Leaving

This will be my last post.  I leave tonight, flying from Tel Aviv to New York, then up to Boston, bus to Portland, Maine and a ride home with Maine and the world's leading jazz whistling clarinet player, Brad Terry.  It's been a rich visit, and I'll have to sift through the riches for a while once back to separate the gold from the fool's gold.

   This morning, I went with Nasser, the middle school teacher I've written about, and some of his fellow teachers to get materials for the plays he's presenting later this week.  He's excited because the Palestinian Authority is sending representatives to see the play and also because he just heard from a Palestinian NGO that they want him to do some workshops with counselors who will be working with special needs kids, and they want to sponsor his summer camp, a project he has done on his own in the past.  I think he expects that some of the volunteer help this summer will come from people he trains in the workshops he conducts.  This is one very hard working and loving man, someone you would be happy to have your child learning with.  I worked with a group of his students on a play they will be performing Thursday while Nasser worked with another group on some scenery.  An older teacher was also working with my group, and the dynamic was interesting, to say the least, especially given my little bit of Arabic is not close to good enough to teach or direct using Arabic.  The older teacher, probably younger than I but I like to think he looks older, was determined to tell the kids how to do each part.  The kids had their own ideas but knew better than to argue with a teacher who has a reputation for temper tantrums.  In the end, we worked things out, and the kids got to use their ideas, most of which were better than...you catch my meaning.
   Most of the teachers in the school smoke, which makes for smokey hallways and is a terrible example for the kids.  Nasser doesn't smoke, and a couple of others I have met don't.  Though there is a law against smoking in school, it is ignored at Nasser's school.  Why doesn't he do something about it?  I think it's a fight not worth his energy, given how many other places his energy goes.
   The kids are engaging.  Nasser is working mainly with a group of kids who are challenged by family issues, learning disabilities, hyperactivity and anger management.  They know they can trust him and they do very good work for and with him.  They're taking pride in their plays, are working hard on them, with the usual difficulty settling down in the beginning which is not limited to Palestinian early teens!  I think their plays will be a success, surprising people who see them, and the kids will gain confidence from doing them.  Several of the kids I'd like to bring over to one of our summer programs.  Hmmm, I wonder...
   This afternoon, I went into Jerusalem with Khitam to watch her work with a group of girls at a girls middle school, girls who have been identified by the social worker and principal as needing special help, again because of learning difficulties, problems at home, family issues, much like Nasser's group.  Several of the girls couldn't be there so the group was small today.  Khitam got them playing, interacting, laughing, and I could see the whole girls beneath whatever problems they have.  Khitam and I talked about "doing what one can do" on the drive home, recognizing that this work is a good step but cannot by itself solve problems.
   Home to pack, after a tedious drive here because of traffic backed up at the Qalandia check point.  We had a good final dinner and more good talk and laughter before leaving.  We'll talk more on the drive to the airport.  I'll post some photos when I get back and write some reflections on the time here if they've come into focus.

Change maker at Alrowwad (continued)

   Abdelfattah does not believe mixing Israeli and Palestinian kids helps the Palestinian cause, and I tend to agree with him.  I like programs like Seeds of Peace, but I wonder what they accomplish.  As he says, when kids get together, they have fun.  If they come from opposing sides of a conflict, as is the case with Seeds of Peace and programs like it, and if the program is well managed, as Seeds of Peace certainly is, the kids will have fun.  However, when such programs end, the young people go back to their home environments.  In the case of Israeli and Palestinian youth, the Israeli youth return and when they're of age, go into the army.  They are the soldiers who man - and woman - the road blocks.  The Palestinian youth return to confront those roadblocks.  Abdelfattah related a recent story of a Seeds of Peace Palestinian youth who was killed near a road block by Israeli soldiers and a facebook message from a Seeds of Peace Israeli youth saying, "You can relax now that I'm carrying a gun," or words to that effect.
   I'm relating a story I heard, so it's third hand, and I can't attest to its accuracy.  However, Israeli youth do go into the army and do confront Palestinians in an occupation that has gone on for decades, and Palestinian youth are confronted with roadblocks and armed occupying Israeli soldiers daily.  When there is an incursion into Palestinian territory on the West Bank or in Gaza, it is Israeli soldiers, some of whom may have been in Seeds of Peace and similar programs, who are driving the tanks, carrying the guns, killing the Palestinians.  While talking with Abdelfattah, I recalled Stokely Carmichael during the civil rights struggle saying white people who want to help should work with white people.  Abdelfattah's point is that: Israelis who want to help should work convincing Israelis that the occupation is unjust and that Palestinians have a right to their own state.  
   "On the ground" here, it is difficult - no, impossible - to defend American policy regarding Israel and Palestine.  I do not hear people calling for the demise of Israel, nor do I think they're being careful what they say around me.  On the contrary, I think they're speaking their mind and at first may be surprised I'm listening and mostly agreeing.  The likelihood of a Palestinian state's being established diminishes daily.  Israeli settlements have carved Palestine into an archipelago of city states, not only unconnected but often separated by roadblocks as well.  The current map brings 
no hope to Palestinians.
   However, there is hope in the work Abdulfattah is doing.  There is hope in the work Khitam is doing with teachers and students in Palestine, using the arts to help them grow, to help them teach, to help them heal.  There is hope in the work Nasser is doing with his students in the middle school a few blocks from Khitam's house.  Still, the occupation is depressing.  
   Driving into Jerusalem today, after I worked with Nasser for a couple of hours, Khitam commented on a checkpoint we pass through every day we go to Jerusalem: "One day, three lanes are open, one day two, most days only one.  We never know what to expect."  A few days ago, on our drive into Jerusalem, Khitam said: "I am lucky to go through Hezma checkpointI don't have to go through Qalandia," which is close to her home and tedious, at best, to pass through.  Then her eyes lit up, she shook her head and said: "Did you hear what I just said?  I said I was lucky to go through the other checkpoint.  'Lucky!'  I can't believe I said it, that I am lucky to go through a checkpoint!"  She told Abdelfattah and we laughed about it, ironically.  Abdelfattah's point: Don't get used to the occupation, however long it lasts.  
   I leave tonight.  I'm in Jerusalem now, at the Hebrew University, sitting in a cafe while Khitam swims and has a sauna, to take care of her back.  "I have to take care of myself so I can do my work." I agree and tell her to be sure to do just that.
   

Change maker at Alrowwad

   "We don't have the luxury of despair, but the steadfast hope that we can make a change for our

children and the generations to come that we can be proud of."

   Those are the words of Abdelfattah Abusrour, founder and director of Alrowwad, which means "Pioneers for life," located in the Aida Refugee Camp in Bethlehem.  Alrowwad is remarkable, both the place and its programs.  It was started by volunteers in the refugee camp where Abdulfattah was born and raised along with 5,000 other Palestinians, young and old.  Five years later, it registered as a non-profit organization and two years later, Abdulfattah, with a Ph.D. in biology, quit his job to work full time directing Alrowwad.  Today, eight years later, Alrowwad owns a three story building with photo labs, theater and meeting space, physical education facilities, a library for kids and playroom for young children, sewing equipment for training, computer lab, video studio and office space.  

