. my apologies for the delay.
eid al-adha. 12.19.07
we're not in kansas anymore. or ohio.
while i was used to waking up at the crack of dawn - 10 am - to go to Eid prayer with my family in Toledo, i was elated to read in the Quds Newspaper that Jerusalem's Mufti would call Eid Prayer at 7:05 am. (prayer times seem to be the only event to hold schedule.)
no biggie.
since the Aqsa is only a 7 minute walk from my house, I turned the water heater on at 5, took a shower at 6, and was out of the door in my Wednesday's Best at 6:30. I figured - naively - that if I got to the haram 20 minutes early, there would be plenty of space inside the mosque.
it was raining - the type of rain that leaves a glaze of droplets over every surface - especially over my jacket, pants, and glasses. as i stepped into the river of people heading toward the mosque, the chanting of takbir was mildly contagious - as it echoed rather conspicuously under the archways before and after Sharon's house in the Muslim Quarter (which is often guarded by pistol-wiedling settlers - including that day.) the crowd was mostly fathers with their young children - girls and boys - in their arms, on their shoulders, and tripping along behind as they held onto their dads' fingers.
walking onto the haram, it became starkly obvious that the mosque was beyond full. everyone seemed to be armed with a prayer rug - prepared to pray on a wet, muddy, or - dare i say - dog-infested surface; people were crowding underneath any cover from the rain - the overhang bordering the haram, umbrellas, and - popularly - trees.
i forced my way toward the mosque but in the end, prayed the most awkward prayer in my history at the outdoor entrance. i stood sandwiched between an older man who could barely stand on his own, and a 7-year-old girl who came up to my waist. my huge camera hanging from my neck, i reluctantly tried to press my forehead down to the wet, muddy stone, but only managed to put down one knee, one hand, and bow my head.
touchdown.
the prayer was short and bittersweet. everyone turned to his neigbhor, wished him a happy eid, and fled the rain as the sermon began. (many fled the inside of the mosque, too)
i went to ramallah for the second half of the eid, spending it with my family there.
it was - in a word - boring.
everyone kept saying "eid is for kids." they're right.
my cousins and i sat on the porch and watched as people walked by - the occassional person dropping in to fulfill his obligation, drink his cup of coffee, and be on his way. EVERYTHING was closed on eid (except for the few Christian-owned shops)- a reality that has serious potential to make or break a holiday. i think if i had a really big family here, eid would be the type of day that i REALLY would enjoy.
over my two days vacation, we managed to eat every part of the lamb we had gotten from the butcher.
(for those who don't know - on eid al-adha, it's traditional for muslims to sacrifice a sheep in memory of the one that god provided abraham after sparing his son, ismail. muslim families are also instructed to distribute a good portion of the meat to the poor.)
anyway. the first day - we (or they) ate every internal - and external - organ you could imagine. i won't go into details, but suffice it to say i was supremely hungry the next day - and sitti nazeeha didn't let me down.
eid is genuinely a time for family. visiting uncles houses in descending order of their age, eating their food, and repeating for four days. i'm lucky to have had family here; it wouldn't have hurt to have a bit more.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Checkpoint Diaries
After passing back and forth to the West Bank three times, I thought it only right that I convey the average return journey. Many of you may be familiar with the experience – having read about, heard about, or experienced the increasingly institutionalized checkpoint system yourself.
Nonetheless, for those that haven’t, or for those interested, I hope this proves to be a concise description.
(It should be noted that there is a whole different system of checkpoints WITHIN Palestinian territory that I will write about when I see them.)
Normally, I hop on a bus near Bab il3amood.
There’s a parking lot on Nablus Road where all the Arab buses park, headed for different parts of the West Bank. Each green and white striped bus is numbered per its destination, and labeled in Arabic with its major stops: “Al Quds-El Bireh-Ramallah,” “Al Quds-Jabal Izzaitoun” “Al Quds-Beit Lahem.” There are probably 15 or 20 different routes.
The Ramallah Bus (#18) leaves every 15/20 minutes – whenever the bus fills up. It’s 4.20 shekel up to the wall, and an additional shekel if you plan on crossing.
The approach to Ramallah is generally painless – the three times I’ve crossed into the West Bank, we’ve had no problem carrying the Arabs back to where they belong. The bus drops us off wherever we please. Hit the button, “3indak ya ostaz!” and the bus driver pulls to the side of the road and lets you out.
The return into the beloved Eretz, on the other hand, is a different story.
Boarding in downtown Ramallah, each rider is asked, “Jerusalem ID?”
“Yes,” they answer the driver invariably.
While riders cross at their own risk, Palestinians with a West Bank ID (generally green) are not allowed into Israel, and much less into Jerusalem, without special permission; they’re known to be turned away without consideration at the main checkpoint – slowing down the bus’ route and the bus driver’s business.
As we drive west toward Jerusalem – and toward the wall – there’s generally dabkeh (1 ½!) music playing on the stereo, declaring the greatness of Palestine and its people; those lines always seem to come up as the wall cuts its way through the horizon. As I stare in awe at the concrete behemoth, my companions are understandably un-phased, shouting at their children to sit down, or laughing on the phone with their friends.
The first time we pulled up to Qalandiya Checkpoint, the bus driver yelled, “Everyone under the age of 50 off!” I jumped up, begrudgingly preparing myself to be searched, perhaps more intensively than I had been at Anata.
