having spoken with a number of refugees in a handful of camps - in dheisheh and azze camps in bethlehem, al-am'ari camp in ramallah, balata and al-ain camps in nablus - and with my family in sha'ab and those FROM sha'ab who can only imagine it, i have come to realize something VITAL about us, as palestinians - as a people in exile.
like i wrote in my last entry, we have suffered a series of losses as palestinians.
as refugees, we lost our ancestral homes and livelihood both of which had undergone generations of development. some of us have experienced temporary (and sometimes permanent) replacements for both of these, whether in the ghettoized camps of lebanon, syria, jordan and the west bank, the prisonized refugee camp that is gaza, or the starbucksized suburbs of america.
we remain. palestinians.
more than the land, the olive groves, the sunrises and sunsets, the citrus-olive oil smell ground into our skin, the endless hills rolling into the sea, the SEA! the SEA!...more than all of these, what we have lost is our COMMUNITY.
from this loss, we must rebuild. from this loss, we must bring forth the lessons of exile and pour them back into our communal tunjara, add some zeit and summac, and stir until it BUBBLES vigorously.
with this in mind, i want to reach out to my family.
i'm going to start with the sha'bawis, since I know many of you are out there reading (thank you.) and because the el-khatib clan is truly an exiled community.
i am going to start working on a family tree, a geneology reaching back as far as we can, aiming to reconnect US with ONE ANOTHER.
For this, I will need ALL of your help. If you can give me as much of the information as requested below as you know, it would be GREATLY appreciated. I will obviously share the results as they proceed. If you have any ideas, or know anyone who has started doing this...please let me know.
If you care to copy and paste this information and e-mail it to me at ismail.tz@gmail.com , that would be wonderful.
I'll give a brief example, but it will be by no means all-inclusive.
Your Name: Tarek Ziad Said Ismail [1985]
Your Siblings Names - Their spouses (their children-their spouse(their children)): Deena Ziad Said Ismail[1987] - No Spouse; Nadia Ziad Said Ismail [1992]- No Spouse
Your Mother's Name: Linda Nasr Attieh Mansour [year]
Your Mother's Siblings Names - Their Spouses (their children (their children)): (e.g.): (Randa Nasr Attieh Mansour [year] - Hussien Yehia Shousher [year] (Yasmeen Hussien Yehia Shousher [1983] - No Spouse; Marwan Hussien Yehia Shousher [1987] - No Spouse)
Your Father's Name: Ziad Said Ismail [year]
Your Father's Siblings Names - Their Spouses (their children (their children)): (e.g.): (Sabih Said Ismail [year] - Iman Mohammad Al Faour [year] (Manal Sabih Said Ismail [1985] - No Spouse; Hicham Sabih Said Ismail [1986?] - No Spouse; Ahmad Sabih Said Ismail [1993 - No Spouse)
If you can provide MORE information than that, it would be great...but I think it would be a great start.
Please let me know if you have ANY ideas. Thanks so much.
tzi
Friday, April 11, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
sha3bawi
sunday morning, i got up early and put on a shirt that reminds me a lot of my dad. it's chocolate brown and has the little button flaps on the shoulders and two pockets that button on the chest. my dad loves those shirts.
i was heading home.
i went to sha'ab once as a kid.
My family's village was always a mythical place painted in my mind by my dad's second-hand stories. I remember three things from my visit to sha'ab with my mom and deena almost 12 years ago -
1. the dust from the streets which i kicked up onto my shoes and my chubby ankles and calves.
2. distant members of baba's family feuding over where we would eat lunch.
3. a simple, boring rock that i picked up and put in a red velvet jewelry box which wouldn't close as a way of actualizing baba's myth.
when our bus pulled up to the bottom of sha'ab's hill (bus 68), the village was instantly different than i remembered it to be. i remembered walking in on a flat, grimy road and thinking..."psh. this is it?"
this time, i climbed the windy road to the top, curving around half finished homes and closed convenience shops. For the first few minutes, I wasn't actually sure I was in sha'ab as i looked around at the buildings, the new construction underway..."where is this place," i kept thinking to myself.
soon, though, i started to look around and feel a sort of familiarity with the people. a lot of the kids playing in the street had colored eyes and hair that was more brown than black, lawyers and engineers' names were proudly displayed: faour, el-khatib, and khaled - names i had recognized all my life as my townspeople; i soon saw a sign in arabic assuring me i had scaled the right path:
"مدرسة شعب الابتدائية على اسم الاستاذ كامل سعده" kamel sa'ade sha'ab primary school.
sha'ab is a town of bends and curves, of dust and dirt - of people. quaint is a fittingly kitsch but hardly sufficient description. nonetheless, as i neared the point where the street's upward incline leveled off onto a rocky plateau of construction, i thought to myself, looking over the endless grove of olive trees below, "well. this is it. sha'ab. that didn't take long."
as i pushed on, continuing down the hill, i saw two men in what will from this point forward be referred to as palestinian stance 1(one foot against a wall, second leg slightly bent at the knee, staring into the distance) and decided to test the reality and viability of a family tree.
in the most literal of translations.
"brother, allow me to burden you. where is the home of the el-khatib clan?"
"no. it's no burden in the least! welcome welcome. 1oo welcomes to sha'ab. why do you ask? (welcome.)"
"i'm tarek ziad said ismail el-khatib. i'm from here. from sha'ab. but from america. but from here."
"ahhhhhh! welcome welcome welcome. so you want to see your relatives! who from the house of el-khatib do you want to see?"
"i don't know. just show me some khatibs."
"well there's abu-something-or-other right here, he should be able to tell you. and if he doesn't know, then just follow that street all the way down until you see construction in the road, and that area is all el-khatibs."
"Ok great. Thanks."
And I was off. One of the pair yelled at me while I was walking down the hill, smirking,
"Who leaves America to come to this place anyway?"
"I do!"
"Well, you're an ahbal (a goof.)"
"Thanks."
I went to abu-something-or-others house near the top of the street, but the only person in was a 12 year old boy in a yellow sweatshirt hanging out the window.
"Is abu-something-or-other home?!" I asked him. I slurred the something-or-other part because I wasn't sure at all what the name was.
"No he's not home!"
I walked over to the people sitting on their front porch across the street. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and they were outside chopping the stems off of some type of leaf to cook as palestinians do.
"May God give you health."
"May he increase your health."
"Do you know where the el-khatib neighborhood is?" "Abu-something-or-other across the street is el-khatib."
"I know. His son just told me he's not home."
"YOUR DAD'S NOT IN THE HOUSE?!" he yelled past me at the yellow sweatshirt kid who may have been named something-or-other, given his father's name.
"NO."
"Ah. He's not home," No shit. "Ok...well if you walk down this street to the end, you'll be in the el-khatib neighborhood. You can't miss it."
"Ok, thanks."
"Welcome welcome."
I kept walking down the street. Most of the houses in this area were mere skeletons; construction was the latest fashion trend, as rubble lie everywhere - a productive rubble, not the same as the ramallah rubble with a pile of candy wrappers and falafel sandwich remains attached. As I neared what I thought was the end of the street, I saw and older lady with her hijab halfheartedly tied around her head.
"Good morning. Do you know where the el-khatib neighborhood is?" I fully expected her, at that point, to open her arms and say, "You're standing in it! Ahla o Sahla! Welcome!"
Instead,
" Well...I think there are some down there. Did you try Abu-something-or-other up the road? He knows. Hey, girls!" She called over two teenage girls that were walking back up the way from which I had come. "Take this man up to Abu-something-or-other's house. He's looking for the house of el-Khatib."
Crimony.
Up again we walked, to Abu-s.o.o.'s house. Once again, the only person there - a boy in a yellow sweatshirt hanging his big goofy face out the window.
"Where's your DAD?!" "Not home!"
Just then, a pickup truck drove down the rode, and slowed next to the porch leaf-choppers.
"Where is he?" "This is the kid. He's looking for el-Khatibs. He's one of you."
I opened the truck door to find Omar - buzzed head, bright pink and white striped polo shirt, and huge silver chain.
"What's your name?" "Tarek Ziad Said Ismail El-Khatib. My grandfather lived here. Said Ismail. Abu-Ghazi. Ana Sha3bawi."
"You're related to me kid. Jump in."
