What My Commute Says About Israel Today
Today, I’m going to talk about how I get to work. Oh no, you groan, picturing a train, a briefcase, some novels, and a laptop, or possibly the drowsy hum of a bus. But I’m talking about a commute you could never imagine in your wildest dreams. It’s a road that tells stories of a country that continues to evade understanding—a route that speaks of something both ancient and new, a testament to conflict, violence, and different peoples living inches apart.
A bit of background: I, Ella, live in a southern neighborhood of the nation’s capital, Jerusalem. I teach English and Diplomacy Studies and am also a homeroom teacher.
Twelve years ago, I worked at a school on the other side of town. Crawling through 14 sets of traffic lights during rush hour was tiresome, but I got fired. Or, to be more precise, was denied tenure.
In my frantic search for another job, I saw that a relatively new school in Tzur Hadassah needed an English teacher with high school experience—and that was me.
Yes, Tzur Hadassah is not in Jerusalem, but Waze (the Israeli mapping system) will tell you it’s only 15 kilometers away.
The reality? A drive to Tzur Hadassah is a cultural and political space odyssey. It’s also a journey through timelines, geopolitics, radically different neighborhoods, and more than a fair amount of unease.
On a good day, this route takes 25 minutes—almost the same time it took to get to my old school. So when I got the job, I thought to myself, *I’d rather navigate a winding country road than inch along in city traffic.* After 11 years on this road, I’m reconsidering that description.
I average 30 minutes each way. When I have to be at school at an ungodly hour for a field trip, I might even make it in 20.
I know I could probably find a job within walking distance of my home if I wanted to. But I’ve grown comfortable in Tzur Hadassah. It’s a school in a well-off neighborhood with its perks. It welcomed me with open arms and made me part of a social and academic community. As a result, I’ve grown there. It would be hard to leave and start again.
And so it’s just me and my car. A route that, on the whole, is pleasant—affording me time to make calls, listen to podcasts, or practice singing (yes, I do that) to karaoke tracks. It’s not such a bad thing. I used to rideshare, but honestly, I prefer my own company during my commute.
I sometimes get strange looks when people ask where I work—especially since almost every school in Israel is desperate for English teachers right now. Some Israelis have never even heard of Tzur Hadassah, so I usually mumble something vague about it being “somewhere between Jerusalem and Beit Shemesh,” which doesn’t clarify much.
What I don’t get to tell them is the real story of this journey.
Tzur Hadassah would technically be labeled a “settlement” (with roughly 13,000 inhabitants), but that’s a politically loaded term. It’s really what you’d call a suburb (though of where, I’m not sure), located *within* the Green Line.
The Green Line—the 1949 armistice border—looms large here, though Tzur Hadassah sits just inside it. Beyond lies the West Bank, where half a million Jews live in neighborhoods some call settlements, others call home.
But just as people don’t understand lines, lines don’t understand people. Tzur Hadassah is only one kilometer from the Green Line, meaning day-to-day reality—whether you’re Jewish or Arab—can shift dramatically within a few kilometers.
It also means that to reach Tzur Hadassah sensibly, I cross the Green Line and back again. Yes, this is where things get weird.
From My Home to the Edge of Town
I get in my car, find a good podcast or audiobook, dodge incoming cars, and ask myself for the hundredth time why I live in a place that feels like a shopping mall on the weekend every single day. I live in a 15-story building—one of the first towers in this neighborhood but by no means the last.
I pull out onto the road, dodging parked cars, reversing vehicles, and erratic drivers, then merge onto Derech Hevron, the bustling artery of South Jerusalem. This road has historic origins—it leads to the burial site of our patriarchs, Abraham and Sarah. If you want to visit the Tomb of the Patriarchs, just drive straight.
The road has been unrealistically narrowed, so I unconsciously hold my breath when brushing past trucks. Towering cranes dominate the view on both sides—try counting them; you’ll lose track. This road is a testament to a mad rush to *build, build, build* at an epic pace. Givat Hamatos, on my right, was once a no-man’s-land for abandoned cars, inhabited mainly by sheep and olive trees. Now, it’s being developed into a massive neighborhood.
Believe it or not, sheep and goats still graze here, herded by East Jerusalem neighbors right beside the four-lane highway.