   "Everyone is a change maker.  Nobody has the right to say: "I can't do anything," because every day that comes will continue to be worse than the day that goes.  This is not a heritage that anyone can be proud to leave to our children and the generations to come."  Abdulfattah studied in France, is fluent in French, English and Arabic; when Khitam and I met him, he was dressed in corduroy pants, shirt and blue crewneck sweater.  I didn't notice his shoes.  He looked like a prep school teacher or headmaster, relaxing.  Normally, I don't notice these details.  I mention them here because so many people in the States assume that Palestinians are not people.  Israelis are people like us; Palestinians are "other," not people like us.  Everyone I've met here gives that assumption the lie, and I'd put Abdulfattah at the head of the line.  He is bright, articulate, devoted, energetic and non-violent.

   Here are some of his thoughts in our conversation:

   "We need education, open education with discussion and disagreement.  We need to learn how not to get used to the occupation and how to be non-violent in our resistance."

   "We can't wait for miracles, for Obama or Netanyahu or even Allah to solve our problems.  We are responsible."

   "We don't have the luxury of despair, of saying it's everyone else's fault."

   "The occupation prohibits commerce, relationships, family gatherings, even love."

   "I don't care if people sleep in comfort.  Dignity comes before comfort."

   "We want partners, not simply donors.  We are not helpless."

   "We have remained independent, free of any political connection.  However, politics is everywhere.  Even marriage here is political."

   " People say art should be separate from politics.  Everything is political.  If artists don't make a 

change, then what?  Art exists in the world!"

   Abdulfattah is married and has a family.  His official residence is Bethlehem, although his wife and children live in Jerusalem where they have rented a house for several years.  His wife was born and raised in East Jerusalem and has an Israeli ID and a Jordanian passport.  He was born and raised in Bethlehem in the Aida Refugee camp.  His official residence, according to the Israeli government, is Bethlehem, though his family has lived for years in East Jerusalem, and he has to get a special permit to visit East Jerusalem, a permit that has to be renewed each year.  He is considered "a visitor" in East Jerusalem.

   To be continued...

"You'd like to go back?" (continued from 7/22 AM)

   "You'd like to go back?" I asked him.
   "Of course I want to go back.  Everyone in Palestine would like to go to the States.  It's free, there's order, there are jobs...at least a better possibility for jobs than here."
   "You got married when you came back here?  
   "Yes.  You have to get married here.  Here we are not free like you are before marriage.  Here you cannot  go out for a drink with a girlfriend.  Here you have to get married to have a life.  If you're not married by the time you're thirty, people think there is something wrong and maybe you will never get married." 
   It is the other side of the coin: the girl cannot have a date, a real date, before she is engaged.  The man cannot have a date so he must marry.  This is not true everywhere in Palestine but outside cities like Haifa, Ramallah and Tel Aviv, it probably is true for Muslim Palestinians.
   Back in the sitting room with all the smoke, the conversations in Arabic continued, and Nasser and I talked some more about Palestine and his work.  After a few men left, I asked Cotton's question: "What do you want me to tell people in the States?"  Nasser translated; here is a sample of answers:
   "Say the truth."
   "The American government is working with the Israeli policy and supporting Israel while refusing to support the UN decision in 1948."
   "The international community, led by the US, is not fair to Palestine in a way it has never been before."
   "The USA is not fair; Obama, Clinton and the others have not been fair."
   "Enough US veto against Palestine!"
   "As long as we are breathing, there is hope."  This was Abed, the father of the new baby.
   "The US and Europe don't take Palestine seriously.
   "The US and the international community ask more and more; soon they will ask for our clothes."
   "Be our ambassador, the representative of our community to your community."  That was Nasser's.
   "You ate with us.  You were our guest.  We trust you and you can trust us."
   It was time to leave.  Everyone got up, each came over to me, shook hands and said good-bye.  Some thanked me.  They walked out and one man called me back.  "My family and I were sent out of Palestine for twenty years!  For twenty years we could not come back to our home.  Then I came back.  People told me to stay in Jordan.  No.  I am Palestinian.  I married in Jordan and had a family and we all came back.  We have been back a long time.  This is my country."  He took my hand and held my arm with his other hand: "Thank you for coming.  You are my friend."  I thanked him and and we left.
 

Nasser and Badu'

  It's clear I'm not going to master blogging on my iPad.  I reread my last blog, the one with the gap before the radiator tale, and noticed funny typos like:
   "relier" for "relief";
   "talked among the crashing waves" instead of "walked";
    the faux Italian phrase: "to a meet us":
   "ran out" instead of "rang out";
                                                      all in a daze work!
   Yesterday I met Nasser, a social worker and counselor in the neighborhood school a few blocks from Khitam's house.  Nasser is a devout Muslim about 5'8," stocky with a short white-flecked beard and sparkling eyes.  He's warm and open.  His English is good, better than he thinks it is, and he is not hesitant to use it.   In the short walk to the school, responding to my get-acquainted questions, he told me a lot about himself.  He grew up in a refugee camp in Bethlehem and has spent eight and a half years in Israeli and Palestinian prisons for demonstrating against the occupation.  He was first imprisoned for a few weeks when he was fifteen.  Later, in prison for a longer stay, he read widely, learned about non-violent resistance and learned to accept those who are different from him in their beliefs.  "I learned the Christians, like me, believe in God and in many of the same rules for living; and Israelis are people, like we are.  I learned not to hate."  He also taught himself better English.
   His work and work ethic are remarkable.  He is a counselor at the neighborhood school with over 400 students through middle school.  He also does counseling three days a week in Bethlehem in the camp: addiction, sexual abuse and family issues.  He runs an after school program, a summer camp and he is educating young people to help with social issues in the camp, all of this with no pay.  He is paid for his school counseling job.  When people say they can contribute to the summer camp, he asks for materials, only taking money when he can use it to buy lunch for kids who can't afford it.
   He started a drama program for kids with problems: family issues, abuse, learning disabilities, hyper activity.  We worked with twenty-five middle school kids, and they get it, know that he cares about them and listens to them.  It's middle school, so they're full of beans, but they listen to him and respond, if not the first or second time, the third, and he doesn't raise his voice.  He gets them with his eyes and his "I'm waiting" pauses.  They're working on two pieces to perform on the day Palestinian prisoners in Israeli jails are recognized.  One piece is mimed and tells about people trying to get through a check point, ultimately climbing the wall and celebrating its coming down.  The other, with dialogue, is a scene in Israeli court.  But are clever, patriotic and impassioned AND non-violent.  Working with Nasser and the kids was a treat I get to repeat tomorrow, my last day here.
   With typical Palestinian hospitality, one of the teachers invited me to join Nasser and others after school to celebrate the birth of a new baby in his family.  He lives in Badu', about an hour from the school.  We piled into three cars, drove the half hour to Ramallah - half hour because of traffic, not distance - then transferred to a local bus, vans that travel set routes throughout Palestine and cost seventy-five cents to a dollar for a ride almost anywhere.  The bus ride to Badu' took another half hour.  Our host, the father and a teacher at the school, welcomed us into a room with maybe fifteen men, all teachers, sitting around the periphery, all but Nasser, the new father's brother-in-law and I smoking.  Twenty minutes later, some of the men left to pray.  Nasser smiled and asked me if I wanted to pray, and others who weren't praying laughed along with Nasser.  We'd been there less than an hour when the new father invited us in to eat: "Ahlan wa sahlan.  Tfuddalu."  
   All of us were seated around a table big enough for eight or maybe ten, so we were cheek to jowl.  Everyone had a plate, a spoon, a small bowl of chopped salad.  In the middle of the table were platters of rice with spices and pine nuts and roast chicken and piles of fresh Arabic bread about a foot in diameter.  The drinks offered were Pepsi and a red soda.  We dug in, all of the men.  I caught a glimpse of the host's wife, some of their kids and the brother-in-law's kids and wife.  Other than that, all men.  
   After the meal, people got up, washed or went back to the sitting room to smoke and talk.  The brother-in-law (I'll get his name from Nasser tomorrow) sat with me and talked about life in the States.  He had lived in Maryland for four or five years, had gone to school, studied engineering, returned to Palestine and couldn't get back to the States.
   "You'd like to go back?"  (to be continued)