“Those with children under 10 stay on!”
“Those with foreign passports with visas, stay on!” the bus driver screamed in Arabic.
I went back to my seat.
What the hell?
As I moved back to my chair, I looked up at the bus driver, hoping I was doing something wrong – hoping he’d send me out to be searched like the other dangerous youths – both male and female. Each would have his or her bag search, body checked, and id scanned.
The bus driver nodded at me.
Sure enough, a 20-year-old girl padded like a linebacker and armed with her M-16, crept onto the bus, backed up by another soldier who manned the stairs. She made her way through the aisle, checking each ID.
She looked at my passport. “Whegh is de visa?” I had it opened to the page of the visa. I stayed quiet, and let her search for the stamp as she shoved it back into my hands.
She didn’t check my bag. God bless America. She didn’t check my bag.
Is that what than 3 billion dollars a year is getting us?
Maybe, I thought, it was a fluke.
Today, again, as I went through Qalandiya, the bus driver warned that everyone under the age of 50 should get off. Again, he gave the exceptions.
And again, two soldiers came onto the bus. It was 15 women and me.
This time, though, the soldier stopped at each woman.
Pointing at her purse. “Iftakh il shanta.” (Open the bag.)
Pointing at her son. “Hatha Ibnik?” (Is this your son?) “Sho Ismo” (What’s his name.)
He stopped at me. I handed him my passport. He looked at the visa, looked at my hugely over packed bag tucked under my feet, and handed my passport back. The soldier then escorted an older lady with an orange hijab off the bus.
As we moved toward the area where the dangerous youth had been searched, the young bus driver shouted out his window.
“Is7a2! Is7a2! Shayif im ilbort2an illi til3at rakkid halla2 ma3 il jundi?! Mat rakkibhash! Daffi3ha! 2oltilha illi 50 o nazzil yinzil 3an ilbus! O ma nizlitish.”
(Isaac! You see miss orange over there that just ran off the bus with the soldier? Don’t let her on the next bus! Make her pay! I TOLD her 50 and under MUST get off. And she didn’t.)
It’s a routine.
Everyone is used to it, and there are in fact added fees for not complying with Israeli orders, EXACTED by the Palestinians upon each OTHER.
The fact of the matter is this: this is clearly a system that achieves (if not aims at) only one thing – humiliation.
Is an American bag really any less dangerous than a Palestinian bag when it comes right down to it?
Or is it that – as an American with a foreign passport and fancier shoes – I am just more civilized and reasoned?
I’m not begging to be searched. As I’ve said time and again, there is no glory in misery. Our goal should be to elevate man from misery, not to descend complacentely as partners. There is an obvious hole here and it’s filled by humiliation.
Any of you who have studied counterterrorism with the Israeli experts. Please. Tell me. What logic lies behind racism.
_____
As a side note, I have not yet included any positive/normal interactions with Israelis in Israel.
That’s because the first one I had was at the post office on Thursday in West Jerusalem.
I asked to send 8 cards. She gave me 24 stamps. I paid, and said have a nice day.
I live in Jerusalem – a separated but inevitably mixed community. This is not a bad thing.
If the West Bankers ONLY interaction with Israelis is a soldier speaking shitty Arabic on a bus, how will they ever coexist?
It’s easy to say, “Of course they have to be separated! They don’t even want to live together.” No shit they don’t want to live together. Especially if this is the lens through which they see one another. How convenient…
Nonetheless, for those that haven’t, or for those interested, I hope this proves to be a concise description.
(It should be noted that there is a whole different system of checkpoints WITHIN Palestinian territory that I will write about when I see them.)
Normally, I hop on a bus near Bab il3amood.
There’s a parking lot on Nablus Road where all the Arab buses park, headed for different parts of the West Bank. Each green and white striped bus is numbered per its destination, and labeled in Arabic with its major stops: “Al Quds-El Bireh-Ramallah,” “Al Quds-Jabal Izzaitoun” “Al Quds-Beit Lahem.” There are probably 15 or 20 different routes.
The Ramallah Bus (#18) leaves every 15/20 minutes – whenever the bus fills up. It’s 4.20 shekel up to the wall, and an additional shekel if you plan on crossing.
The approach to Ramallah is generally painless – the three times I’ve crossed into the West Bank, we’ve had no problem carrying the Arabs back to where they belong. The bus drops us off wherever we please. Hit the button, “3indak ya ostaz!” and the bus driver pulls to the side of the road and lets you out.
The return into the beloved Eretz, on the other hand, is a different story.
Boarding in downtown Ramallah, each rider is asked, “Jerusalem ID?”
“Yes,” they answer the driver invariably.
While riders cross at their own risk, Palestinians with a West Bank ID (generally green) are not allowed into Israel, and much less into Jerusalem, without special permission; they’re known to be turned away without consideration at the main checkpoint – slowing down the bus’ route and the bus driver’s business.
As we drive west toward Jerusalem – and toward the wall – there’s generally dabkeh (1 ½!) music playing on the stereo, declaring the greatness of Palestine and its people; those lines always seem to come up as the wall cuts its way through the horizon. As I stare in awe at the concrete behemoth, my companions are understandably un-phased, shouting at their children to sit down, or laughing on the phone with their friends.
The first time we pulled up to Qalandiya Checkpoint, the bus driver yelled, “Everyone under the age of 50 off!” I jumped up, begrudgingly preparing myself to be searched, perhaps more intensively than I had been at Anata.