We drove down to his father's house, where he parked the pickup in the road and ushered for me to walked into the outdoor area - too low to the ground level to be a porch, and too shabby to be a courtyard. He introduced me to his father, Abu-Marwan - a fair skinned man with a blondish mustache who sat alone shuffling 4 decks of cards, and his lips smacked together around his toothless mouth when he explained to me who was related to whom among the el-khatibs.
We never really established how we were related, but within 5 minutes Abu-Marwan (from the sheikh muhammad branch of the el-khatib clan) was insisting that i was family, and that regardless of whether he wanted to host me or not, that he was "majboor - forced" to have me. Because we were family.
His wife, daughter, and grandchildren came out of the woodwork, elated at the prospect of a new cousin. I was equally so. They brought me coke, cucumber, tomato, and za'atar (thyme) bread that they had baked that day, and argued over who i resembled the most among our family.
Soon, they called me inside,
"Tare2, the phone's for you."
I walked in, as they all crowded around the spin-dial phone. Im-Marwan handed me the receiver.
"Hello?" "Yes, Tare2? Tare2 what?" "Tare2 Ziad Said Ismail"
"Ahhh...so your grandfather is Said? Said whom?" "Said Ismail...Abu Ghazi. He left to Lebanon in 1948." "Ah so you have family in Lebanon? Who?" "Um...my Aunt Myassar is there. She's married to Khaled Yunus."
"Myassar is your AUNT?! Hold on we'll be right there."
5 minutes later, Abu Said, Im Said, and Insaf, whom I had spoken to on the phone, pulled up to Abu-Marwan's and hopped out of the car. My dad's sister Myassar had visited them in the early 1980's when she was still able to travel here, and they knew her from then.
Im Said was on the verge of tears. "The people of Sha'ab are coming back. The people of Sha'ab must come back."
She went on, telling me how she didn't know anyone anymore in her village. It was all foreigners - Arabs from other towns that had settled in Sha'ab. Perhaps the greatest tragedy of the Nakba is not the destruction of homes or the loss of land, but the sheer annihilation of familiar community.
"Where are your father’s sisters and brothers?" I explained proudly, “Well, he has a brother in the UAE, one in California, another in Texas but he was in Saudi for a while, one in Canada, a sister in Lebanon, one in Syria, and another in Turkey..."
Im Said shook her head the whole time.
"Yaaaa haram. What a shame. They belong here. They belong in Sha'ab so I can know them and know their children!"
After thanking Abu-Marwan profusely for his generosity, I was whisked off by Abu-Said and friends to his home in the upper part of town.
"Look over here...look my son..." Im-Said told me pointing west, toward the setting sun..."That's all Sha'ab. All of those olive trees...grove after grove...this is your village my son." And it was.
They quickly zoomed me around the city, showing me an abandoned - yet preserved - church that was over 300 years old, my grandfather's home, and the well from which the villagers used to fill bucket after bucket of water.
At home, Abu-Said told me about himself. He had worked for years in Haifa as the manager of a supermarket, living there and raising his children. Sha'ab had been closed off as an Israeli settlement until 1970, but when the time came to retire, Abu Said told me, he decided to come back home. His sons have followed suit and now live in the three floors above him.
Child upon child piled into the house, each of them with bright green eyes and frizzy hair.
Im-Said and Insaf made molokhiyeh and sumac-spiced chicken, apologizing for having only been able to throw something small together.
I laughed. 4 hours before, I had been ready to turn back to Jerusalem, and now I had an entire family urging me to come back so I could properly see my village. I agreed.
As I walked out Im-Said limped after me, a heavy bag at her side, insisting,
"Take this. Take this I swear it's nothing." I opened the bag - a 3 liter corn-oil bottle - filled with olive oil.
"This is from Sha'ab. Use it to your heart's content, and if you need more - it's your village. Just come back for it."
i was heading home.
i went to sha'ab once as a kid.
My family's village was always a mythical place painted in my mind by my dad's second-hand stories. I remember three things from my visit to sha'ab with my mom and deena almost 12 years ago -
1. the dust from the streets which i kicked up onto my shoes and my chubby ankles and calves.
2. distant members of baba's family feuding over where we would eat lunch.
3. a simple, boring rock that i picked up and put in a red velvet jewelry box which wouldn't close as a way of actualizing baba's myth.
when our bus pulled up to the bottom of sha'ab's hill (bus 68), the village was instantly different than i remembered it to be. i remembered walking in on a flat, grimy road and thinking..."psh. this is it?"
this time, i climbed the windy road to the top, curving around half finished homes and closed convenience shops. For the first few minutes, I wasn't actually sure I was in sha'ab as i looked around at the buildings, the new construction underway..."where is this place," i kept thinking to myself.
soon, though, i started to look around and feel a sort of familiarity with the people. a lot of the kids playing in the street had colored eyes and hair that was more brown than black, lawyers and engineers' names were proudly displayed: faour, el-khatib, and khaled - names i had recognized all my life as my townspeople; i soon saw a sign in arabic assuring me i had scaled the right path:
"مدرسة شعب الابتدائية على اسم الاستاذ كامل سعده" kamel sa'ade sha'ab primary school.
sha'ab is a town of bends and curves, of dust and dirt - of people. quaint is a fittingly kitsch but hardly sufficient description. nonetheless, as i neared the point where the street's upward incline leveled off onto a rocky plateau of construction, i thought to myself, looking over the endless grove of olive trees below, "well. this is it. sha'ab. that didn't take long."
as i pushed on, continuing down the hill, i saw two men in what will from this point forward be referred to as palestinian stance 1(one foot against a wall, second leg slightly bent at the knee, staring into the distance) and decided to test the reality and viability of a family tree.
in the most literal of translations.
"brother, allow me to burden you. where is the home of the el-khatib clan?"
"no. it's no burden in the least! welcome welcome. 1oo welcomes to sha'ab. why do you ask? (welcome.)"
"i'm tarek ziad said ismail el-khatib. i'm from here. from sha'ab. but from america. but from here."
"ahhhhhh! welcome welcome welcome. so you want to see your relatives! who from the house of el-khatib do you want to see?"
"i don't know. just show me some khatibs."
"well there's abu-something-or-other right here, he should be able to tell you. and if he doesn't know, then just follow that street all the way down until you see construction in the road, and that area is all el-khatibs."
"Ok great. Thanks."
And I was off. One of the pair yelled at me while I was walking down the hill, smirking,
"Who leaves America to come to this place anyway?"
"I do!"
"Well, you're an ahbal (a goof.)"
"Thanks."
I went to abu-something-or-others house near the top of the street, but the only person in was a 12 year old boy in a yellow sweatshirt hanging out the window.
"Is abu-something-or-other home?!" I asked him. I slurred the something-or-other part because I wasn't sure at all what the name was.
"No he's not home!"
I walked over to the people sitting on their front porch across the street. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and they were outside chopping the stems off of some type of leaf to cook as palestinians do.
"May God give you health."
"May he increase your health."
"Do you know where the el-khatib neighborhood is?" "Abu-something-or-other across the street is el-khatib."
"I know. His son just told me he's not home."
"YOUR DAD'S NOT IN THE HOUSE?!" he yelled past me at the yellow sweatshirt kid who may have been named something-or-other, given his father's name.
"NO."
"Ah. He's not home," No shit. "Ok...well if you walk down this street to the end, you'll be in the el-khatib neighborhood. You can't miss it."
"Ok, thanks."
"Welcome welcome."
I kept walking down the street. Most of the houses in this area were mere skeletons; construction was the latest fashion trend, as rubble lie everywhere - a productive rubble, not the same as the ramallah rubble with a pile of candy wrappers and falafel sandwich remains attached. As I neared what I thought was the end of the street, I saw and older lady with her hijab halfheartedly tied around her head.
"Good morning. Do you know where the el-khatib neighborhood is?" I fully expected her, at that point, to open her arms and say, "You're standing in it! Ahla o Sahla! Welcome!"
Instead,
" Well...I think there are some down there. Did you try Abu-something-or-other up the road? He knows. Hey, girls!" She called over two teenage girls that were walking back up the way from which I had come. "Take this man up to Abu-something-or-other's house. He's looking for the house of el-Khatib."
Crimony.