Bits and pieces and the radiator

   First, on a rainy Sunday morning in the Jerusalem area of Palestine, my apologies for a variety of "blog snags."  Those who know me in my present incarnation, know that incarnation does not include a facility with cyber functions.  I have been struggling to master this blogging on my iPad and have clearly been only moderately successful, with some blogs full of typos and strange typography, eg. one looooonnnnnngggggg paragraph, others omitting sentences or paragraphs resulting in non sequiturs or at least head-scratching leaps.  I'll keep trying.
   Second, to make up for some omissions in previous blogs.
   Friday night, Khitam and I went into Jerusalem to pick up some wine and to visit old friends of hers, Samir and Sulayma.  Samir went to school in the States and was doing research and quality control of drugs here at Beir Zeit University - I'm not sure of that spelling - until he retired recently at age 65; he now works in public health for the Palestine Authority.  Sulayma is in charge of early childhood education with ANERA (American Near East Relier Agency, I think).  They live in Samir's family house, where he grew up, near the Damascus Gate to the old city.  It's a lovely house in town, furnished with comfortable furniture and traditional Palestinian trimmings, plus a lot of family photos.  We brought a bottle of wine and of course Sulayma had set out a small feast of "snacks": dates, dried apricots, white cheese (now is the best time to get it here because it is fresh; Khitam and Sulayma, and I'm sure many many others, buy it in bulk, soak it in salty water with a local spice that looks like but isn't carraway seeds), two other cheeses, hummus, Arabic bread, local olives - always, olives! - and more.
   Samir told me about his Jerusalem identity problem, a not unusual one for Palestinians living in Jerusalem.  He has a Jordanian passport and a US passport, plus a Jerusalem identity card which enables him to continue to live there under Israeli rule.  He was traveling frequently to Saudi Arabia for work, so he used his Jordanian passport to go into Jordan to fly to Saudi Arabia - you can't fly
there from here; it's political, not aeronautical.  Then he would use his US passport to get into Saudi
Arabia, again for political reasons: you can't use a passport with an Israeli stamp to travel to Saudi Arabia, Syria, Lebanon, and more.  When he was stopped at the border here and showed his 
Jordanian passport, it was refused so he showed his US passport.  As a result, the Israelis confiscated 
his Jerusalem identity card.  Now in order to reside in Jerusalem, where his family has lived for 
generations, he must renew a visa every year, with no guarantee it will be renewed.  If this sounds Kafka-esque, it is.  When he pleaded his case before an Israeli court, they ruled that if he remained in 
the country for two years, the government would reissue his Jerusalem identity card.  That was five 
years ago.  Now his visa is about to expire and he has returned to court to plead his case.  His lawyer 
says he will get his identity card in a couple of months.  He's hopeful, but not optimistic.  "What can I
 do?" he asks.  "I am stopped at a checkpoint and an Ethiopian soldier who came here three years ago 
takes my passport, examines it and asks me questions.  At that moment, he controls my fate.  I have been here for generations and he has been here for three years!"  Again, he shrugs as if to say: "What
can I do?
   In Jaffa, Friday, Khitam and I stopped at her favorite Palestinian restaurant in the old city.  It's not a big place, nor fancy.  The waiters aren't in uniform, and service is casual and efficient.  You sit, the
waiter brings the menu, returns with a mezza of several kinds of salad and dips, including two
varieties of baba ghanousj - crushed eggplant, tahini and spices - cheeses, pickled vegetables, Arabic
bread and more.  You order, dig into the mezza and soon your meal arrives; I had a traditional
Palestinian chicken dish, prepared on spiced and oiled Arabic break, and Khitam had a spicy shrimp 
dish, the shrimp fresh from the sea nearby.  Good food and we were stuffed when we left.  I also felt 
like I needed a shower after all the dipping and drippings.  
   The drive through the old city with its old Palestinian houses, shops lining the streets and the streets
 clogged with shoppers and tourists was an eyeful.  This is the old city that has changed little in the
last many decades.  Around it has grown a more modern and less interesting Jaffa that is Israeli; the
old city is still predominantly Palestinian.  On the other side of the old city is the Mediterranean Sea.
We talked above the crashing waves for a couple of miles before driving back here.  'Twas a lovely
day.  I'd like to return for a couple of days next time.
   Yesterday was "radiator day."  We went into Jerusalem in the morning for Khitam's four hour

















workshop with kindergarten teachers.  She worked with them on storytelling and I told a couple of
stories.  When we finished, Khitam called a mechanic about her car.  On the drive in, it had begun smoking again, so we stopped, put some water in the radiator, and proceeded to the workshop.  The mechanic said he couldn't send anybody right away and for her to try to drive to his shop.  We set off, drove for about fifteen minutes in heavy traffic, then pulled off because  the radiator was smoking again.  She called the mechanic wo said he'd send someone to a meet us at a nearby gas station.  We drove there, waited and the messenger arrived.  He checked the engine, told her she needed to replace the radiator, filled it with water and told her to drive carefully back here to find someone to replace the radiator.  Off we went, but when we got to the checkpoint into this area, it was clogged and the radiator was smoking again so she pulled off in a military zone by the checkpoint, the only space available.  Immediately an amplified voice ran out in Arabic: "Move your car!  You're in a security zone.  Move your car immediately!"  She got out and hollered that she had trouble with the engine.  Again the voice, saying the same thing.  It was a moment out of 1984 - there are several of those here.
   So she got back into slow moving traffic and eventually we made it to her mechanic who did not have a radiator but called a "radiator repair guy" who did have one and off we went to his place where, in 45 minutes, he replaced Khitam's radiator.  Total cost: $120; no one charged her except the radiator repairman.  We drove back here with no smoke, no heating up engine and ready to relax.