“Those with children under 10 stay on!”
“Those with foreign passports with visas, stay on!” the bus driver screamed in Arabic.
I went back to my seat.
What the hell?
As I moved back to my chair, I looked up at the bus driver, hoping I was doing something wrong – hoping he’d send me out to be searched like the other dangerous youths – both male and female. Each would have his or her bag search, body checked, and id scanned.
The bus driver nodded at me.
Sure enough, a 20-year-old girl padded like a linebacker and armed with her M-16, crept onto the bus, backed up by another soldier who manned the stairs. She made her way through the aisle, checking each ID.
She looked at my passport. “Whegh is de visa?” I had it opened to the page of the visa. I stayed quiet, and let her search for the stamp as she shoved it back into my hands.
She didn’t check my bag. God bless America. She didn’t check my bag.
Is that what than 3 billion dollars a year is getting us?
Maybe, I thought, it was a fluke.
Today, again, as I went through Qalandiya, the bus driver warned that everyone under the age of 50 should get off. Again, he gave the exceptions.
And again, two soldiers came onto the bus. It was 15 women and me.
This time, though, the soldier stopped at each woman.
Pointing at her purse. “Iftakh il shanta.” (Open the bag.)
Pointing at her son. “Hatha Ibnik?” (Is this your son?) “Sho Ismo” (What’s his name.)
He stopped at me. I handed him my passport. He looked at the visa, looked at my hugely over packed bag tucked under my feet, and handed my passport back. The soldier then escorted an older lady with an orange hijab off the bus.
As we moved toward the area where the dangerous youth had been searched, the young bus driver shouted out his window.
“Is7a2! Is7a2! Shayif im ilbort2an illi til3at rakkid halla2 ma3 il jundi?! Mat rakkibhash! Daffi3ha! 2oltilha illi 50 o nazzil yinzil 3an ilbus! O ma nizlitish.”
(Isaac! You see miss orange over there that just ran off the bus with the soldier? Don’t let her on the next bus! Make her pay! I TOLD her 50 and under MUST get off. And she didn’t.)
It’s a routine.
Everyone is used to it, and there are in fact added fees for not complying with Israeli orders, EXACTED by the Palestinians upon each OTHER.
The fact of the matter is this: this is clearly a system that achieves (if not aims at) only one thing – humiliation.
Is an American bag really any less dangerous than a Palestinian bag when it comes right down to it?
Or is it that – as an American with a foreign passport and fancier shoes – I am just more civilized and reasoned?
I’m not begging to be searched. As I’ve said time and again, there is no glory in misery. Our goal should be to elevate man from misery, not to descend complacentely as partners. There is an obvious hole here and it’s filled by humiliation.
Any of you who have studied counterterrorism with the Israeli experts. Please. Tell me. What logic lies behind racism.
_____
As a side note, I have not yet included any positive/normal interactions with Israelis in Israel.
That’s because the first one I had was at the post office on Thursday in West Jerusalem.
I asked to send 8 cards. She gave me 24 stamps. I paid, and said have a nice day.
I live in Jerusalem – a separated but inevitably mixed community. This is not a bad thing.
If the West Bankers ONLY interaction with Israelis is a soldier speaking shitty Arabic on a bus, how will they ever coexist?
It’s easy to say, “Of course they have to be separated! They don’t even want to live together.” No shit they don’t want to live together. Especially if this is the lens through which they see one another. How convenient…
Sunday, December 9, 2007
il 'atweh
i went back to ramallah this weekend.
there are a few things i am dying to write about:
1. the danger of a notion of transition and temporariness as a result of occupation/refugee status.
2. my day to day.
3. shitty life within shitty life - handicaps in East Jerusalem and the West Bank.
[A kind of mental record for me, so I know what to write about if I'm every bored/pressed for subject matter. With more time, I think I'll have more exposure and reflection on each of these subjects.]
Nevertheless, tonight I will focus on il 'atweh. (il 3a6we for those of you who read Arabic in English.)
I was, again, in El-Bireh (a.k.a. East Ramallah) with my family. Over a lunch of mlokhiyeh (chopped up fine, not like my dad makes it), my mom's cousin Munjee mentioned to me that he was going to a 'atweh after afternoon prayer, and that it might be an interesting thing for me to see.
Having spent a good deal of time sitting on the porch with my grandfather, his brother and his sister, commenting on each person as he or she walks by, I figured I'd take him up on the offer.
I had no idea where I was going.
As we walked up to the 'atweh, held in the Bireh Association, Munjee explained to me that the building wouldn't be nearly large enough. Evidently, people representing two areas - el-Bireh and Lidd (or at least their community in Ramallah) - would be descending upon the B.A. building to discuss something important.
A young man from Bireh had been run over and killed by a teenager from Lidd; the Liddawi had no license, no insurance, and the car was not registered. But - it was an accident.
When one man kills another here, Munjee explained, there's three options.
1. Revenge. When it's absolutely intentional, revenge is a viable option. Not often used these days, according to Munjee.
2. Court. When option 3 doesn't work. It seems like court is even less used than revenge.
3. 'Atweh. Mediation. Often used, specially if it's an accident.