Up again we walked, to Abu-s.o.o.'s house. Once again, the only person there - a boy in a yellow sweatshirt hanging his big goofy face out the window.
"Where's your DAD?!" "Not home!"
Just then, a pickup truck drove down the rode, and slowed next to the porch leaf-choppers.
"Where is he?" "This is the kid. He's looking for el-Khatibs. He's one of you."
I opened the truck door to find Omar - buzzed head, bright pink and white striped polo shirt, and huge silver chain.
"What's your name?" "Tarek Ziad Said Ismail El-Khatib. My grandfather lived here. Said Ismail. Abu-Ghazi. Ana Sha3bawi."
"You're related to me kid. Jump in."
We drove down to his father's house, where he parked the pickup in the road and ushered for me to walked into the outdoor area - too low to the ground level to be a porch, and too shabby to be a courtyard. He introduced me to his father, Abu-Marwan - a fair skinned man with a blondish mustache who sat alone shuffling 4 decks of cards, and his lips smacked together around his toothless mouth when he explained to me who was related to whom among the el-khatibs.
We never really established how we were related, but within 5 minutes Abu-Marwan (from the sheikh muhammad branch of the el-khatib clan) was insisting that i was family, and that regardless of whether he wanted to host me or not, that he was "majboor - forced" to have me. Because we were family.
His wife, daughter, and grandchildren came out of the woodwork, elated at the prospect of a new cousin. I was equally so. They brought me coke, cucumber, tomato, and za'atar (thyme) bread that they had baked that day, and argued over who i resembled the most among our family.
Soon, they called me inside,
"Tare2, the phone's for you."
I walked in, as they all crowded around the spin-dial phone. Im-Marwan handed me the receiver.
"Hello?" "Yes, Tare2? Tare2 what?" "Tare2 Ziad Said Ismail"
"Ahhh...so your grandfather is Said? Said whom?" "Said Ismail...Abu Ghazi. He left to Lebanon in 1948." "Ah so you have family in Lebanon? Who?" "Um...my Aunt Myassar is there. She's married to Khaled Yunus."
"Myassar is your AUNT?! Hold on we'll be right there."
5 minutes later, Abu Said, Im Said, and Insaf, whom I had spoken to on the phone, pulled up to Abu-Marwan's and hopped out of the car. My dad's sister Myassar had visited them in the early 1980's when she was still able to travel here, and they knew her from then.
Im Said was on the verge of tears. "The people of Sha'ab are coming back. The people of Sha'ab must come back."
She went on, telling me how she didn't know anyone anymore in her village. It was all foreigners - Arabs from other towns that had settled in Sha'ab. Perhaps the greatest tragedy of the Nakba is not the destruction of homes or the loss of land, but the sheer annihilation of familiar community.
"Where are your father’s sisters and brothers?" I explained proudly, “Well, he has a brother in the UAE, one in California, another in Texas but he was in Saudi for a while, one in Canada, a sister in Lebanon, one in Syria, and another in Turkey..."
Im Said shook her head the whole time.
"Yaaaa haram. What a shame. They belong here. They belong in Sha'ab so I can know them and know their children!"
After thanking Abu-Marwan profusely for his generosity, I was whisked off by Abu-Said and friends to his home in the upper part of town.
"Look over here...look my son..." Im-Said told me pointing west, toward the setting sun..."That's all Sha'ab. All of those olive trees...grove after grove...this is your village my son." And it was.
They quickly zoomed me around the city, showing me an abandoned - yet preserved - church that was over 300 years old, my grandfather's home, and the well from which the villagers used to fill bucket after bucket of water.
At home, Abu-Said told me about himself. He had worked for years in Haifa as the manager of a supermarket, living there and raising his children. Sha'ab had been closed off as an Israeli settlement until 1970, but when the time came to retire, Abu Said told me, he decided to come back home. His sons have followed suit and now live in the three floors above him.
Child upon child piled into the house, each of them with bright green eyes and frizzy hair.
Im-Said and Insaf made molokhiyeh and sumac-spiced chicken, apologizing for having only been able to throw something small together.
I laughed. 4 hours before, I had been ready to turn back to Jerusalem, and now I had an entire family urging me to come back so I could properly see my village. I agreed.
As I walked out Im-Said limped after me, a heavy bag at her side, insisting,
"Take this. Take this I swear it's nothing." I opened the bag - a 3 liter corn-oil bottle - filled with olive oil.
"This is from Sha'ab. Use it to your heart's content, and if you need more - it's your village. Just come back for it."
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
whatt is yourrr favo rit co loor?
Exactly a month since my last post.
[So much to tell...I will try and release my thoughts/experiences fairly methodically so as to make sure they all get out, and to get myself back on track with the weekly postings.
There will likely be a post every few days for the next week to make up for lost time]
Almost two months ago, I went to the head of UNRWA's Education Department in the West Bank to ask him what opportunities were available to begin teaching/tutoring at an UNRWA school. Frankly, he was taken aback by the prospect - it seems like the idea of an UNRWA staffer spending personal time in our schools was unprecendented, and neither the Education Department nor the principal of the school were sure exactly what to do with my request.
Nevertheless, they were excited at the idea, and Ros and I went down to the Amaari Girls School one Saturday afternoon in mid-February to meet with the principal and discuss what we would do. We agreed that we would come down to the Ramallah camp the following Saturday, and every saturday thereafter, and teach conversational English to a class of 4th grade girls. Arwa, the principal, warned us at the outset.
"There are 46 girls in one class," she said. "You're not going to be able to deal with them. They're crazy."
Each class in al-Amaari Girls' School, which serves as the main primary/middle school for al-Amaari's nearly 15,000 residents, has no less than 40 students. (Each grade has two/three classes.) The teachers are spread painfully thin, and the English teacher, upon meeting Ros, did her darndest to avoid speaking the language that she avowedly teaches.
Suffice it to say, the girls were crazy. Maybe not all of them - but two or three were crazy enough the next Saturday to rile up the rest of their classmates. Ros and I, armed with eight 1/2 shekel Cadbury candy bars and our UNRWA IDs dangling at the neck, walked into the jungle that is any 4th grade classroom anywhere in the world. The room, roughly 1/2 the size of a football field, had an old, beaten chalkboard at the front, carpeted flooring with no chairs, and 5 overly inflated bright orange basketballs. The girls, all smiles, were standing in a blob near the front of the class waiting for instructions.
I tried the classic teacher call and response. (You know the one...say something and then say "i can't hear you!")
"Good morning class!" I yelled over their hubbub.
"GO-OD MOR-NING...," they yelled back, rhythmically in unison...already impressively loud.
"I said good morning class!" I interrupted them, urging them to raise their voices.
"GO-OD MOR-NING!..." Christ, they were loud, but I cut them off again.
"GOOD MORNING CLASS!"
"GO-OD MOR-NING TEA-CHAIR"
I was impressed. Wow, these guys were ready to speak some ENGLISH! Aright!
My confidence was quickly dashed. "Ok today we are going to have some conversations! Can we get in pairs?" I wiggled two fingers at them...
"Aish? Ya3ni sho bta7kish 3arabi? Tarjimilna yallah..."
"What? So you don't speak Arabic? Translate for us come on..."
I refused. "No I don't speak Arabic. Only English." They weren't buying it - they knew my name was Tarek. And they know that's a name in Arabic. We kept trying to give them instructions, and they kept demanding that we translate. We gave an example:
"What is your name?"
"My name is Tarek."
"Where do you live?"
"I live in Jerusalem."
"Now you try!"
After struggling to put them in pairs, we got finally got them to ask each other...
"What is your name?"
"My name is Maram"
"Where do you live?"
"I live in Jerusalem."
WALLIK YOU CAN'T EVEN GO TO JERUSALEM! From there, the class broke down. We tried a game of "Tarek Says..." but all they understood was "Tarek says jump." and they would jump. Most of their distraction was owing to a whole bunch of girls running around the back throwing EXTREMELY bouncy basketballs at one another.
By the end of the lesson, it was nothing short of mayhem. The girls, struggling to understand our English, encircled me. They really did want to know what was happening (some of them), but our refusal to speak any Arabic wasn't helping the case...