Jaffa and dance

   Yesterday, Friday the 19th, Khitam took off from work and we drove to Jaffa, which is about an hour from her place on the coast.  The day was clear, unlike today when it's raining and a little chilly, and the drive lovely, through rust colored hills, patches of green forest, and then Tel Aviv and Jaffa.  Tel Aviv is a new city, built by Israel since 1948, when Israel became a nation.  It looks new and building continues.  It's another city, like so many other western cities - maybe eastern cities, too.
   I like old cities.  I liked the Beirut that existed before the civil war that pretty much destroyed it.  It was stuck together with the gum and glue of different religious sects and history: here is the Orthodox section of town, here the Maronite; are is where most of the Kurds live and here the small Jewish section.  The old market rambled and shambled over blocks of downtown: here meat, here fruit, here household items, here jewelry - "See, please, sir, these lovely gold bangles.  Special price for you.  AUB?  I already gave you AUB discount.  I knew."  Modern Beirut is a city, like other cities but with a particularly appealing locati
   Refreshed, we drove back through the old city, stopping every few blocks to ask directions.  It's a
warren, the kind of ordered disorder that you know intimately after being there for a while, but when
you're new, you can't figure out how to get from here to there.  Whenever Khitam asked, the response mostly gestural, would suggest: "Straight, then right, then left, of course.  It's obvious.  No problem."
Easy for them to say!  I'd like to go back and spend a couple of days there, exploring the old city
   We returned home, caught up on some work, then headed for town to see another dance performance, this one by a French troupe.  They've choreographed a long piece based on Samuel Beckett's writings.  The National Theatre was packed and we were waiting for Cotton to show.  Khitam had called to tell him about the performance and invited him to join us.  His hotel, The Jerusalem Meridian, is right around the corner so he could walk over in a matter of minutes.  We had said 7:30, which was the announced time but got there early and were told it started at 7:15.  It was 7:10!  We called Cotton, told him to boogie, which is not easy for him as he is recovering from some    serious back and neck surgery.  I told Khitam to find seats and I'd wait for Cotton.  With a minute to   go, the guy at the door said I had to enter then if I wanted to see the beginning.  After it started, the  company wanted the doors kept closed for ten minutes before anyone was let in.  I left a ticket for  Cotton, entered, found Khitam - "Al.  Al!  Over here!" - got to my seat and had no sooner sat than  Khitam said: "Where's my purse?"  She couldn't find it, the lights were dimming slowly and out to the lobby she scurried.  The lights dimmed further until there was just a haze of light on stage and the  nine dancers shuffled in as if wandering out of a Beckett play.  A light on the steps beside me caught   my attention, then Khitam and Cotton appeared, led in from the back by an usher.  We made it!
   The piece, an hour and a half long, was remarkable in its energy, its suggested narrative, the focus of the dancers which drew your attention to wherever they wanted it.  For those who know and like 
Beckett, there was a sense of being inside his mind and feeling his thoughts rather than hearing them.  It was remarkable, the theater was packed and the audience loved the piece.  After the show, poured out with the rest of the audience, all excited and buzzing about the piece in Arabic, French and English.  We headed for a nearby bistro that Khitam and I had visited after Monday's show and there we ate pizza, drank a little wine and talked about the show and Palestine.
   Tomorrow, back to teaching and whatever else turns up.

 

Teaching teachers and smoking cars

It's Thursday morning and chilly. I left chilly damp Maine for warm dry Palestine and am now in chilly damp Palestine which probably means Maine is warm and dry. Such is life. Yesterday was what we call an interesting day. "Interesting" usually means: "I can't think of the right word to describe it," and so it means in this case. We headed north for Ramallah, where Khitam was going to be working with kindergarten teachers and I was going to visit The Friends School where I taught some workshops years ago and where our friend Duha works. We got to the Early Childhood Resource Center where Khitam would meet the teachers to find no teachers. The director saw Khitam, greeted her, then said: "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be meeting the teachers in Jerusalem!" Khitam had forgotten the workshop was not in Ramallah! So we said a quick good-bye, got in the car, and Khitam raced to Jerusalem. I'll add that "racing to Jerusalem" is the way most people drive here, so there was nothing unusual about the speed we were traveling, unless you were sitting where I was. Actually, she's a very good driver, she understands how to drive around here, and I've gotten comfortable with the speed and sometimes wacky driving patterns here, if they are "patterns." She was only ten minutes late to the workshop. There were thirteen teachers in the workshop, ranging from a couple who looked to be eighteen or twenty to several who were in their forties and fifties. The average age was probably early to mid-thirties. Most were "covered," meaning they had head scarves and dresses or robes to their ankles; one was veiled except for her eyes and forehead; only one wasn't covered, and she was one of the older ones and a hoot. Within fifteen minutes, Khitam had them laughing and feeling like an ensemble, though few knew each other and none knew Khitam. She has an engaaging way with teachers, coaxing, nudging and teasing them into taking risks. There was good energy in the group and she harnessed it for learning. They made puppets, then experimented with ways of using them. Khitam was teacher, coach and seamstress; she advised, sewed, coaxed and chatted with them while they worked. The results were exciting to the participants; to me, seeing how good Khitam is at teaching and listening. In the States, this sort of workshop would be offered in school. Here, they're still developing school curriculum and figuring out ways to enable teachers to get the training they need, a role Khitam often fills. There is something enticing about scarves that obscure. Primarily they draw your attention to the eyes of the woman is veiled and often those eyes are dark and alluring, highlighted with kohl - check the spelling of that one. So it was at Khitam's workshop and I thought it would be a good casting call for a production of "The Arabian Nights." After the workshop, which lasted four hours, we returned to her place. In the early evening we headed back to Jerusalem for another dance performance and then dinner with some friends. Khitam's neighbor, a recent widow, was in the back seat with bags of "stuff" she was taking to her place in Jerusalem so the car was pretty full. On the edge of the city, the car began to smoke! Khitam pulled over to the inside lane of a busy three lanes on our side of the highway. She put a triangle behind the car and we pondered our next move, though "move" is an ironic choice. The only thing I know how to do is check the tires, not the problem, and check the oil, also not the problem. Having exhausted my automotive know-how, we decided to check the water - coolant? - and it was low, so Khitam poured some drinking water in, hoping the car was just thirsty. The water disappeared pretty quickly. Then a car stopped behind us and the driver got out and walked toward us. Khitam's eyes lit up, she shouted, "Ahlan!", which means "welcome." It was Tarek, her mechanic whose garage is just down the hill from her place. He checked the engine, found a leaky or broken hose and told her to drive it slowly home, stopping to cool it once or twice on the way. Our savior! He took our passenger and her stuff and we headed slowly for home. We got to a familiar place, on the edge of Jerusalem, and Khitam pulled over to give the car a rest. We pondered our next move. Go home? Leave the car for a while and go to the dance, then go to dinner? Wait for the car to cool? We decided to leave the car and head into the old city. Khitam asked the proprieter of the store we were parked in front of if she could leave her car, and when he agreed, we locked the car and headed for town. A cab driver spotted us, did a quick u-turn, and we got in. The driver spoke fluent English, unusual in this part of town: "Where you from?" "Maine." "Maine...way up there. I've been in Boston." "You've been in the States?" "San Jose, from the seventies to the nineties. I came back here , started a business refurbishing used items, then Chinese stuff started appearing, and I started losing money. Now I drive a cab, been doing it for several years. The wall doesn't help." He let us off near the Damascus Gate and our friend Cotton's hotel. We decided not to go to the dance because Cotton and Paul were soon to be picked up by Estaphan and we needed a ride, so we walked to Cotton's hotel and rode with Estaphan a few minutes later. A little biographical language. Estaphan, married to Laurie, an American he met in college and lovely mother of a one-year-old and a three-year-old, just resigned a major position as an advisor to the Palestinian Authority. He traveled with the President, Mahmoud Abbas, and did economic development planning. Paul Parker is a professor of religion at Emery College in the Chicago area and is on sabbatical studying Christian religions in Palestine and Israel. Khitam, as you know, is a Palestinian creative arts therapist and Cotton is an Episcopal minister and former psychiatric therapist. The conversation got around to Palestine pretty quickly after some get acquainted chat. Some samples: Cotton: I am fed up with American tourists coming here on Christian pilgrimages. I was talking to a couple yesterday. I asked them if they'd been to the West Bank. Oh no, they said, too dangerous. I asked them where they thought Christ would go if he were here today, who he would want to help. They just don't get it. They don't see the Palestinians. Paul: There are 500,000 Christian spouses of immigrant Jews living in Israel. Needless to say, that's not publicized by the goernment. Most of them go to churches where the liturgy is in Hebrew. I came here to study Christian communities in Israel and Palestine. I thought I would just study the major groups but I quickly gave up on that. There are so many denominations here: Roman Catholic, Eastern Catholic like the Maronites from Lebanon; Greek and Armenian Catholics; Greek, Russian and Armenian Orthodo; Egyptian Coptic; Episcopal; Lutheran... Estaphan: I think the we, the Palestinians, are at our lowest point now. We have tried everything. Our leadders do not want to risk losing their positions, their rights. Look, I've traveled with the President in his plane with his following. The Israelis can limit that freedom whenever they want to. He has a three month visa. Three months! He has to get it renewed every three months or he can't travel! Khitam: I don't believe anything the Palestinian Authority says. W'Allah, anything! Until they do something that makes me believe in them, I'm not going to pay any attention to politics. I love my work. I get up, I go to do my work and I am happy. I love working with the teachers, the children, using art with them to help them learn, help them grow. That's what makes me happy. I love Palestine, my country. Estaphan: We're paying for the occupation. The Palestinians are doing the Israelis work for them. Cotton asked me if we could get 5,000 people to demonstrate against the occupation in Ramallah. I told him no, the Palestinian police wouldn't allow it. Paul: Maybe it would be better if we stopped the aid, all the aid. People would die, but the Israelis, the occupiers, would have to deal with that. Maybe that would end the occupation. I know it sounds cruel; it is cruel, but as long as we pay and the Palestinians pay, why would the Israelis stop what they're doing? Cotton: Look, the money is harder to come by. Countries no longer want to fund UNRWA (United Nations Relief Works Agency that has been supporting Palestinian camps since 1948). There's a hospital in Gaza that will close if the UN can't support it. I give them money, but maybe you're right. Maybe that's the only way to get the Israelis to take responsibility for the occupation. Estaphan: As long as outsiders pay, what's the motivation for the Israelis to change their policies? A very interesting and fun evening, except for Laurie and Estaphan at the end when their little boy couldn't stop crying. The good news is the car is back, fixed, and the Tarek, the mechanic did the work for nothing. "You are our sister," he told Khitam when he delivered the car.