As I entered the building, men (no women, mind you) - old and young - lined the perimeter of the building's entrance, sitting in their trademark plastic chairs, filling every nook and cranny. Five minutes later, the officials from Lidd entered, with a throng of men (evidently the convicted's friends/family/etc.) behind them, and made their way into the main room, where they sat at a long table.
On one side, sat the Birawi respected men. On the other, the Liddawis. Everyone else crowded around the table, and flowed into the peripheries, anxious to hear the outcome of the mediation, and perhaps even more anxious for the cup of bitter coffee which would accompany their presence.
The Liddawi boy had been in prison now for more than a few months. After discussion, argument, and a strong bout of [loud] formal arabic, the officials came to a decision.
First, they agreed upon a labees thob- essentially a guarantor from the Liddawi side, who could secure the terms of the 'atweh.
After the labees was decided, they decided:
1. The Liddawi man would be released from prison. [I don't know how prison is under their jurisdiction]
2. He would not be allowed to drive [because, evidently, it was ok for him to drive when he didn't have a license.]
3. The people from Lid would owe the people from El-Bireh 60,000 Jordanian Dinar. (That's about $100,000.)
4. After a year, they will reconvene to discuss the matter further.
"What was the deceased boy's name ?" the Liddawis asked, as they signed the semi-official document.
I didn't even hear it. It seems like very few people even knew.
Evidently, the Birawis now have the Liddawis on eggshells. For a year, they will call a truce, wherein - hopefully - anger, sadness, vengeance, and all other non-legal emotions will die down.
If they do, the Birawis might return the money, as a sign of forgiveness and friendship, and "for the sake of the Prophet."
Likely in this case, the Birawis will take the money and donate it to a charity - as a sort of corporal punishment for the offender's delinquency in the face of whatever law may exist.
Still, though, if the Liddawis cross the line in the sand, the Birawis are entitled to keep the money, demand more, or resume the feud after one year.
Wow.
"Ma howwa bta3rif ra7 itkon finjan kahweh o yallah."
"You know all we'll be doing is drinking a cup of coffee."
I'm planning on studying law next year. In the United States.
I'm really curious as to what an education in Palestinian jurisprudence would look like.
Sure, most cases in the US are settled outside of court. And sure, the idea of a big cherry wood courtroom where a judge and a jury of peers determine a truly just verdict is a figment of the American legal imagination. But at least it's a figment.
I asked Munjee what an attorney in Palestine does. He chuckled a little bit. "They deal mostly with buying and selling land. Otherwise, they don't really do much."
Before, it seemed a bit foreign to me that law in Arab countries was a 4 year degree - like Chemistry, or Political Science, or a Bachelor's in Engineering. But if the 'atweh is as common as it seems to be - and as widely accepted - then I guess it's rightly so. There is no separation of criminal vs. civil law. If the state wants to prosecute the Liddawi for involuntary manslaughter, but the Birawis protest on behalf of their fallen son because the murder was accidental, the state just wouldn't do so. When they say 'The People of El-Bireh vs. Liddawi Man,' that's literally what they mean.
That just doesn't seem to be an option in the US. Criminal is criminal. Civil is civil. There's a definite separation [thank you Mr. John Wheeler.]
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm in for a rude awakening when I hit the classroom next year. For now, I will continue to believe that the law holds a bit more water, and a bit more credence in the US.
Let's hope so. Otherwise, my personal statement is garbage.
And we may as well fold it up into a cone, and have a sip of bitter coffee.
there are a few things i am dying to write about:
1. the danger of a notion of transition and temporariness as a result of occupation/refugee status.
2. my day to day.
3. shitty life within shitty life - handicaps in East Jerusalem and the West Bank.
[A kind of mental record for me, so I know what to write about if I'm every bored/pressed for subject matter. With more time, I think I'll have more exposure and reflection on each of these subjects.]
Nevertheless, tonight I will focus on il 'atweh. (il 3a6we for those of you who read Arabic in English.)
I was, again, in El-Bireh (a.k.a. East Ramallah) with my family. Over a lunch of mlokhiyeh (chopped up fine, not like my dad makes it), my mom's cousin Munjee mentioned to me that he was going to a 'atweh after afternoon prayer, and that it might be an interesting thing for me to see.
Having spent a good deal of time sitting on the porch with my grandfather, his brother and his sister, commenting on each person as he or she walks by, I figured I'd take him up on the offer.
I had no idea where I was going.
As we walked up to the 'atweh, held in the Bireh Association, Munjee explained to me that the building wouldn't be nearly large enough. Evidently, people representing two areas - el-Bireh and Lidd (or at least their community in Ramallah) - would be descending upon the B.A. building to discuss something important.
A young man from Bireh had been run over and killed by a teenager from Lidd; the Liddawi had no license, no insurance, and the car was not registered. But - it was an accident.
When one man kills another here, Munjee explained, there's three options.
1. Revenge. When it's absolutely intentional, revenge is a viable option. Not often used these days, according to Munjee.
2. Court. When option 3 doesn't work. It seems like court is even less used than revenge.
3. 'Atweh. Mediation. Often used, specially if it's an accident.
As I entered the building, men (no women, mind you) - old and young - lined the perimeter of the building's entrance, sitting in their trademark plastic chairs, filling every nook and cranny. Five minutes later, the officials from Lidd entered, with a throng of men (evidently the convicted's friends/family/etc.) behind them, and made their way into the main room, where they sat at a long table.