They were used to their English teacher translating everything for them into Arabic or hand motions. While we were asking them how old they were, we were trying to teach them "I am nine." They didn't completely understand, and their English teacher walked in. She pointed to her head, and swiftly moved her finger downward. "Ahhhhhhh 'I am' the class said..." That's not how English is taught.
"Minshan Allah tarjim ya Tare2...bidna nifham...mna3rif inno bta7ki 3arabi.."
"For God's sake translate for us Tarek...we want to understand...we know you speak Arabic."
"La2 Ba7kish!"
"No I don't speak."
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Bya7ki 3arabi! Bya7-ki 3ara-bi."
"Ooooooooooooooooo he speaks Arabic! They started chanting: He speaks Ara-bic. He speaks Ara-bic."
I blew my cover. And then the bell rang.
We agreed with the principal after that period that we would have a smaller class on our hands next time, and allow it to grow if we could handle more kids.
The next week, and the few weeks thereafter, have been awesome. Slowly but surely, I'm trying to teach them how to pronounce certain phrases, and we've been using "question words" - Who, What, When, and Where. They've been far more tame and are super interested in learning what we teach them.
We taught them..."What is your favorite color?" and it resulted in this...
"Whatt iz yoor favo-rit colooor?"
"My favo-rit coloor is oRANJ."
"What is somefing oRANJ?"
"An orANJ!"
I asked them "Who is the president of Palestine?" and it resulted in this...
"Who is the President of Palestine?"
"The bresident of balestine he is Abu Mazen yil3an abo."
We played pictionary. I taught them "cucumber" and "onion" and "pants" - which they called trousers. I corrected them.
It's been great so far. While we are teaching them, little by little, how to actively use the English language - I'm still looking for ways to get it to STICK. I might try and start teaching one more day during the week. We have the long-term, lofty goal of performing a short play by the end of class. A play that will be broudly broduced in balestine.
Wish us luck.
[So much to tell...I will try and release my thoughts/experiences fairly methodically so as to make sure they all get out, and to get myself back on track with the weekly postings.
There will likely be a post every few days for the next week to make up for lost time]
Almost two months ago, I went to the head of UNRWA's Education Department in the West Bank to ask him what opportunities were available to begin teaching/tutoring at an UNRWA school. Frankly, he was taken aback by the prospect - it seems like the idea of an UNRWA staffer spending personal time in our schools was unprecendented, and neither the Education Department nor the principal of the school were sure exactly what to do with my request.
Nevertheless, they were excited at the idea, and Ros and I went down to the Amaari Girls School one Saturday afternoon in mid-February to meet with the principal and discuss what we would do. We agreed that we would come down to the Ramallah camp the following Saturday, and every saturday thereafter, and teach conversational English to a class of 4th grade girls. Arwa, the principal, warned us at the outset.
"There are 46 girls in one class," she said. "You're not going to be able to deal with them. They're crazy."
Each class in al-Amaari Girls' School, which serves as the main primary/middle school for al-Amaari's nearly 15,000 residents, has no less than 40 students. (Each grade has two/three classes.) The teachers are spread painfully thin, and the English teacher, upon meeting Ros, did her darndest to avoid speaking the language that she avowedly teaches.
Suffice it to say, the girls were crazy. Maybe not all of them - but two or three were crazy enough the next Saturday to rile up the rest of their classmates. Ros and I, armed with eight 1/2 shekel Cadbury candy bars and our UNRWA IDs dangling at the neck, walked into the jungle that is any 4th grade classroom anywhere in the world. The room, roughly 1/2 the size of a football field, had an old, beaten chalkboard at the front, carpeted flooring with no chairs, and 5 overly inflated bright orange basketballs. The girls, all smiles, were standing in a blob near the front of the class waiting for instructions.
I tried the classic teacher call and response. (You know the one...say something and then say "i can't hear you!")
"Good morning class!" I yelled over their hubbub.
"GO-OD MOR-NING...," they yelled back, rhythmically in unison...already impressively loud.
"I said good morning class!" I interrupted them, urging them to raise their voices.
"GO-OD MOR-NING!..." Christ, they were loud, but I cut them off again.
"GOOD MORNING CLASS!"
"GO-OD MOR-NING TEA-CHAIR"
I was impressed. Wow, these guys were ready to speak some ENGLISH! Aright!
My confidence was quickly dashed. "Ok today we are going to have some conversations! Can we get in pairs?" I wiggled two fingers at them...
"Aish? Ya3ni sho bta7kish 3arabi? Tarjimilna yallah..."
"What? So you don't speak Arabic? Translate for us come on..."
I refused. "No I don't speak Arabic. Only English." They weren't buying it - they knew my name was Tarek. And they know that's a name in Arabic. We kept trying to give them instructions, and they kept demanding that we translate. We gave an example:
"What is your name?"
"My name is Tarek."
"Where do you live?"
"I live in Jerusalem."
"Now you try!"
After struggling to put them in pairs, we got finally got them to ask each other...
"What is your name?"
"My name is Maram"
"Where do you live?"
"I live in Jerusalem."
WALLIK YOU CAN'T EVEN GO TO JERUSALEM! From there, the class broke down. We tried a game of "Tarek Says..." but all they understood was "Tarek says jump." and they would jump. Most of their distraction was owing to a whole bunch of girls running around the back throwing EXTREMELY bouncy basketballs at one another.
By the end of the lesson, it was nothing short of mayhem. The girls, struggling to understand our English, encircled me. They really did want to know what was happening (some of them), but our refusal to speak any Arabic wasn't helping the case...
They were used to their English teacher translating everything for them into Arabic or hand motions. While we were asking them how old they were, we were trying to teach them "I am nine." They didn't completely understand, and their English teacher walked in. She pointed to her head, and swiftly moved her finger downward. "Ahhhhhhh 'I am' the class said..." That's not how English is taught.
"Minshan Allah tarjim ya Tare2...bidna nifham...mna3rif inno bta7ki 3arabi.."
"For God's sake translate for us Tarek...we want to understand...we know you speak Arabic."
"La2 Ba7kish!"
"No I don't speak."
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Bya7ki 3arabi! Bya7-ki 3ara-bi."
"Ooooooooooooooooo he speaks Arabic! They started chanting: He speaks Ara-bic. He speaks Ara-bic."
I blew my cover. And then the bell rang.
We agreed with the principal after that period that we would have a smaller class on our hands next time, and allow it to grow if we could handle more kids.
The next week, and the few weeks thereafter, have been awesome. Slowly but surely, I'm trying to teach them how to pronounce certain phrases, and we've been using "question words" - Who, What, When, and Where. They've been far more tame and are super interested in learning what we teach them.
We taught them..."What is your favorite color?" and it resulted in this...
"Whatt iz yoor favo-rit colooor?"
"My favo-rit coloor is oRANJ."
"What is somefing oRANJ?"
"An orANJ!"
I asked them "Who is the president of Palestine?" and it resulted in this...
"Who is the President of Palestine?"
"The bresident of balestine he is Abu Mazen yil3an abo."
We played pictionary. I taught them "cucumber" and "onion" and "pants" - which they called trousers. I corrected them.
It's been great so far. While we are teaching them, little by little, how to actively use the English language - I'm still looking for ways to get it to STICK. I might try and start teaching one more day during the week. We have the long-term, lofty goal of performing a short play by the end of class. A play that will be broudly broduced in balestine.
Wish us luck.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Nablus
A few weeks ago, I went on a day out with the UNRWA Operations Department in the northern city of Nablus, and the three refugee camps there – Balata, ‘Ein Bet Al Ma’ (Camp Number 1), and ‘Askar.
Nablus has always been vaguely defined – in my mind – by four things.
1. Knafeh.
2. Soap.
3. Crude jokes about gay people.
4. A story my mom tells about a guest lecturer while she was in college.
[As the lecturer spoke about the Arab-Israeli conflict, he glossed over a statement, “and Nablus, the capital of Palestine…” Mom stood up in protest. “What?! Since when?” The presenter famously responded, “Ma’am. History is defined by how we perceive it today.”]
And since then, I have always thought to myself, “Nablus, the capital of Palestine. Hah!”
Rightly so, I suppose.
Jerusalem, in the heart of all Palestinians, will remain Palestine’s eternal capital. Nevertheless, Nablus – on the other side of a series of brutal checkpoints – is a city worthy of more than its soapy knafeh fame.