Libraries and Estafan

Yesterday, Tuesday the 16th, we drove into Jerusalem around 11:00 and Khitam dropped me near a little cafe that my friend Cotton frequents, run by Mo, a Palestinian-American and his Russian wife. Cotton loves the place because of its proximity to his hotel, its simplicity, good and simple home-style food and because Mo is a very nice guy with an interesting story and a native's take on life in East Jerusalem for a Palestinian. He has to hustle to make it and make sure his books are not just up to date but up to the minute, and he does. After a bite to eat, a veggie schwarma in a wrap which was simple, delicious and healthy, I left with Cotton who then introduced me to the Episcopal cathedral and grounds nearby. I may have walked though the grounds fifty years ago, when Margie and I were first in Jerusalem. If so, I don't remember them and the grounds and buildings have changed. It's a lovely bit of the past on the edge of the much further past. We headed for a small bookstore a few blocks away that specializes in books about Palestine and also serves coffee. Having skipped a coffee at Mo's, I figured a cappacino at the bookstore was okay, and it was. We talked for about an hour, mostly about the Episcopal Church and the unwillingness of the higher ups, particularly here in Palestine, to speak out for the Palestinians. It seems either they don't want to rock the political boat, in which case Israel could make life in Jerusalem and Israel difficult for them; or they want to remain spiritually aloof, unconnected to the worldly issues that surround them. This is Cotton's battle, not mine. Did I write that he is an Episcopal priest? I do understand his frustration; it is the same frustration those of us concerned with Palestine feel whenever we are confronted by the apathy or misinformed response to the issue. Later, Cotton's friend Estafan picked us up to take us for visits to two of the five village libraries they and their supporters have established in Palestinian villages. Estafan has resigned his position as a political and economic adviser to the Palestinian Authority that governs the West Bank and will consult. He is Palestinian, studied in the States, is very bright and well informed and he drives very fast. "It's Palestine," he explains. We talked about the three zones: A under the Palestinian Authoity; B under the joint control of Palestine and Israel; and C, currently under Israeli control. It is next to impossible to get anything done in the Palestinian villages in zone C, he said. If a farmer wants to add a shed, he has to get permission from Israel. If the PA wants to make road improvements, they have to get permission from Israel. Some requests have been on Israeli desks for twelve years. The two Palestinian villages we visited both look pretty prosperous. The first is Muslim village with about 40% of its population in the States or South America. They invest in the village, build large houses, and come visit in the summer, when the population of the village differs. The little library there is flourishing. Boys in their late teens, mostly college students, work hard as volunteers. The library was celebrating the end of a forty day reading passport program that I think some schools in the States offer. Students are given a passport and everytime they read a book, they record it in their passport. Some filled one passport, some one and part of a second. 350 signed up and 170 completed the program. They were celebrating the end of the program when we were there and kids were getting awards for their participation. The energy, joy and pride in the room were palpable. You had to celebrate what was going on. Then we went to Taybeh, a Christian village, where the library is in a room provided by the Catholic Church. Seven or eight young people, including two men in their last year of medical school, met us. We sat around a couple of tables and discussed the library and then Cotton asked them what they would like us to say to people back home. Here are some samples: "Tell them we want our basic rights. Tell them we're not terrorists. Tell them when we see soldiers and settlers, we are reminded that the United States is not fair. Tell them peace requires justice. The village of Taybeh is surrounded by three settlements and a military base. They are bright young people who want to make their way in life and too often their way is blocked, litertally and figuratively. We did some brainstorming about ways to encourage tourists who come to the village to learn more about Palestine. Most tourists who come, and apparently a lot do, are there on Bible tours. I don't know the Biblical references, but the village is lovely and has an interesting history. We talked about dramatizing that history, using a summer camp for young people and casting young and old if they're interested. They're excited about the idea, and we may talk about it more. We got back late, met Khitam and she and I came home while they went on to Jerusalem, where Estafan had a sick boy to take to the doctor. Khitam and I had some dinner, turned on CNN and learned about the Boston bombings. I'm sad for the loss of life and awful injuries and reminded of violence in other parts of the world, all so sad and so misguided.

