 48) and finally Jews, that `s soon after they occupied and annexed the state of Israel with all the lands occupied during the war of` 48.
Unlike many other similar cases, however, after the war the Jews have decided to leave the city to the Arab inhabitants and building a new modern Jewish city nearby. So Akko remained out of time, a pure gem of the East in a country where everything is contamination, meet, clash, merge, forced cohabitation.
The whole town is extruded on the sea, surrounded by thick defensive walls, and looks like a maze made of sand. The traditional case-cube, the paths, ladders, tunnels, arches, steps, roads, everything is done with This yellow stone, porous sand that seems compressed, hot, shiny.
the focus of a maze of tunnels, as large as one fourth of the whole surface, there is the suq. Wherever you go you will find a fitted through the Arab market, which remained fully available to the inhabitants (tourism is almost non-existent ', just some guy backpacker or volunteers who come here for a couple of days off from `hell of Gaza or the West Bank). No gadgets or trinkets-attracting tourists: only seas with spices, seeds, fresh and dried fruit, textiles, fish, hummus, falafel, smells, sounds, shouts, children, women, cats. The lanes are five feet wide and filled with stands that jut out from the shops, overlapping `a` on the other. Often you go in just two put to one side, and behind there are dozens of people pushing, sneak, rummage in bags of spices. And over, everywhere, layers upon layers, drapes and fabrics of all colors that protect people and goods from the sun. The market is something so meaningful to look like a `extrasensory esperinza, once gone, situated at the sudden silence of the streets blinded by the white sun with an old man who looks at you and definitely a cat lying under his chair.
The people is friendly, warm, chat with other boys, girls, men, women, old people, cats, horses. All they want to be photographed, do fantastic shots! What's really
relaxing is that since I came here I did not see even one soldier armed with pistols and machine guns: two days in between Tel Aviv and Haifa, I saw more soldiers and civilians: for more boys and girls (50 and 50), many just eighteen, pimples, some shy and awkward, however, armed with machine guns. By train happened to me is to sit next to a guy in canary yellow t-shirt, flip flops, jeans, sunglasses. And over the shoulder machine guns, long enough to get to 10 cm from the ground. He had the air-genial (like almost all these guys, who seem to direct a high school left-themed costume party), I asked him why he had the gun but not a uniform like everyone else. He replied calmly that he was free that day. But never, in no case can go around without gunfire. Comodo. How come I can not imagine any of those guys who pull the trigger? And why this happens rather often, damn often?
I also had some trouble with a policeman `adult` (`at least did not have acne): I stopped in the middle of a street in Tel Aviv, while directed at the station, and asked me my passport. Ok. Then he asks me where I go. In the station. He tells me that the station can not take pictures. Ok, I say. Says, is because of security, you know, you can not take pictures. I say, of course. Says, is for the safety `s army. I say: ok, I will not do photos, even look at it, I put the camera in your backpack. He says: `There is no need you put the car away, just that you can not take pictures at the station and trains, because `it is a safety issue. Now I understand that there is a `black-out of communications and I fell silent. He has not had the satisfaction he wanted, but obviously does not know how to proceed: I broke the eggs in the basket. Then makes a nod to another with a different uniform: this is approaching, I asked the passport makes me the same questions, then ask me discpiace you show me the pictures? Although the tone is polite, his gaze seems to me that the application does not provide a more specific answer: "There's no problem." And began to look about fifty photos, one by one ...
`Well, here in Akko, the climate is completely different.
Yesterday morning, arriving at Acre from the promenade, I came across an extraordinary sight: a room in the open air (made of a dozen or so rickety poles and tents to shelter from the sun do not expect is that who knows!) Was doing a party for the 'anniversary of a marriage. Just imagine: Arabic music rocking a high volume (more than you are imagining, I'm sure), about a hundred people took in a dance concitatissima, women, from 2 to 80 years, all beautifully dressed with traditional clothes, full of colors, gold e silver, rigged with finesse, some with bright veils, others with long hair and loose, wild and solemn at the same time, men pounding their hands, dancing, raising girls, boys, children all over the `crowd went crazy ... I swear, you would have immediately changed their minds if you think that Arab women are denigrated and repressed (at least here)!. I made a fillmino, then Sadi, a boy about 30, he explains it all: this is only the anticipation of the `real party and they will tonight ... 700.
Towards the sunset time I go to the port, which is a pure delight. At the center of the square surrounded by water `c` and `a small mosque, and before them` c `and` a bunch of people who listen to a guy who uses a microphone rather excitedly. I approach I try to understand, I ask a rocket that has the same as my hat. It is the commemoration of a local hero: Aisa (which is the name of Jesus in Arabic), an Arab Christian from the twelfth century, although Christians fought valiantly against the 'crusaders,' because that was the time of Saladin, which as you know was a close friend of Christians (only the Crusades did not know, apparently, when it learned, defeated and captured, they all were freed without a hat that was wrong with the promise that they would not have attacked more in the Holy Land, while the Saladin agreed to respect the community and Christian sites, but soon after it attacked again and this time they were literally thrown into the sea). I mean c `and` these people commemorates this Aisa, clear symbol of Arab resistance. Ok, but why ` You look so angry, what is this? Fadal (?) Tells me that a few days ago, the municipalities of `Akko has decided to change all the Arab names of the streets of the old town (inhabited only by Arabs as I said) with Hebrew names. Okay, clear light.
A boy holding a tray of baklava and other sweets you is approached and followed our conversation. Yes, I am Italian. He smiles, gives me a piece. It is good. wearing a shirt with the face of Che Guevara.
uoni and women speak, for half an hour. At the end everyone will kiss you abbracicano and shake hands. The
piazziale is now full of children, couples, families, who enjoy the spectacle of the city hit by a light pink and gold. L `air is serene.
I stop tomorrow.
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