The seven checkpoints encircling Nablus (a city squarely situated in the West Bank) enforce a system of occupation that makes Qalandiya look like a sterile Canadian border.
Apartheid by any other name would smell as sweet.
Once an economic hub of Palestinian society, Nablus has been crippled by a series of checkpoints designed to protect the 14 (internationally) illegal Israeli settlements, and the 26 doubly illegal (Israeli, international law) outposts that are maintained on Palestinian land around the city.
Nablus is a mercantile center, the northern focus of Palestinian education and Al-Najah University, and a medical necessity for Palestinians, housing multiple referral hospitals. Clearly, access to Nablus is vital.
In order to leave Nablus, any Palestinian citizen requires clearance from the Israeli Army. Once you have clearance, you have the honor to stand in line at one of the pedestrian checkpoints that take hours at a time. Oh. If you have a bag, be sure to walk to one side, have it scanned, and then stand at the line that will have increased exponentially in length.
The checkpoint is a free for all – people walk (the elderly take a taxi) to the edge of their city, where they then proceed to play the waiting game, only – if they’re lucky – to make it into what is, even technically speaking, Palestinian land. Take a taxi from the other side, though. Only 50 private cars were given permits through the checkpoint in 2007.
This checkpoint, and the permanency of the settlements it benefits – impending expansion as indicated by the conveniently placed outposts, residents accustomed and dedicated to their West Bank life – indicate, ever more, the increasing difficulty of a two state solution as created by Israel’s ever-so-dear “facts on the ground.” These settlements are far too entrenched as a part of Israeli society to be removed (this isn’t Gaza), and they would never subsist in a truly sovereign Palestinian state. New, outside of the box thinking is necessary if any solution is to be reached.
As we went into the camps, I suppose I wasn’t completely surprised. The refugees in Nablus – expelled from towns parallel to the northern West Bank city, like Yaffa – live in tight quarters within the small boundaries of their camp.
Balata – the biggest camp in the West Bank – has almost 30,000 refugees living on a tract of land barely big enough for two Ramallah hillside mansions. The streets are often not wide enough to walk through without sidestepping, and sewage pipes are clearly visible more than not as you wind your way through.
Refugees in the 18 West Bank camps are in a different situation than those in Lebanon, Syria, or even Jordan. While Palestinians in Lebanon are essentially banished to their camps as (a large) part of the Lebanese problem and never as part of its solution, the refugees in the West Bank cities could – theoretically – move out of the camps like the Jeffersons did to the eastside. But most don’t.
Why.
1. The most obvious answer is that moving out of the refugee camp is expensive. Taxes, higher utility prices, and distance from their children’s free schools are all things that West Bank refugees have to think about before moving out of the camps. The employment situation in the camp does not lend itself to residents moving out and integrating into their surrounding societies.
2. These people are not from Nablus. And they will, according to many of them, never be from Nablus. They don’t belong there. They are from Yaffa. Some are from Haifa. Others, in Al-Am’ari, for example, are from Ramleh. When I ask them, many refugees living in the camps tell me that they will continue living in the camp – despite the opportunity to leave and normalize – until they see the day when a return to Yaffa, to Haifa, and to Ramleh is possible. Compound this personal desire to stay, with societal pressure against leaving– leaving, according to many, is seen as an abandonment of the cause, and more grievously, an abandonment of hope, and you are left with a painful and virtually insoluble (at least within the two state solution) purgatory.
3. There is a stigma associated with the camps – that they are enclaves of crime and lawlessness, that their residents are “gypsies - nawwar” and that they have no business associating with those outside of the camp. In a word, they are often times not welcome in the surrounding cities.
I’ll be going back soon, inshallah.
And you'll have things you want to talk about.
I.
Will.
Too.
Nablus has always been vaguely defined – in my mind – by four things.
1. Knafeh.
2. Soap.
3. Crude jokes about gay people.
4. A story my mom tells about a guest lecturer while she was in college.
[As the lecturer spoke about the Arab-Israeli conflict, he glossed over a statement, “and Nablus, the capital of Palestine…” Mom stood up in protest. “What?! Since when?” The presenter famously responded, “Ma’am. History is defined by how we perceive it today.”]
And since then, I have always thought to myself, “Nablus, the capital of Palestine. Hah!”
Rightly so, I suppose.
Jerusalem, in the heart of all Palestinians, will remain Palestine’s eternal capital. Nevertheless, Nablus – on the other side of a series of brutal checkpoints – is a city worthy of more than its soapy knafeh fame.
The seven checkpoints encircling Nablus (a city squarely situated in the West Bank) enforce a system of occupation that makes Qalandiya look like a sterile Canadian border.
Apartheid by any other name would smell as sweet.
Once an economic hub of Palestinian society, Nablus has been crippled by a series of checkpoints designed to protect the 14 (internationally) illegal Israeli settlements, and the 26 doubly illegal (Israeli, international law) outposts that are maintained on Palestinian land around the city.
Nablus is a mercantile center, the northern focus of Palestinian education and Al-Najah University, and a medical necessity for Palestinians, housing multiple referral hospitals. Clearly, access to Nablus is vital.
In order to leave Nablus, any Palestinian citizen requires clearance from the Israeli Army. Once you have clearance, you have the honor to stand in line at one of the pedestrian checkpoints that take hours at a time. Oh. If you have a bag, be sure to walk to one side, have it scanned, and then stand at the line that will have increased exponentially in length.
The checkpoint is a free for all – people walk (the elderly take a taxi) to the edge of their city, where they then proceed to play the waiting game, only – if they’re lucky – to make it into what is, even technically speaking, Palestinian land. Take a taxi from the other side, though. Only 50 private cars were given permits through the checkpoint in 2007.
This checkpoint, and the permanency of the settlements it benefits – impending expansion as indicated by the conveniently placed outposts, residents accustomed and dedicated to their West Bank life – indicate, ever more, the increasing difficulty of a two state solution as created by Israel’s ever-so-dear “facts on the ground.” These settlements are far too entrenched as a part of Israeli society to be removed (this isn’t Gaza), and they would never subsist in a truly sovereign Palestinian state. New, outside of the box thinking is necessary if any solution is to be reached.
As we went into the camps, I suppose I wasn’t completely surprised. The refugees in Nablus – expelled from towns parallel to the northern West Bank city, like Yaffa – live in tight quarters within the small boundaries of their camp.
Balata – the biggest camp in the West Bank – has almost 30,000 refugees living on a tract of land barely big enough for two Ramallah hillside mansions. The streets are often not wide enough to walk through without sidestepping, and sewage pipes are clearly visible more than not as you wind your way through.
Refugees in the 18 West Bank camps are in a different situation than those in Lebanon, Syria, or even Jordan. While Palestinians in Lebanon are essentially banished to their camps as (a large) part of the Lebanese problem and never as part of its solution, the refugees in the West Bank cities could – theoretically – move out of the camps like the Jeffersons did to the eastside. But most don’t.
Why.
1. The most obvious answer is that moving out of the refugee camp is expensive. Taxes, higher utility prices, and distance from their children’s free schools are all things that West Bank refugees have to think about before moving out of the camps. The employment situation in the camp does not lend itself to residents moving out and integrating into their surrounding societies.
2. These people are not from Nablus. And they will, according to many of them, never be from Nablus. They don’t belong there. They are from Yaffa. Some are from Haifa. Others, in Al-Am’ari, for example, are from Ramleh. When I ask them, many refugees living in the camps tell me that they will continue living in the camp – despite the opportunity to leave and normalize – until they see the day when a return to Yaffa, to Haifa, and to Ramleh is possible. Compound this personal desire to stay, with societal pressure against leaving– leaving, according to many, is seen as an abandonment of the cause, and more grievously, an abandonment of hope, and you are left with a painful and virtually insoluble (at least within the two state solution) purgatory.
3. There is a stigma associated with the camps – that they are enclaves of crime and lawlessness, that their residents are “gypsies - nawwar” and that they have no business associating with those outside of the camp. In a word, they are often times not welcome in the surrounding cities.
I’ll be going back soon, inshallah.
And you'll have things you want to talk about.
I.
Will.
Too.
Friday, February 15, 2008
aaaaaa man.