To the left, a bit of history: a 1949 Jordanian bunker on a miraculously unoccupied hill. I pass Mar Elias Monastery, a solemn Greek Orthodox institution that now sits almost out of place—weathered and contemplative—amid rising towers, snarled traffic, and relentless construction. Once surrounded by olive groves and open hills, it now watches silently as cranes swing overhead and cars inch past in a daily frenzy.
Occasionally, Derech Beit Lehem gets so clogged that Waze (which I don’t always turn on) tentatively suggests a faster route through the Arab neighborhood of Beit Safafa. Nestled next to the Talpiot industrial zone, this historic area—once a self-contained village—is fascinating but terrifying to drive through, though not for obvious reasons. Beit Safafa’s roads are heart-stoppingly narrow, with overwhelming traffic, almost no sidewalks, and blind turns everywhere. I’m a Jerusalemite, but this area feels like another country.
In short, there are visible and invisible neighborhoods on my route to work.
And now I’m in Jerusalem’s southernmost neighborhood, Gilo. Technically I’m already ‘over the green line’ but the Gilo residents wouldn’t agree. They’re Jerusalemites, just like me.
A sharp right, and there are two turns: one leads to Beit Lehem (Bethlehem to you readers), where Jews aren’t allowed. The last time I was there was twenty-odd years ago. I hear the Christmas lights are lovely.
Enter the ‘Tunnel Roads’
The next turn leads to the ‘tunnel roads,’ as they’re called here. One more traffic light, and you pass the last bus stop, where young hitchhikers heading to ‘the Gush’ wave expectantly. Sorry, sir, I’m not going your way.
A quick explanation: The tunnel roads lead to Areas B and C beyond the Green Line— in Judea and Samaria, where half a million Jews live.
An extra tunnel was added a year ago, easing congestion. A nice gas station recently opened too, attracting a mix of religious Jews, Arabs, Chareidim, and people like me. Everyone loves the coffee and burekas there. Sometimes shakshuka is on the menu.
The First Checkpoint
Driving into the Palestinian territories, security is minimal. I slow for speed bumps, wave at the soldiers, and suddenly—I’m somewhere else.
The real ordeal is returning to Jerusalem: five lanes merging into one, indifferent soldiers, endless waits. But today, I’m not heading home.
Suddenly, I’m in a place that evades political definition. I can use the road but can’t enter the Arab neighborhoods. Military presence is high. Much of the traffic has PA license plates. People wait by the roadside for buses to take them to work. The road veers left toward the Judea and Samaria, but I turn right.
Vendors sell tissues and car accessories on the roadside. On my way home, beggars with small children sometimes appear at traffic lights, haggling in broken Hebrew before the light changes.
I see the gentle Judean hills, settlements and towns dotted on hilltops as far as the eye can see, valleys, farms, and endless olive trees. I also see barbed wire fences.
Arab villages nestle behind them. There are giant red signs at their entrance, in Hebrew and in English, warning Jews not to enter.
This stretch has a checkered reputation. During tense periods, you might be unlucky enough to have a Molotov cocktail thrown at you. It’s rare, but it happens. Once, I skidded on oil—terrifying, and I wondered if it was deliberate.
Traffic slows near the Beitar Illit entrance roundabout. Beitar Illit is the last Jewish town before Tzur Hadassah.
Technically, Beitar Illit is still “over the Green Line.” If you live in Tzur Hadassah, you can’t just hike across the valley to visit your Jewish neighbors. You must go through the main entrance, cross a security gate, and pass a checkpoint. Not exactly scenic.
Beitar Illit is clearly visible from my school—but barely accessible. If Tzur Hadassah’s entrance were ever blocked, Beitar Illit would be cut off entirely.
It’s a Chareidi town governed by ultra-Orthodox rules. Cars (except ambulances) can’t enter on Shabbat. The town is rabbi-dominated, and schools don’t follow the national curriculum.
Yet, due to large families and high poverty rates, prices for food and household goods are much cheaper than in Tzur Hadassah, where boutique prices are frightening. So, it’s a shopping magnet for Tzur Hadassah residents.