On one side, sat the Birawi respected men. On the other, the Liddawis. Everyone else crowded around the table, and flowed into the peripheries, anxious to hear the outcome of the mediation, and perhaps even more anxious for the cup of bitter coffee which would accompany their presence.
The Liddawi boy had been in prison now for more than a few months. After discussion, argument, and a strong bout of [loud] formal arabic, the officials came to a decision.
First, they agreed upon a labees thob- essentially a guarantor from the Liddawi side, who could secure the terms of the 'atweh.
After the labees was decided, they decided:
1. The Liddawi man would be released from prison. [I don't know how prison is under their jurisdiction]
2. He would not be allowed to drive [because, evidently, it was ok for him to drive when he didn't have a license.]
3. The people from Lid would owe the people from El-Bireh 60,000 Jordanian Dinar. (That's about $100,000.)
4. After a year, they will reconvene to discuss the matter further.
The Liddawi's only had about 4,000, and a labees thob to guarantee it. They handed over the cash to the Birawis.
"What was the deceased boy's name ?" the Liddawis asked, as they signed the semi-official document.
I didn't even hear it. It seems like very few people even knew.
Evidently, the Birawis now have the Liddawis on eggshells. For a year, they will call a truce, wherein - hopefully - anger, sadness, vengeance, and all other non-legal emotions will die down.
If they do, the Birawis might return the money, as a sign of forgiveness and friendship, and "for the sake of the Prophet."
Likely in this case, the Birawis will take the money and donate it to a charity - as a sort of corporal punishment for the offender's delinquency in the face of whatever law may exist.
Still, though, if the Liddawis cross the line in the sand, the Birawis are entitled to keep the money, demand more, or resume the feud after one year.
Wow.
The Birawis are supposedly very lax when it comes to punishment. In fact, as we were walking to the 'atweh, Munjee asked a few of the Birawi elders if they would be coming.
"Ma howwa bta3rif ra7 itkon finjan kahweh o yallah."
"You know all we'll be doing is drinking a cup of coffee."
I'm planning on studying law next year. In the United States.
I'm really curious as to what an education in Palestinian jurisprudence would look like.
Sure, most cases in the US are settled outside of court. And sure, the idea of a big cherry wood courtroom where a judge and a jury of peers determine a truly just verdict is a figment of the American legal imagination. But at least it's a figment.
I asked Munjee what an attorney in Palestine does. He chuckled a little bit. "They deal mostly with buying and selling land. Otherwise, they don't really do much."
Before, it seemed a bit foreign to me that law in Arab countries was a 4 year degree - like Chemistry, or Political Science, or a Bachelor's in Engineering. But if the 'atweh is as common as it seems to be - and as widely accepted - then I guess it's rightly so. There is no separation of criminal vs. civil law. If the state wants to prosecute the Liddawi for involuntary manslaughter, but the Birawis protest on behalf of their fallen son because the murder was accidental, the state just wouldn't do so. When they say 'The People of El-Bireh vs. Liddawi Man,' that's literally what they mean.
That just doesn't seem to be an option in the US. Criminal is criminal. Civil is civil. There's a definite separation [thank you Mr. John Wheeler.]
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm in for a rude awakening when I hit the classroom next year. For now, I will continue to believe that the law holds a bit more water, and a bit more credence in the US.
Let's hope so. Otherwise, my personal statement is garbage.
And we may as well fold it up into a cone, and have a sip of bitter coffee.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Adonde, a Ramallah
Lessons from Ramallah.
1. Your Voice Down.
The volume of the Arab voice seems to be much higher than the average voice in day-to-day conversation. The decibel only increases upon transmission by way of telephone, and even moreso by pelephone. What's MORE, it seems this differential increases the most when under military occupation.
2. We Still Got It.
I'm not sure if its because I wasn't exposed to young people in Jerusalem, or because the people in Jerusalem are just different (I'm confident that it's more the former than the latter). But, walking around downtown Ramallah reassured me that Palestinians are some of the most attractive people to walk the face of the earth (with some severe exceptions) - male and female, old and young. And while probably 60% of girls my age were wearing hijab, so did 80% of guys have gel in their hair. The hijab here, for 20ish year olds at least, seems to be as much a stylish head accessory as the guy's gel. For most of the girls, the hijab is shrink-wrapped onto their heads with the rest of their clothes. I guess you'll have to refer to the Q for a more accurate assessment of what hijab is. It's not up to me.
3. For now - a capital.
Unless Hebron or Nablus have a surprise for me, Ramallah has firmly taken the reigns as the de facto cultural/societal Palestinian capital.
In Washington DC, you might feel the most American. In New York, you feel what America IS and what America CAN BE. Its make-up, its attitude toward work and play, its arrogance, its values.
While the parallels are by no means exact [parallels never are] Ramallah seems to have exposed Palestinian society for its potential and its faults. While I wish I could say the same about Jerusalem, the "Palestinianness" of J-town is tempered/hampered by an aggressive military presence, and by decades of de facto co-existence. Palestinians in Jerusalem are not surprised that I might speak a few words of Hebrew. They, in fact, need it. Those here in Ramallah chuckle at one sentence of Hebrew. It's not intentional. Just unnecessary.
4- Ask me about it
5- The Wall is a Racist Piece of Shit.