Dancing and Rafat and Khaloud

   On with the blog, after fumbling and mumbling and punching keys and conniving with Khitam to get back to the blog and publish the last one, which is riddled with typos - do we call them typos in cyberland?  Apologies.  I'm not a Ludite, just a very slow cyber-learner.
   Last night we attended the opening of the Ramallah Contemporary Dance Festival at the Palestinian National Theatre in East Jerusalem.  Now the title bears some explaining.  Ramallah is north of Jerusalem and home to numerous NGO's and the offices of the Palestine Authority, the governing body of Palestinians on the West Bank.  East Jerusalem is the future capital of an independent Palestine if there is an independent Palestine and if the international community supports Palestine's claim and if Israel relents.  None of this is guaranteed; far from it!  With Palestine divided into area A, administered by the Palestine Authority; area B - jointly administered by the Authority and Israel; and area C, administered by Israel and comprising 65% of the West Bank; and with Israel able to intervene in areas A or B and the Palestinians having no significant military or police force, the Palestinians don't have much say in the matter.  Unless strongly backed by the rest of the world, particulary by the United States, Palestinians have little hope of an independent contiguous state.
   So the Ramallah Contemporary Dance Festival is held in Ramallah and East Jerusalem because Palestinians on the West Bank cannot attend it in East Jerusalem, and Palestinians living in East Jerusalem cannot attend it in Ramallah.  This separation affects the development of Palestinian art, among other things.  Artists from the West Bank and artists in East Jerusalem cannot get together.  This blocks the development of a national theater, dance program, opera, symphony, art program, of sharing knowledge, technique, art!  However, Palestinians keep trying and they are succeeding in large and small ways.  I wrote about the concert at the refugee camp outside Bethlehem.  And now a dance festival.
   Khitam and I attended and were joined by Rafat, former student and tenacious and delightful young friend, and Khitam's friend Khaloud, who, like Khitam, studied art therapy at Lesley in Cambridge.  The opening performance was full and the performance by a Swiss troupe was remarkable: very physical, with a strong suggestive narrative and powerfully executed.  After the dance, the four of us went for a drink and a snack.  East Jerusalem's late night offerings for a drink and a snack are not much of an improvement over Brunswick's but there was a place nearby.  While we talked, Khaloud spoke of returning to the city she loves to live with her mother, who she deeply loves.  Khaloud is 35 and returned from two years studying at Lesley.  She is an independent thinker from a very conservative family.  She has brothers and sister, all of them married and all of them believing she should live with her mother until she is married.  It is not all right for her to have "a date."  She can meet someone for coffee, but not go out for a date.  Because people know each other in the old city, where she lives with her mother, she cannot "sneak off."  So she's a little bit stuck, trying to figure out how to live her life and not offend her family.  This convervatism is typical of the old city, I think.  Khitam, like Kholoud the youngest in her family, grew up in Acre and went to school in Haifa.  Her father died when she was 9, her mother a few years later.  An older sister became her surrogate mother and several other syblings - there were eleven, now ten  - helped.  She has, I suspect, been an independent thinker since a teenager and she did not live in such a tight community so she was not subjected to the same constraints as Khaloud.
   I think I won't press my luck.  I'll end for now and write another tomorrow about today.  I hope I can proof this before posting it, but if it, too, is riddled with faux-pas, you'll know I couldn't figure it out.

UN, Darwish and Dance

   When you travel with a camera, it is best to pass everywhere twice: once to experience it and once to photograph it.  Similarly, when writing a blog, it is best to experience without trying to write, then reflect and write.  Perhaps if time stood still...  I really don't want to write a travelogue, but this blog tends to slip into one.  The same is true of my journal.  Since time won't stand still, I'll keep writing and hope to get better at it.
   Last night, when we got home from a dance performance and a drink in Jerusalem, Khitam talked to a friend who told her a bomb had gone off in Boston.  She turned on CNN and we watched the account of the two bombs - "Or were there three...?"  There's some irony in my being in Palestine, watching CNN's account of a bombing at the Boston Marathon.  I feel sorrow for the deaths caused by the bombs and for the serious injury and anger that someone has caused this destruction.  I am also aware that far greater destruction has occurred almost daily for over ten years in other parts of the world, and is still occurring and much of it is the result of US action in wars, from drones and indirectly by providing billions of dollars worth of arms to warring countries.  It is good, if painful, for one's perspective to get outside the country and our media to experience other points of view.
   Yesterday, we went to Ramallah to visit a couple of friends and former co-workers of David Whittlesley, a friend from Bowdoinham, Maine.  Nisreen and Manar work with Interpeace and the UN to encourage dialogue among different groups of Palestinians to establish goals for the nation.  "What do you want Palestine to be, to stand for?"  That may be what they are trying to get Palestinians to resolve.  "Everyone wants an independent Palestine, but they don't agree on what they want this nation to be."  So they work with groups of former prisoners, with young people, with other groups they get together to seek answers, to get them to seek and find answers.  Their office is in a UN building that is well fortified and like other UN buildings, I suspect, and US government buildings is almost unapproachable, and, once approached, almost impenetrable.  We were fortunate that Nisreen was wait outside for us to facilitate our getting in and up to their offices.  Once there, Palestinian hospitality ruled and we had a good conversation about their work and a consideration of ways Khitam or I or the two of us together might do some work with young people or teachers and counselors or both.  The meeting was too short but better than no meeting at all.
   We drove a short distance to the memorial and grave of Mohammed Darwish, Palestine's leading poet.  The site is lovely but we couldn't get in.  Khitam was guessing the gate-keeper left to go pray.  This is a site that should be open all day every day and some evenings!  Darwish means a lot to this people.  He was a brilliant poetic spokesperson for the land and its people.  Khitam mentioned that before they built the memorial museum, it was always possible to visit Darwish's grave.
   Ramallah is a boom city with buildings going up everywhere, helter skelter with no thought of city planning.  In that way it reminds me of Beirut.  Soon there will be no land for parks or recreation, at least not much land.  I wonder if the boom will last.  It's fueled by NGO's related to Palestine and gives Ramallah the air of a hub, the center of Palestinian governance.  The problem with this for Palestinians is East Jerusalem, which they consider their capital.  Israel refuses this, says Jerusalem is one city and is the capital of Jerusalem.  This is a long term controversy unlikely to end soon.  Israel's development in and around Jerusalem, like the growth of settlements on the West Bank, make any sort of unified Palestine with an East Jerusalem capital unlikely if not impossible.  This hardly bodes will for peace in the area, in spite of Israel's vast military dominance.
   I have to stop here for another adventure.  I'll write the next installment tonight if I'm awake long enough.