As I drive, buses packed with ultra-Orthodox passengers (women in the back, men in front) heave out of the security gate. Black-hatted drivers swerve haphazardly in large cars and secondhand minivans. Meanwhile, Arab workers—indifferent to the heat, their boots caked in paint and cement—line the road. The occasional hawker sits by a makeshift stall selling fruit, eggs, or bootleg goods. Come September, they’ll have fresh figs—hard to resist.
If I turned left into Beitar, I’d pass a giant pomegranate monument (four meters tall) in the roundabout’s center. It’s rich in symbolism:
The pomegranate is a biblical fruit of Israel.
It symbolizes fertility—fitting, since 63% of Beitar’s population is under 18.
On the roundabout’s other side lies Wadi Fukin, an Arab village. Wadi Fukin and Beitar Illit are like siblings separated at birth—one rural and agricultural, the other dense and ultra-Orthodox. They sit side by side yet barely acknowledge each other.
I’ve visited Wadi Fukin—an agricultural village where families pick olives, teens drive old cars on hillsides, and a waterfall cascades in a cave with breathtaking valley views. But I was a guest. I couldn’t just go there. I don’t speak the language, don’t know the culture, and, honestly, I’m scared.
I’d love to return for makluba and olive-picking, but now isn’t the time. I wonder when it will be.
Ironically, Beitar residents often go to Wadi Fukin for cheap car repairs or dental work, indifferent to the risk. The news doesn’t care about the daily lives of people caught in the middle—shaped by geopolitics, politics, intrigue, and storytellers who couldn’t care less about those on the ground.
I know this land carries weighty labels, but to me, it’s a place of board markers and sniper towers, where the hum of my engine muffles the sound of politics.
The Second Checkpoint
The road narrows. I pass the area’s cheapest carwash, where workers are so young I wonder if they even attend school. A stonemason, a gas station, and a great plant shop (where I buy flowers for school events) dot the roadside.
Traffic slows again. Wild, mangy dogs lounge by the road—a sight you’d never see in Jerusalem. They flick their ears and gaze indifferently. The checkpoint is their strategic resting spot; soldiers sometimes feed them leftovers.
If security alerts are high, I might wait 10-15 minutes in a single lane.
We’re re-entering the Green Line. Police stop vehicles, check IDs, and inspect trunks based on the car and driver. It’s not routine harassment—though for some, it is. This country has lost thousands to terror attacks, some at these very checkpoints.
I rarely get stopped. A middle-aged, bareheaded, smiling woman in a Toyota Corolla? Not a threat. Unless Olga is manning the checkpoint.
Olga, a career officer (training to be a commander), was my student years ago. Cheeky, tomboyish, and obsessed with her cats, she struggled with English until I tutored her. Now, she’s armed head-to-toe but still dreams of Pilates and a Far East trip with her boyfriend—unless another war breaks out.
She laughs when I ask if the heavy gear bothers her. We high-five through my window, and she promises to attend our school’s Memorial Day ceremony—where my former students, now in uniform, look terrifyingly grown-up.
Now, I’m back inside the Green Line. My mind shifts from borders to my classroom. Eight minutes until I hunt for parking (always taken by 12th graders). Eleven minutes until I walk into the high school building.
I pass the residential security gate, wave at the guard, and officially enter Tzur Hadassah.
I pass the Sansan neighborhood—tree-lined, with spacious homes where kids jump on trampolines and families plan vacations to Austria or Thailand. Clean streets, joggers, dog walkers, electric cars, and 4x4s. I pass the familiar Jerusalem stone red-roofed apartment buildings. Memorial images of fallen soldiers (locals) and yellow ribbons for hostages (500+ days in Gaza—hard to believe) are posted on the fence next to the road.
No Arabs in worn-out shoes, no black hats, no packed buses (except school ones). Just people who, at first glance, could be from Copenhagen, Texas, or São Paulo.
I’m almost at school. Eyes skimmed for a parking spot.
Then, my students: “Hiiii, Ella!” they yell, waving, backpacks bouncing, chattering about scouts.
Many think I live here. At their age, it’s hard to imagine people elsewhere.
But I see those places too clearly—hijabs and wigs, black hats and fresh eggs, poverty and wealth, mosques and synagogues. Above all, politics.
Yet in the end, all there was, is, and will ever be—are people. Like me, they travel this strange road of contrasts and connections. Sometimes, they stop, step away from the noise, and look up at the sky.
Because it’s the same one—for all of us.
