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.
Monday, January 21, 2008
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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