More ceramics, history and bombs

   Where was I?  Ceramics, Palestine Pottery/Armenian Ceramics and more.  So, three families came from Turkey to Jerusalem to make ceramic tiles for the Dome of the Rock.  After that venture fell through, two of the families, the Karrkasians being the other family, decided to stay and create Armenian Ceramics.  They worked together for years and then decided to separate.  The Karkashians moved to a new location inside the walls of the old city.  Here the stories vary, depending on the story-teller.
   Harout Sandroumi, a very lively and likeable Armenian potter, now owns what was once the Karkashians business inside the old city, and he tells a slightly different tale of what happened.  He tells many tales, all of them interesting, and when Cotton Fite, a classmate at Williams who is now very interested in the area and its issues, and I entered Harout's - "People call me Harry!" - shop, we were soon seated on the other side of the little counter he rules, listening to his tales of what happened and what is happening.
   Harout believes things began to change in the 80's.  "Before then, people looked after each other.  Now, it's different.  The Armenian priests who used to lead the community now think only of themselves, like everyone else.  They don't need money.  They've got plenty.  They want your women.  When there's a problem, they know who to talk to."  Clearly this "who" is the government.  Harout is an engaging guy.  He designs and makes beautiful pottery, and I believe he loves Jerusalem, at least the old Jerusalem.  However, he, like many others, suggest or scream that people don't look out for each other any more.  Where once, people in different communities cared about each other, now people in a single community no longer care.  And minority communities are shrinking.  Harout figures the thousands of Armenians who once inhabited the old city now number less than 100.
   Later, while Khitam, Cotton and I were having lunch at the Jerusalem Hotel - beer, salad and chicken shwarma - Cotton got up and spoke to a solitary figure sitting next to us.  The man had silver-gray hair, olive skin and a quiet air.  Cotton spoke to him of their meeting a few years before and how glad he was to see him again and wished him well.  Soon after that, as he was leaving, Cotton told me the man, Venunu Mordechai, is the Israeli citizen who told the world that the Israelis have nuclear weapons.  Since then, he has been confined to Jerusalem and forbidden to speak to anyone of nuclear matters.  His parting words to Cotton were: "I hope I'll see you soon in Chicago."  I spoke with him briefly before Khitam and I left.  "You know my story?"  "Cotton told me, that's all I know.  Is  there a book?"  "Not yet."  "A website?"  "Yes."  I wished him well.  I'll check the website tomorrow.
   Last night, Khitam and I drove to Bethlehem after late lunch with Cotton.  There we wandered, visited another Armenian pottery shop then went to hear The Edward Said National Conservatory of Music Orchestra play extracts from Bizet's CARMEN in a beautiful new space on the edge of a refugee camp on the edge of Bethlehem.  The hall seats well over 2,000 and was nearly full.  At least three quarters of the audience comprised Palestinians, the orchestra is made up entirely of young Palestinians and a few others who live in Palestine, and the chorus, from Switzerland, combined with many young Palestinian singers.  The concert was wonderful!  The audience, including Khitam and me, was engaged and amazed, and the concert was moving and exhilerating.  What a treat and what an example of the power of art: the concert transformed the audience.  Tired and a little hungry, with an hour's drive home after a full day, we were delighted we had been there.

Music to my ears

It's later, Monday, Israel's Memorial Day.  The sun is out, the temperature is probably in the mid-sixties, higher in the direct sun.  It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

I'm still waking up at 4:30 to the dueling muezzins from the neighborhood mosques, but I'm getting back to sleep faster and rising early, well rested.  The dogs have shortened and muted their early morning prayers.  Khitam says about the early calls to prayer: "Why do they go on, reciting the Koran?  They're supposed to call people to prayer, that's enough.  Then be quiet and let the rest of us sleep!"  She prays through her work and whoever's up there must see that, nod and smile.

Saturday, after the lunch I mentioned in yesterday's blog, rewritten this morning, Khitam and I headed for Bethlehem and were soon there.  We stopped in yet another Armenian pottery shop that she likes, got a sales pitch from  an inebriated fellow who may or may not work there, then had tea and picked out a few small items and had a brief but impassioned discussion with the young man who gave us a good break in the price of our items.  He has relatives in Syria and hopes the US will stay out.  "Look," he says, "Sadam Hussein killed 30,000 people, the Americans 100,000 and look at Iraq now.  Of course Assad's a bad man, but which is worse if you look at the results in Iraq?"

We then drove to the edge of a huge refugee camp where The Edward Said National Music Conservatory of Music was presenting the concert version of Bizet's "Carmen."  Over sixty young Palestinians and young musicians residing in Palestine comprised the orchestra, and forty-five singers from Switzerland's Choeur St. Michel, Fribourg and young Palestinians were the chorus.  And what a wonderful concert it was, performed in a beautiful new auditorium that seats over 3,000.  There were few empty seats and after an introduction that was well-meaning but too long and in two languages - Arabic and English, the crowd settled down, almost, and the concert began.  In less than a minute the hall was hushed and the applause at the end of each piece was enthusiastic and grateful.  Khitam and I felt that by the end of the evening, when the crowd was on its feet applauding, an audience that was at least 75% Palestinian on the edge of a huge refugee camp in an occupied land, had been moved and united by the gift of music delivered well by young national musicians.  We were both tired but we smiled the whole hour's drive home.

Then, last night, Khitam's nephew Inas, stopped in and spent the night.  He has just switched jobs from the CEO of a tech firm hiring Palestinian engineers who are well trained but unemployed because of tribal discrimination to CEO of a new NGO aimed at finding employment for 10,000 unemployed Palestinian.  The project is supported by an international Jewish foundation and the
government; I don't know if there are other sponsors.  Inas started in December and now has sixty or seventy people working for him, setting up training centers and looking for job opportunities.  This, he believes, is a rare opportunity to support the economic development of Palestinians.

Though he is excited by his new job, excited and sometimes exhausted, he spoke more about a remarkable music program in the area he lives, north of Haifa.  In a fairly small community with a lot of marginal living, a philanthropist has started a music program for young people.  The program includes lessons, band and orchestra work, music theory and concerts.  Each year, musicians from the program's staff, scour the area for young people who are interested and select fifty for full scholarship work in this program.  Inas and Hanady's three daughters take lessons in the program and the second daughter is in the symphony.  Four young people from the symphony played in the orchestra Khitam and heard the night before!  Inas may be more excited about this program than about anything else in his life other than his family, and listening to him talk about it, I can understand why.  Having heard the ESNCM orchestra play the Carmen concert, I can't imagine not being excited about such a program for young people.

Yesterday, after Khitam's work with elementary and middle school teachers in a lovely old building on the edge of the old city, we headed to a restaurant on the edge of Jerusalem to meet Rafat for lunch.  Rafat is a young Palestinian, now twenty-five, who spent a summer in Maine, living on the Bald Head Road and attending our teen summer program at The Theater Project.  He has a full time job, is finishing his college education, wants to go on for an MA and wants to come to the States again.  We had a big and delicious lunch, way too much food, after which Rafat and Khitam shared a narghile and Rafat treated.  For the whole lunch!  He would have none of our paying it or sharing the cost.  Typical Palestinian hospitality, even from a young man who should be saving for his own expenses.