It had been more than 10 years since I saw the starry Jordanian flag flying above the Shmisani Seffen Eleffen. So many things have changed in Amman; nonetheless, in a strange way, the change was entirely predictable.
There is no more King Hussein.
Fear not, though, for Jordanian blind allegiance to the Hashemite monarchy.
My ten-year absence from the kingdom, coupled with Hussein’s sheer enormity among his subjects, lowered my expectations for Abdallah’s presence as the newly crowned Simba.
I was wrong.
The seven-year reign of Abdallah II has clearly been rife with kingly photo shoots: in army fatigues, in regal abayas, in suit and tie, in Jordanian football uniform, with Queen Ranya, etc. etc. etc. Over almost every shop, on every main road, at the entrance of each mall, and (especially) in front of every government building, Abdallah’s boyish face looms large – often times alongside a photo of his father, and even sometimes as the last in a series of portraits of the Hashemite line.
Young people in Amman no longer claim they have “nothing to do,” as the uncreative members of our crew used to a decade ago. Amman got jealous of Dubai (and – to a lesser extent – Beirut.) There are now three (obnoxious) indoor malls, multiple outdoor shopping areas, tons of cafes, and even four or five nightclubs where people queue outside for hours to pay top dinar for a table. Ah, Amman. You try so hard.
The faces of the Sri Lankan housemaids change each time I go to Jordan. But they’re always there, giving their shy smiles and bowing their heads as I walk in the door, surprised by my acknowledgment. “Marhaba,” I say, “Shu ismik?”
She tells me her name is Raji and asks me mine. It’s the same thing I’ve been doing since I was ten; my family is used to it by now. Paid or not paid, the idea of, “Don’t touch! The girl will fix your bed; the girl will wash your dish; the girl will clean your room; the girl will warm your food,” has always made me cringe – especially with its
accompanying lack of gratitude, and especially when the attitude comes from otherwise kind, gentle people. My cousins always laugh when I take my plate to the kitchen, grab the sponge from the sink, and scrub it clean. Even Raji finds it odd, shrugging it off as a foreign kid who just doesn’t understand the social structure.
Thank you, mom. Thank you, Toledo. Thank you, Bodo’s. I like it better this way.
It snowed while I was in Amman. Six inches of the white stuff, piled high overnight in the streets of the Shmisani, Abdoun, Sweileh – you name it.
It was snowy on King Abdallah’s birthday. A gift from the heavens, the radio stations claimed as they played the songs singing the praises of the somehow storied king, and his erstwhile storied father. Ah, Jordan. You try so hard.
There is no more King Hussein.
Fear not, though, for Jordanian blind allegiance to the Hashemite monarchy.
My ten-year absence from the kingdom, coupled with Hussein’s sheer enormity among his subjects, lowered my expectations for Abdallah’s presence as the newly crowned Simba.
I was wrong.
The seven-year reign of Abdallah II has clearly been rife with kingly photo shoots: in army fatigues, in regal abayas, in suit and tie, in Jordanian football uniform, with Queen Ranya, etc. etc. etc. Over almost every shop, on every main road, at the entrance of each mall, and (especially) in front of every government building, Abdallah’s boyish face looms large – often times alongside a photo of his father, and even sometimes as the last in a series of portraits of the Hashemite line.
Young people in Amman no longer claim they have “nothing to do,” as the uncreative members of our crew used to a decade ago. Amman got jealous of Dubai (and – to a lesser extent – Beirut.) There are now three (obnoxious) indoor malls, multiple outdoor shopping areas, tons of cafes, and even four or five nightclubs where people queue outside for hours to pay top dinar for a table. Ah, Amman. You try so hard.
The faces of the Sri Lankan housemaids change each time I go to Jordan. But they’re always there, giving their shy smiles and bowing their heads as I walk in the door, surprised by my acknowledgment. “Marhaba,” I say, “Shu ismik?”
She tells me her name is Raji and asks me mine. It’s the same thing I’ve been doing since I was ten; my family is used to it by now. Paid or not paid, the idea of, “Don’t touch! The girl will fix your bed; the girl will wash your dish; the girl will clean your room; the girl will warm your food,” has always made me cringe – especially with its
accompanying lack of gratitude, and especially when the attitude comes from otherwise kind, gentle people. My cousins always laugh when I take my plate to the kitchen, grab the sponge from the sink, and scrub it clean. Even Raji finds it odd, shrugging it off as a foreign kid who just doesn’t understand the social structure.
Thank you, mom. Thank you, Toledo. Thank you, Bodo’s. I like it better this way.
It snowed while I was in Amman. Six inches of the white stuff, piled high overnight in the streets of the Shmisani, Abdoun, Sweileh – you name it.
It was snowy on King Abdallah’s birthday. A gift from the heavens, the radio stations claimed as they played the songs singing the praises of the somehow storied king, and his erstwhile storied father. Ah, Jordan. You try so hard.
Monday, January 21, 2008
this is palestine.
i always look for palestine in jerusalem and in ramallah, and she sends her bittersweet regards whenever i find her.
the old lady selling maramiyeh on the bab il-'amood steps sold me palestine's greetings for a shekel; the leafy stem on the clementines always wave as I peel them back, the sweet perfume of palestine rushing at me.
the 10-year-old old city boys, with a voice of their 50-year-old fathers, screaming (not to me, but to palestine) hello, hey! hello, hey! ooo 'ay!
i turnto find her, but both she and the 10 year-old abu-whomever always will have passed me by.
in jericho this weekend, i felt like she came out to greet me the second i stepped out of haifa's red opel, two dry breezy kisses on the cheek and a handful of dirt on my shoes;
i met palestine again.
walking up to haifa's house on a balmy january afternoon, i smelled palestine, and she smelled of burning wood and dusty oranges.
on the veranda overlooking the trees planted in rocky soil, i rocked back and forth on a rusty, lopsided, metal swing; with each clunk against the rail, thinking aloud, "nice to see you, to smell you, to hear you . . . again."
on the climb to the mount of temptation, i met her again! she was an african boy playing football with a his friends in the middle of a dirt road. big big smile. i swore he would tell me his name was palestine.
he said it was raed.
i picked 5 pieces of palestine from a tree, and we cooked with them the same day. and palestine filled our house. and our stomachs.
in the freshly pressed bicycle tracks left by a 9 year old girl in a pink sweater.
in the oranges pulling down the tree branches to tickle the pebbles in the soil.
in the dry dry breeze off the mountains too close to be distant.
in all of these.
i met palestine again. and she sends her regards.
the old lady selling maramiyeh on the bab il-'amood steps sold me palestine's greetings for a shekel; the leafy stem on the clementines always wave as I peel them back, the sweet perfume of palestine rushing at me.
the 10-year-old old city boys, with a voice of their 50-year-old fathers, screaming (not to me, but to palestine) hello, hey! hello, hey! ooo 'ay!
i turnto find her, but both she and the 10 year-old abu-whomever always will have passed me by.
in jericho this weekend, i felt like she came out to greet me the second i stepped out of haifa's red opel, two dry breezy kisses on the cheek and a handful of dirt on my shoes;
i met palestine again.
walking up to haifa's house on a balmy january afternoon, i smelled palestine, and she smelled of burning wood and dusty oranges.
on the veranda overlooking the trees planted in rocky soil, i rocked back and forth on a rusty, lopsided, metal swing; with each clunk against the rail, thinking aloud, "nice to see you, to smell you, to hear you . . . again."
on the climb to the mount of temptation, i met her again! she was an african boy playing football with a his friends in the middle of a dirt road. big big smile. i swore he would tell me his name was palestine.
he said it was raed.
i picked 5 pieces of palestine from a tree, and we cooked with them the same day. and palestine filled our house. and our stomachs.
in the freshly pressed bicycle tracks left by a 9 year old girl in a pink sweater.
in the oranges pulling down the tree branches to tickle the pebbles in the soil.
in the dry dry breeze off the mountains too close to be distant.
in all of these.
i met palestine again. and she sends her regards.
Monday, January 14, 2008
bush
01.13.08
On Wednesday of last week, our fearless leader descended upon the motherland, a mere afterthought on the American evening news. While people at home were bemoaning Clinton’s victory in New Hampshire, somewhere in the fallen headlines Bush’s first presidential visit to the land of milk and honey sputtered alongside Britney Spears latest medical problem.