For anyone who has heard the argument "oh it's not a wall," they're right. it's not all a wall. Have you ever seen how farmers keep their cows? So the cows don't escape and cease to give their milk as the farmer pleases [and, the farmer may allege, so that the occasional cow doesn't cross through and eat the farmer's grass, or - god forbid - the farmer's wife or husband?] The fence portion is exactly like that.
Regardless, the wall is among the most horrible things I've seen in my life. Its primary effect, if not its primary purpose, is absolute separation, absolute demoralization, and absolute normalization of the absurdly abnormal. Today I jumped on a bus headed from Ramallah to Jerusalem. [First, I should note that my cousins in the West Bank haven't seen Jerusalem for 6 or 7 years although it's only 20 minutes away. Without a Jerusalem ID, or an Israeli citizenship, the trip is virtually impossible.]
Today the checkpoint at Qalandiya, and the neighboring checkpoints were closed. Evidently, (according to the Jerusalemites on the bus with me) one of the cows had gotten out and bitten one of the farmhands. [a soldier got shot at a checkpoint.] For that, the collective punishment exacted upon the farm was a complete closure of major entrances, and denial to any bus trying to make its way through. As such, the bus driver took us up to the Anata checkpoint near Sho3fat Refugee Camp. From there, we disembarked and crossed the wall on foot. At each populated area, the cattle fence turns into a 20-foot monstrosity manned by Israeli army guards who are themselves armed to the tooth. (Incidentally, the Israeli government has begun to hire private companies to run the areas between the green line and the wall. hmmm...blackwater) As i crossed through the turnstile, the soldier - padded like an NFL player with Kevlar, barked at me: STANNA. STANNA. I showed him my Passport. Wein il visa? ... When the other guard shoved me aside, the blood rushed to my head, and I gathered myself - holding back frustration. Hon Habib Immak.
I jumped on a bus labeled sho3fat camp-Jerusalem and made my way to the Damascus Gate.
6 and 7 are important, but the Japanese guy in hostel is breathing down my neck. I'll try to type them up later.
6. Palestinians <3 Spraypaint.
7. Religion is a Bane of Palestinian Existence.
1. Your Voice Down.
The volume of the Arab voice seems to be much higher than the average voice in day-to-day conversation. The decibel only increases upon transmission by way of telephone, and even moreso by pelephone. What's MORE, it seems this differential increases the most when under military occupation.
2. We Still Got It.
I'm not sure if its because I wasn't exposed to young people in Jerusalem, or because the people in Jerusalem are just different (I'm confident that it's more the former than the latter). But, walking around downtown Ramallah reassured me that Palestinians are some of the most attractive people to walk the face of the earth (with some severe exceptions) - male and female, old and young. And while probably 60% of girls my age were wearing hijab, so did 80% of guys have gel in their hair. The hijab here, for 20ish year olds at least, seems to be as much a stylish head accessory as the guy's gel. For most of the girls, the hijab is shrink-wrapped onto their heads with the rest of their clothes. I guess you'll have to refer to the Q for a more accurate assessment of what hijab is. It's not up to me.
3. For now - a capital.
Unless Hebron or Nablus have a surprise for me, Ramallah has firmly taken the reigns as the de facto cultural/societal Palestinian capital.
In Washington DC, you might feel the most American. In New York, you feel what America IS and what America CAN BE. Its make-up, its attitude toward work and play, its arrogance, its values.
While the parallels are by no means exact [parallels never are] Ramallah seems to have exposed Palestinian society for its potential and its faults. While I wish I could say the same about Jerusalem, the "Palestinianness" of J-town is tempered/hampered by an aggressive military presence, and by decades of de facto co-existence. Palestinians in Jerusalem are not surprised that I might speak a few words of Hebrew. They, in fact, need it. Those here in Ramallah chuckle at one sentence of Hebrew. It's not intentional. Just unnecessary.
4- Ask me about it
5- The Wall is a Racist Piece of Shit.
For anyone who has heard the argument "oh it's not a wall," they're right. it's not all a wall. Have you ever seen how farmers keep their cows? So the cows don't escape and cease to give their milk as the farmer pleases [and, the farmer may allege, so that the occasional cow doesn't cross through and eat the farmer's grass, or - god forbid - the farmer's wife or husband?] The fence portion is exactly like that.
Regardless, the wall is among the most horrible things I've seen in my life. Its primary effect, if not its primary purpose, is absolute separation, absolute demoralization, and absolute normalization of the absurdly abnormal. Today I jumped on a bus headed from Ramallah to Jerusalem. [First, I should note that my cousins in the West Bank haven't seen Jerusalem for 6 or 7 years although it's only 20 minutes away. Without a Jerusalem ID, or an Israeli citizenship, the trip is virtually impossible.]
Today the checkpoint at Qalandiya, and the neighboring checkpoints were closed. Evidently, (according to the Jerusalemites on the bus with me) one of the cows had gotten out and bitten one of the farmhands. [a soldier got shot at a checkpoint.] For that, the collective punishment exacted upon the farm was a complete closure of major entrances, and denial to any bus trying to make its way through. As such, the bus driver took us up to the Anata checkpoint near Sho3fat Refugee Camp. From there, we disembarked and crossed the wall on foot. At each populated area, the cattle fence turns into a 20-foot monstrosity manned by Israeli army guards who are themselves armed to the tooth. (Incidentally, the Israeli government has begun to hire private companies to run the areas between the green line and the wall. hmmm...blackwater) As i crossed through the turnstile, the soldier - padded like an NFL player with Kevlar, barked at me: STANNA. STANNA. I showed him my Passport. Wein il visa? ... When the other guard shoved me aside, the blood rushed to my head, and I gathered myself - holding back frustration. Hon Habib Immak.