Old city, coffee and ceramics

It's Monday morning, 15 April. I've already written this entry once, but someone inside my iPad - someone or something - decided what I wrote was inappropriate and ate it, so I'm writing it agai. Perhaps by some cyber quirk, you've already seen it, while to me, it is lost. So much I don't understand. There's a lot here I don't understand either, but here it's human and political, so I can make my way into most of it and emerge with a better understanding than I started with. My friend Cotton, a classmate who I reconnected with at our fiftieth and only college reunion a couple of years ago, is also here, and he is asking the question: "What do you want me to tell people back home?" He writes about the responses in his blog, the name of which I'll include next time...if I remember. I met Cotton by the Damascus Gate of the old city, Saturday morning. We sat for a while, watched people going in and out, Orthodox Jews with their wide brimmed fur hats, long black coats and black pants; Palestinian women selling herbs and vegetables; a woman begging; tourists entering and exiting in groups, led by a guide with a flag on a stick; and people hustling in and out, going about their business. We soon joined the throng. Cotton walks with a cane, purportedly to help him with balance and support when he needs it after a couple of serious operations on his spine. I soon discovered the real purpose of the cane: to prod or chastise me. I accepted it and got retribution by going to the bathroom just before the bill arrived for our long coffee chat. When you walk through the old city, you're in medieval Jerusalem, several feet above the narrow streets Christ trod centuries before. Most of the walkways are too narrow for vehicles but carts, three-wheelers and, on slightly wider "roads," cars make their way, honking if they have a horn, hollering if they don't and nudging if you don't get out of the way. Most routes are crowded with shoppers until you get close to "the sites": the Wailing Wall, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Via Dolorosa and others. We had no particular destination in mind, just wandering, looking and talking. Cotton looked at a small electric kettle; we looked and sniffed in a spice shop where I bought some pine nuts; and he suggested several inappropriate t-shirts and various tourist shops, also a nice dress or two! The best coffee shops, according to him, are in the Jewish Quarter - the old city is roughly divided into quarters: Jewish, Christian, Armenian - so we made our way there, as indirectly as possible: "Do you know where the Jewish Quarter is?" "No. You?" "No." "Got a map?" "Yes." "Let's look." "There is is. Where are we?" "I don't know...here?" "Maybe." And so on; eventually, we got there, after asking five or six people the way and getting some help and some contradictory directions, which happens often here, maybe everywhere. So we sat and talked and talked about what's going on here and what kind of responses he's getting to his question of what to tell people back home, responses like: "Tell them the truth. Tell them what it's like. Tell them to come over and see. Tell them to do the right thing." For a while, we were the only people in the restaurant, a nice place for lunch. People would walk by, look in, talk among themselves, then move on. Meanwhile, we ordered our second coffee and continued to talk. Whenever people paused by the entrance, I smiled and nodded, hoping to encourage them to come in. By the time we left, several tables were full and the guy who had served us was hustling. Next stop was The Armenian Art Center, where Harout Sandrouni - "Call me Harry" - sat behind the counter and greeted us. This is another ceramics shop, selling their own designs. Harry has succeeded the Karakashians who were the partners of the Balian family in the original Armenian Ceramics business that I wrote about in the last blog. Harry is a live-wire, a non-stop raconteur and a delightful guy. He's been around a long time and he's discouraged, though that's not what you get from him at first. He sat us down across the little counter from him and started to talk about the business and life in the old city. The number of Armenians in the old city was around 3,000 a few decades ago; now there are less than 100. In response to a question about communities taking care of their own, he answered, "No!" "I remember that being something that distinguished the Armenian community in Beirut, their taking care of their own," I said. "That was then," he replied. "Now it's everyone for himself, and the priests, who used to be community leaders, care only for position and women." My guess is Harry's not a devout Armenian Orthodox or Catholic! Still, this attitude of looking out for oneself while communities deteriorate is common and sad. After a long conversation, that might still be going on if it wasn't time for us to meet Khitam for late lunch, Harry gave us each a very good deal on some lovely ceramics, then moved right on to make sales to other customers who had come in during our "session." He had mastered multi-tasking in his shop, all with a smile, even if it was ironic at times. We met Khitam for lunch at the Jerusalem Hotel. When we'd finished, Cotton got up to go, then stepped over to a white haired man, olive skinned, sitting quietly behind us. He introduced himself, chatted for a minute, then said good-bye to us and motioned me to follow him outside. He told me who the man was: Vanunu Mordechai, the Israeli who revealed to the world that Israel has nuclear weapons. He is confined to Jerusalem and cannot talk with anybody about his story, which I think he hopes to write someday, when he can leave the country. Before Khitam and I left, I spoke to him, told him Cotton and I were friends and that Cotton had shared with me who he was. He wrote his name for me and told me to google it to get his story. I wished him luck, then Khitam and I left. I looked back and saw him still sitting at the table, a notebook in front of him. He was alone.

Palestine, pottery and people

   My first full day in Palestine - "Oh, you mean Israel?"  "Well, not really: 'occupied Palestine.'"  "Not Jerusalem!"  "Not all of Jerusalem, but East Jerusalem."  "Oh, come on!  Be serious."  A good question to begin with: Can one be serious about this "situation"?  Yes, but without a sense of humor and a tad of faith in the human spirit, it's easy to be glum here."
   I arrived yesterday around 5:00 in the evening, 10:00 AM in Maine.  I flew out of New York around midnight, had dinner, such as it was, around 1:00 AM, then we flew into the sunrise and time passed more quickly than our watches, and we had breakfast at 2:00 PM, 7:00 AM Maine time.  And then around 5:00 we landed at Ben Gurion Airport outside of Tel Aviv, Israel.  Khitam was at the airport to pick me up.  We drove to her place outside of Jerusalem, on the "other side" of the wall - like being on the "other side of the tracks."  She made some dinner and opened a bottle of wine and we ate and talked until late.  Not surprisingly, this morning I woke at 4:00 AM, 9:00 the night before in Maine, and stayed awake to a muezzin's call from a near-by mosque at 4:30, followed by a cacaphous chorus of dogs rejecting the muezzin's timing.  I'll get more sleep tonight.
   Today, we left the house before 9:00 for Jerusalem.  She dropped my near the Damascus Gate of the old city and went off to her Saturday gig, working with kindergarten teachers.  I stopped in at Palestinian Pottery, where I chatted with Nishan Balian, third generation owner of The Armenian Ceramics, also called, The Palestinian Ceramics.  I had met him on my last visit, two and a half years ago.  I had told him then that Margie and I had come to Jerusalem on our motor scooter from Beirut in 1962 and had heard about and found his shop.  I told him how impressed we had been and remembered talking with someone about the pottery and someone's being across the little entrance hall, working on the destinctive designs the mugs, bowls and tiles still wear.  "That was probably my grandfather, who was still working then.  He died two years later."  The father took over and the grandson, Nishan, went to Ohio University to study ceramics and the opened a studio in or near Washington, D.C.  He had not beer working there long when his father was diagnosed with advanced Parkinson's, and he made the decision to return to Jerusalem to continue the family business rather than stay in D.C. with his new project.
   The back story is a good one.  In 1918, or thereabouts, the Brtitish Mandate government of Palestine invited the Balians and two other Armenian families to come from northeast Turkey to make tiles for the Dome of the Rock, Islam's cherished mosque in Jerusalem, built over the spot from which Muhammed on a white horse rose into heaven to receive the word of God that became the Koran.  Money ran out and politics reared its ugly head, as politics is wont to do, so the job ended soon after it began.  The Balian family and one of the other two families decided to stay and they started Armenian or Palestinian Ceramics.  Not long after Margie and I visited in 1962, the two families split up, one, the Balians, keeping the shop two blocks from the Damascus Gate of the old city, where the shop still is; the other family set up shop inside the city walls.
   The beat goes on and I'll have more to say tomorrow.  It's almost midnight here, 5:00 in the evening there.  My sleep clock may be getting into sync which means I am about to fall asleep, so I'll not attempt more words except to say it is good to be here making discoveries about Palestine and Israel, history and politics, pottery and hospitality and a little bit about myself (ho-hum)

Just practicing...

Greetings from Logan Airport. Off the bus, through security - "Is this your knapsac, sir?" "Yes. Is there..." "You can't take this water through." "No! I meant to finish it." "I'll just scan it." She does, then tosses it. I also had to toss my moisturiser...or is it "moisturizer"? Either way, it was too many ounces, so I may return in two weeks with dry skin! Oh, dear... To Kennedy in an hour and a half, then just before midnight, onto a non-stop flight to Tel Aviv, the sun rising soon after we take off...which means I'll be aging more rapidly than normal: that and dry skin may have drastically affected my appearance when next you see me. Instead of, "Al, you look the same," it'll be, "Al! What happened?!" As I said, "just practicing."

I'm back

I'm heading back to Palestine and will be blogging, without photos this time because I'm using my iPad and don't know how to do the photos, yet. I'll post some after I'm back. Check facebook to read the blog. I'm leaving NYC, Thursday night, arriving Jerusalem, Friday. Al