In Jerusalem, you might actually think that Bush carried some legitimacy in the States, that he still maintains commanding control as the embodied leader of the free world. Route One, the main road leading into Jerusalem, (also the Green Line, incidentally), was – and still is – lined with alternating American and Israeli flags. The flags also made their way all over the Western part of the city in case you forgot who was in town.
The American President’s visit was met with day after day of headlines in both the Israeli and Arab newspapers. Al-Quds especially carried countless stories – ‘Bush visits Ramallah Tomorrow,’ ‘Security tightened in Ramallah compound for Bush visit,’ ‘Bush attends private ceremony at Church of the Nativity,’ ‘Bush takes a shit at 3:45 pm.’
Physical repercussions of the president’s visit were also palpable. On Wednesday, Route 1 was simply closed for most of the morning and into the afternoon, as it was on Thursday when W made the oh-so-risky trip from Jerusalem to Ramallah. The West Bank checkpoints, through which the President admittedly passed through easily with his 45-car motorcade, were also shut for most of Thursday, preventing the few residents of the West Bank who can actually get into Jerusalem from doing so.
And Gaza. Well. Gaza was sealed. No Gaza residents – not even UN employee Gazans – were allowed entry or exit between to or from Gaza.
What does it mean?
Why should a whimsical visit by President Bush at the very end of a hellish 8 years bring any hope to the people of Palestine, or, for that matter to the Israelis? Frankly, it doesn’t.
No one here seems to think much of Bush or his buzzer shot whirlwind tour. In fact, as I listened to the men at the UNRWA dispatcher office make small talk what they so fondly called ‘your president’s visit, conversation quickly turned to the slightly misinformed election banter…
“Do you really think that the dark guy can win?”
“What’s his name again?”
“Psh I forget. Wallah he’d be good, man. I don’t think they can do it.”
“Orama? His dad was Muslim, I hope you know. Hussein. No way – the Americans, electing a MUSLIM? Impossible.”
“I think it’s Obamo. You know he’s from Nigeria?”
“Ah, really?”
... and so on.
It’s just all too familiar – peace is possible by the end of my presidency.
What peace?
Will the wall come down by the end of your presidency?
Will the end of your presidency remove all the settlements?
Will the refugees even think about compensation, let alone return, by the end of your presidency?
Will Israel finally say it feels safe by the end of your presidency?
(Will Israel every say it feels safe?)
Will Gaza have a functioning economy by the end of your presidency?
No, no, and no ad infinitum.
So when Israel conveniently threatens to build 300 houses in an illegal settlement, and the Americans so conveniently take a strong stand against it, it’s no wonder that people here barely flinch. They’ve seen this all before, and before that.
It’s safe to say that the people at UNRWA will all be happily employed in two years time with refugees who still need their service. If I’m wrong, well, if I’m you can wrong buy me a cowboy hat and call me Georgie.
On Wednesday of last week, our fearless leader descended upon the motherland, a mere afterthought on the American evening news. While people at home were bemoaning Clinton’s victory in New Hampshire, somewhere in the fallen headlines Bush’s first presidential visit to the land of milk and honey sputtered alongside Britney Spears latest medical problem.
In Jerusalem, you might actually think that Bush carried some legitimacy in the States, that he still maintains commanding control as the embodied leader of the free world. Route One, the main road leading into Jerusalem, (also the Green Line, incidentally), was – and still is – lined with alternating American and Israeli flags. The flags also made their way all over the Western part of the city in case you forgot who was in town.
The American President’s visit was met with day after day of headlines in both the Israeli and Arab newspapers. Al-Quds especially carried countless stories – ‘Bush visits Ramallah Tomorrow,’ ‘Security tightened in Ramallah compound for Bush visit,’ ‘Bush attends private ceremony at Church of the Nativity,’ ‘Bush takes a shit at 3:45 pm.’
Physical repercussions of the president’s visit were also palpable. On Wednesday, Route 1 was simply closed for most of the morning and into the afternoon, as it was on Thursday when W made the oh-so-risky trip from Jerusalem to Ramallah. The West Bank checkpoints, through which the President admittedly passed through easily with his 45-car motorcade, were also shut for most of Thursday, preventing the few residents of the West Bank who can actually get into Jerusalem from doing so.
And Gaza. Well. Gaza was sealed. No Gaza residents – not even UN employee Gazans – were allowed entry or exit between to or from Gaza.
What does it mean?
Why should a whimsical visit by President Bush at the very end of a hellish 8 years bring any hope to the people of Palestine, or, for that matter to the Israelis? Frankly, it doesn’t.
No one here seems to think much of Bush or his buzzer shot whirlwind tour. In fact, as I listened to the men at the UNRWA dispatcher office make small talk what they so fondly called ‘your president’s visit, conversation quickly turned to the slightly misinformed election banter…
“Do you really think that the dark guy can win?”
“What’s his name again?”
“Psh I forget. Wallah he’d be good, man. I don’t think they can do it.”
“Orama? His dad was Muslim, I hope you know. Hussein. No way – the Americans, electing a MUSLIM? Impossible.”
“I think it’s Obamo. You know he’s from Nigeria?”
“Ah, really?”
... and so on.
It’s just all too familiar – peace is possible by the end of my presidency.
What peace?
Will the wall come down by the end of your presidency?
Will the end of your presidency remove all the settlements?
Will the refugees even think about compensation, let alone return, by the end of your presidency?
Will Israel finally say it feels safe by the end of your presidency?
(Will Israel every say it feels safe?)
Will Gaza have a functioning economy by the end of your presidency?
No, no, and no ad infinitum.
So when Israel conveniently threatens to build 300 houses in an illegal settlement, and the Americans so conveniently take a strong stand against it, it’s no wonder that people here barely flinch. They’ve seen this all before, and before that.
It’s safe to say that the people at UNRWA will all be happily employed in two years time with refugees who still need their service. If I’m wrong, well, if I’m you can wrong buy me a cowboy hat and call me Georgie.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
No Kwanzaa in the Motherland - 2
eid al-milad.
bet lehem 12.24/12.25
On Christmas Eve, Nancy (a Palestinian friend of mine from the office) offered to take Ros, her friend Vince, and me to Bethlehem for the Christmas festivities.
I had no idea what to expect.
Every year, the Christian (and particularly – Catholic) community in Bethlehem holds a parade of scouts from schools across Palestine welcoming the Patriarch of Jerusalem into town for Christmas Mass.
[Last year, evidently, it was particularly desolate because the army refused to allow in scouts from other cities in the West Bank or Israel.]
This year was different – creepily different, in fact. Soldiers at the checkpoint were wishing visitors a “khag sameakh” (happy holiday), and going noticeably – uncomfortably – out of their way to be cordial. [Suffice it to say, it wasn’t the same going to Ramallah on Eid al-Adha.]Don’t be alarmed; they were quick to revert back to normal behavior on December 26th.
We went into the Church of the Nativity, and then onto Manger Square where we waited for the parade to begin.
By 1:30, when the parade was slated to (and actually did!) begin, there was a good deal of people in the plaza – both Christian AND Muslim Palestinians, and foreigners from all over the world. There was a French woman next to us who insisted that she move inside the barrier that the police had put up because, she objected, “I am French! I am French!”
Sahhat il-Mahd – Manger Square – reminded me, in structure and in spirit, of the plazas so common to southern Europe – especially Spain and Italy. I think the NATURE of Palestinian youth is to spend the better part of the night in cafes around the saha, slowly sipping tea and gossiping; they remain, instead, bound by self-imposed cultural formalities. This holds true in Bethlehem and in all other Palestinian cities where young people (especially girls) who would much rather be out drinking Arabic coffee with their friends are too often cooped up in their houses on a Saturday night watching Grey’s Anatomy and Friends. (There are clearly exceptions – but, from my observation, they remain exactly that.) This is due to three main factors, which feed sequentially off of one another:
1. The familial nature of Palestinian society.
2. A stigma against girls going out by themselves.
3. A lack of cafés conducive to guys and girls hanging out together. (Most of them are just men sitting around playing cards and smoking argeelah)
I digress. The parade itself was a sight I would seldom have imagined upon Palestine.