I jumped on a bus labeled sho3fat camp-Jerusalem and made my way to the Damascus Gate.
6 and 7 are important, but the Japanese guy in hostel is breathing down my neck. I'll try to type them up later.
6. Palestinians <3 Spraypaint.
7. Religion is a Bane of Palestinian Existence.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
al-quds. first days.
I'm sitting in a hostel near the old city, where there's free wireless and shay. Rosslind, my friend, and the other intern with me at UNRWA is living here for the time being. She also might move in with Michael and I, in order to bring down the rent, but I have to ask the landlord because I have a feeling that having a girl roommate isn't as norrmal here as elsewhere. I hope it works out for the best.
The manager here at the hostel, Osama, is quite nice. I almost wish I would stay here - the rent is cheap (about 25 shekels a day) and there are always interesting people around, but 7 months in a room with 8 others might get a bit annoying. We'll see. I could definitely see myself hanging out here more often.
I got lucky and found an apartment right inside the Old City of Jerusalem, inside the Damascus Gate, what the Palestinians call "Bab il3amood." The apartment has three pretty large bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen equipped with a small stove/oven, 6 arabic coffee pots, hundreds of pots/pans. There's also two sitting areas, and a balcony that sits right over a one-room mosque on the inside of the old city. The inside is rather shabby, but with some elbow grease, it has some serious potential. My roommate, Michael, is 30 and works at PASSIA with mom's cousin Sana. He's a good-hearted guy who spent 10 years after high school traveling and doing odd jobs, and then went to college at Concordia in Montreal.
I've been to UNRWA about 1.5 days so far, and it looks like the work is quite promising. As of now, I've been kind of shadowing others and taking care of administrative things - getting my id and my UN certificate squared away, meeting everyone, doing the security training, and taking a tour of the area. I'm actually working with the Headquarter's Public Information Office. HQ is technically based in Gaza, but they have essentially relocated to Jerusalem since 2005. Israel will not allow them to officially do so. So the HQ (at least PIO) is split up now between Gaza, Jerusalem, and Amman and it's making what should be streamlined work rather difficult. My main tasks at the office will be working on Media updates (updating the UN on how the conflict is covered in the media - they want me to read Arabic media so I really need to start practicing), writing articles for their website (for which I might be able to go into the West Bank to the camps), helping with the 1948 work (we are doing an event commemorating the 60 year anniversary) and working on popularizing UNRWA among youth (for which my work at AAI might prove to be very useful.) UNRWA so far seems to be a generally good - albeit bureaucratic - organization.
In terms of traveling into the West Bank, there's a lot to tell in terms of how the Israeli Army is supposed to treat us, and how they actually do. The most interesting, and depressing, part of what I've learned is that no international is obliged to show the IDF their passports as long as they present UN ID. UNRWA HAS relented, nonetheless, to allow the IDF to force Palestinian employees to show the army their Israeli IDs at any given checkpoint, despite the guaranteed protection accorded to UN employees and ESPECIALLY UN vehicles. The UN - and particularly UNRWA - seems to be particularly disliked by Israelis in particular, and especially by right wingers. The head of my department recently had her UN car torched in front of her house.
Being here is trying. I've been here less than 48 hours, and already I am unsure how to present myself to the Israelis and - moreso - to the Palestinians. "Being myself" is just awkward here, because when I put my jeans and sweater on in the morning, I just look different than the average Palestinian walking the streets.
When I walked up to the Dome of the Rock yesterday (after I failed to pull off the tricks necessary to unlock the door to my apartment), the Israeli guard at the entrance stopped me. "Ma ata rotze (What do you want here)?" he asked at first. I answered him in Arabic. "Shu (What?)" "Keef 7alak (How are you?)" he answered in kind, with a perfect Arabic accent. "Bseder (Fine)" I answered in Hebrew. "Min wain inta(Where are you from)" he continued in Arabic. After pausing for a second, I told him Ohio and showed him my ID. He debated with the other guard for a minute in Hebrew, and let me through. When I tried to walk into the Dome of the Rock to pray, the Palestinian lady at the door stopped me. "Assalamu 3alaikum" I told her. "Wa 3alaikum Issalam. Min wain inta?" Taken aback ... I told her " Falastini. Min Sukkan Amerka. (Palestinian, living in America.) She looked at me with an awkward face. "O nawwi titsali ilyom inshallah? (And you plan on praying today, Inshallah?)"
"Inshallah," I said, and I walked in and took off my Starbury tennis shoes.
The manager here at the hostel, Osama, is quite nice. I almost wish I would stay here - the rent is cheap (about 25 shekels a day) and there are always interesting people around, but 7 months in a room with 8 others might get a bit annoying. We'll see. I could definitely see myself hanging out here more often.
I got lucky and found an apartment right inside the Old City of Jerusalem, inside the Damascus Gate, what the Palestinians call "Bab il3amood." The apartment has three pretty large bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen equipped with a small stove/oven, 6 arabic coffee pots, hundreds of pots/pans. There's also two sitting areas, and a balcony that sits right over a one-room mosque on the inside of the old city. The inside is rather shabby, but with some elbow grease, it has some serious potential. My roommate, Michael, is 30 and works at PASSIA with mom's cousin Sana. He's a good-hearted guy who spent 10 years after high school traveling and doing odd jobs, and then went to college at Concordia in Montreal.