Scouts ages 7 to 47 (those who graduate remain eternal members of the troop) descended upon the square. Each troop had its drum brigade, its baton carrier, its flag bearers, and its younger troopers who just tagged alone in their uniforms. Some wore kilts; others had berets, and still others donned bandanas around their necks emblazoned with their troops logos. The scouts played instruments too – the best of which were the oh-so-Palestinian bagpipes. As they proceeded toward the Church, the flag bearers proudly raised the Palestinian flag, swiftly followed by the troop flag complete with their hometowns – Ramallah, Ram, Bethlehem, Nazareth, Jericho, Haifa.
The patriarch eventually graced us with his holy presence almost two hours later, identifiable in his massive surroundings only by the bright deflated beach ball he wore on his head.
I’ll describe the next two segments of the Christmas extravaganza in brief.
1. Christmas Eve Evening at Manger Square
After dinner at Nancy’s – complete with about 17 salatat, rice, chicken from the oven, and cup after cup of laban – we went back to Bethlehem for a series of concerts that had been planned. At 6:00 pm, the Edward Said National Music Conservatory performed.
We arrived at 8:30.
We missed the best part.
By the time we got there, as Vincent so keenly observed, the atmosphere was more like the Lucas County Fair than a Christmas Eve Celebration in Manger Square. You can imagine, I’m sure, that only 2 hours earlier, the environment had been ripe for Palestinian and international families to enjoy together. When we got there, though, Manger Square had achieved “post-dusk county fair” status. While solemn Christmas carols were being sung on the grandstand the crowd was tossing each other in the air, clapping, and moshing in the spirit of Christmas.
2. Christmas Night Hafleh
We went to a hafleh in Bethlehem – an Arab party – thrown by the Arab Catholic Club of Jerusalem. It’s REMARKABLE how little the haflat here vary from the ones I’m so used to at home:
Huge family tables with communal food in the middle;
A dance floor too small for its purpose;
People arguing as to whether the table they’re sitting at is in fact rightfully theirs; Little children running around EVERYWHERE;
All of the parents complaining that there are too many kids;
5 year old boys hitting on 5 year old girls;
5 year old boys hitting on 25 year old girls;
Moms begging their sons to dance, and their sons refusingly profusely, dragging their feet as their mom pulls them on to the dance floor (it wasn’t just me, mom);
Shaming fathers into buying raffle tickets for their entire family;
Elias Haddad.
The one thing that bothered me, and continues to bother me, is that in the 4 and a half hours I spent at the hafleh, they did not dance a SINGLE dabkeh.
Not ONE.
I was distressed, and I asked around as to why that might be. Why not dance dabkeh at a hafleh? Surely, it’s a way for mothers to get their sons to dance. Surely, they played at least 2 or 3 dabkeh songs, if not 4. Surely, they sang songs about Palestine and did the whole call and response “Oaf Oaf Oafffffff” business.
So it’s not about national sentiment.
It’s not about an inability to dance.
My friend Nadim told me that they just don’t dabkeh at Christmas. Haifa’s daughter Mai told me that they don’t dance dabkeh at haflat anymore. What is the STORY?
I’m determined to find out.
bet lehem 12.24/12.25
On Christmas Eve, Nancy (a Palestinian friend of mine from the office) offered to take Ros, her friend Vince, and me to Bethlehem for the Christmas festivities.
I had no idea what to expect.
Every year, the Christian (and particularly – Catholic) community in Bethlehem holds a parade of scouts from schools across Palestine welcoming the Patriarch of Jerusalem into town for Christmas Mass.
[Last year, evidently, it was particularly desolate because the army refused to allow in scouts from other cities in the West Bank or Israel.]
This year was different – creepily different, in fact. Soldiers at the checkpoint were wishing visitors a “khag sameakh” (happy holiday), and going noticeably – uncomfortably – out of their way to be cordial. [Suffice it to say, it wasn’t the same going to Ramallah on Eid al-Adha.]Don’t be alarmed; they were quick to revert back to normal behavior on December 26th.
We went into the Church of the Nativity, and then onto Manger Square where we waited for the parade to begin.
By 1:30, when the parade was slated to (and actually did!) begin, there was a good deal of people in the plaza – both Christian AND Muslim Palestinians, and foreigners from all over the world. There was a French woman next to us who insisted that she move inside the barrier that the police had put up because, she objected, “I am French! I am French!”
Sahhat il-Mahd – Manger Square – reminded me, in structure and in spirit, of the plazas so common to southern Europe – especially Spain and Italy. I think the NATURE of Palestinian youth is to spend the better part of the night in cafes around the saha, slowly sipping tea and gossiping; they remain, instead, bound by self-imposed cultural formalities. This holds true in Bethlehem and in all other Palestinian cities where young people (especially girls) who would much rather be out drinking Arabic coffee with their friends are too often cooped up in their houses on a Saturday night watching Grey’s Anatomy and Friends. (There are clearly exceptions – but, from my observation, they remain exactly that.) This is due to three main factors, which feed sequentially off of one another:
1. The familial nature of Palestinian society.
2. A stigma against girls going out by themselves.
3. A lack of cafés conducive to guys and girls hanging out together. (Most of them are just men sitting around playing cards and smoking argeelah)
I digress. The parade itself was a sight I would seldom have imagined upon Palestine.
Scouts ages 7 to 47 (those who graduate remain eternal members of the troop) descended upon the square. Each troop had its drum brigade, its baton carrier, its flag bearers, and its younger troopers who just tagged alone in their uniforms. Some wore kilts; others had berets, and still others donned bandanas around their necks emblazoned with their troops logos. The scouts played instruments too – the best of which were the oh-so-Palestinian bagpipes. As they proceeded toward the Church, the flag bearers proudly raised the Palestinian flag, swiftly followed by the troop flag complete with their hometowns – Ramallah, Ram, Bethlehem, Nazareth, Jericho, Haifa.
The patriarch eventually graced us with his holy presence almost two hours later, identifiable in his massive surroundings only by the bright deflated beach ball he wore on his head.
I’ll describe the next two segments of the Christmas extravaganza in brief.
1. Christmas Eve Evening at Manger Square
After dinner at Nancy’s – complete with about 17 salatat, rice, chicken from the oven, and cup after cup of laban – we went back to Bethlehem for a series of concerts that had been planned. At 6:00 pm, the Edward Said National Music Conservatory performed.
We arrived at 8:30.
We missed the best part.
By the time we got there, as Vincent so keenly observed, the atmosphere was more like the Lucas County Fair than a Christmas Eve Celebration in Manger Square. You can imagine, I’m sure, that only 2 hours earlier, the environment had been ripe for Palestinian and international families to enjoy together. When we got there, though, Manger Square had achieved “post-dusk county fair” status. While solemn Christmas carols were being sung on the grandstand the crowd was tossing each other in the air, clapping, and moshing in the spirit of Christmas.
2. Christmas Night Hafleh
We went to a hafleh in Bethlehem – an Arab party – thrown by the Arab Catholic Club of Jerusalem. It’s REMARKABLE how little the haflat here vary from the ones I’m so used to at home:
Huge family tables with communal food in the middle;
A dance floor too small for its purpose;
People arguing as to whether the table they’re sitting at is in fact rightfully theirs; Little children running around EVERYWHERE;
All of the parents complaining that there are too many kids;
5 year old boys hitting on 5 year old girls;
5 year old boys hitting on 25 year old girls;
Moms begging their sons to dance, and their sons refusingly profusely, dragging their feet as their mom pulls them on to the dance floor (it wasn’t just me, mom);
Shaming fathers into buying raffle tickets for their entire family;
Elias Haddad.
The one thing that bothered me, and continues to bother me, is that in the 4 and a half hours I spent at the hafleh, they did not dance a SINGLE dabkeh.
Not ONE.
I was distressed, and I asked around as to why that might be. Why not dance dabkeh at a hafleh? Surely, it’s a way for mothers to get their sons to dance. Surely, they played at least 2 or 3 dabkeh songs, if not 4. Surely, they sang songs about Palestine and did the whole call and response “Oaf Oaf Oafffffff” business.
So it’s not about national sentiment.
It’s not about an inability to dance.
My friend Nadim told me that they just don’t dabkeh at Christmas. Haifa’s daughter Mai told me that they don’t dance dabkeh at haflat anymore. What is the STORY?
I’m determined to find out.
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