I've been to UNRWA about 1.5 days so far, and it looks like the work is quite promising. As of now, I've been kind of shadowing others and taking care of administrative things - getting my id and my UN certificate squared away, meeting everyone, doing the security training, and taking a tour of the area. I'm actually working with the Headquarter's Public Information Office. HQ is technically based in Gaza, but they have essentially relocated to Jerusalem since 2005. Israel will not allow them to officially do so. So the HQ (at least PIO) is split up now between Gaza, Jerusalem, and Amman and it's making what should be streamlined work rather difficult. My main tasks at the office will be working on Media updates (updating the UN on how the conflict is covered in the media - they want me to read Arabic media so I really need to start practicing), writing articles for their website (for which I might be able to go into the West Bank to the camps), helping with the 1948 work (we are doing an event commemorating the 60 year anniversary) and working on popularizing UNRWA among youth (for which my work at AAI might prove to be very useful.) UNRWA so far seems to be a generally good - albeit bureaucratic - organization.
In terms of traveling into the West Bank, there's a lot to tell in terms of how the Israeli Army is supposed to treat us, and how they actually do. The most interesting, and depressing, part of what I've learned is that no international is obliged to show the IDF their passports as long as they present UN ID. UNRWA HAS relented, nonetheless, to allow the IDF to force Palestinian employees to show the army their Israeli IDs at any given checkpoint, despite the guaranteed protection accorded to UN employees and ESPECIALLY UN vehicles. The UN - and particularly UNRWA - seems to be particularly disliked by Israelis in particular, and especially by right wingers. The head of my department recently had her UN car torched in front of her house.
Being here is trying. I've been here less than 48 hours, and already I am unsure how to present myself to the Israelis and - moreso - to the Palestinians. "Being myself" is just awkward here, because when I put my jeans and sweater on in the morning, I just look different than the average Palestinian walking the streets.
When I walked up to the Dome of the Rock yesterday (after I failed to pull off the tricks necessary to unlock the door to my apartment), the Israeli guard at the entrance stopped me. "Ma ata rotze (What do you want here)?" he asked at first. I answered him in Arabic. "Shu (What?)" "Keef 7alak (How are you?)" he answered in kind, with a perfect Arabic accent. "Bseder (Fine)" I answered in Hebrew. "Min wain inta(Where are you from)" he continued in Arabic. After pausing for a second, I told him Ohio and showed him my ID. He debated with the other guard for a minute in Hebrew, and let me through. When I tried to walk into the Dome of the Rock to pray, the Palestinian lady at the door stopped me. "Assalamu 3alaikum" I told her. "Wa 3alaikum Issalam. Min wain inta?" Taken aback ... I told her " Falastini. Min Sukkan Amerka. (Palestinian, living in America.) She looked at me with an awkward face. "O nawwi titsali ilyom inshallah? (And you plan on praying today, Inshallah?)"
"Inshallah," I said, and I walked in and took off my Starbury tennis shoes.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
wax on, wax off.
the first will be last.
today i start the documentation of my adventure to the land of milk and honey. zahrat almadaen. yerushalayim shel zahav. everybody's talking 'bout - jerusalem. i'm a bit more than 2 weeks away from my trek to the motherland, but i'm still here in our nation's fine capital, trying to accomplish more than congress has since i got here in early july.
i finished up work with aai last week (join our facebook group), and after some serious procrastination, managed to get a start on my personal statement. the plan is to return to the first exile - the hydroxide state, the great state, the second motherland - at the beginning of next week and leave from there around november 24th -- home.
a brief update - for the past 4 months i've been working with the arab american institute as a community relations consultant, particularly working with youth across the country, in an attempt to mobilize them politically, and to forge a network on that basis. last week, i finally confirmed that i'll be headed to the middle east - to jerusalem - to work with the united nations relief and works agency (unrwa - in english and arabic), a section of the UN which works with the Palestinian refugees. i'll be working in the public information office - more details are forthcoming.
as for now, i will continue to wax philosophic in a personal statement doomed to be edited, re-edited, and re-edited.
tzi 5*c
today i start the documentation of my adventure to the land of milk and honey. zahrat almadaen. yerushalayim shel zahav. everybody's talking 'bout - jerusalem. i'm a bit more than 2 weeks away from my trek to the motherland, but i'm still here in our nation's fine capital, trying to accomplish more than congress has since i got here in early july.
i finished up work with aai last week (join our facebook group), and after some serious procrastination, managed to get a start on my personal statement. the plan is to return to the first exile - the hydroxide state, the great state, the second motherland - at the beginning of next week and leave from there around november 24th -- home.
a brief update - for the past 4 months i've been working with the arab american institute as a community relations consultant, particularly working with youth across the country, in an attempt to mobilize them politically, and to forge a network on that basis. last week, i finally confirmed that i'll be headed to the middle east - to jerusalem - to work with the united nations relief and works agency (unrwa - in english and arabic), a section of the UN which works with the Palestinian refugees. i'll be working in the public information office - more details are forthcoming.
as for now, i will continue to wax philosophic in a personal statement doomed to be edited, re-edited, and re-edited.
tzi 5*c
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