Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Monday, May 2, 2016
Khalil and Lifta
I'm back in Arrowsic, Maine. I arrived in Boston, Saturday evening and today is Monday. Time to sum up and move on to the photos, which I'll try to post tomorrow.
Khalil, or Hebron, is the site of the Abraham's near execution of his son Isaac. As I recall - NB, may need fact checking - at the last minute, God intervened, pleased with Abraham's devotion, and Isaac's life was spared. Christians, Muslims and Jews recognize Abraham - Ibrahim, to Muslims - as a prophet. Currently, the old city in Khalil is often tense because of Israeli settlers, Israeli troops and Muslim inhabitants. Since settlers moved in and began harassing Muslim settlers, the old souk has been abandoned and parts of the old city are difficult to move through. Abraham is tugged in three different directions.
Last Tuesday, Khitam and I drove to Khalil where we met a representative of the Red Crescent Society, the Muslim Red Cross, and followed her to Red Crescent's center in the old city. There, Khitam organized art play for about sixty first grade girls. They arrived as we set up, a gaggle of very cute kids in matching school uniforms. They were herded inside by their teachers and once there, Khitam organized them into five groups that would rotate through five art areas where they would construct, paint, draw, mold clay, read or hear stories and play with puppets, aided by Red Crescent staff and me. The energy level rose to the ceiling, and the girls had great fun busily building and drawing and painting. At the end, I told a story which Khitam translated. They were an eager and focused audience, once they had wriggled into their places on the floor.
Then, about two hours after we started, it was over, They hustled out of the building and onto their bus and were gone. Khitam and the staff and I packed the materials back into her art car and off we went, out of the old city. Part of me wanted to stay, to wander the narrow streets, recalling my last visit there in 1998, when there were no settlers and the old souk was open and busy.
I remember going back to a square where taxis were parked. There were four of us, two Canadians, another American and I. We were rushed by drivers asking us where we wanted to go, each urging us to follow him. I asked one how much to drive us to Jerusalem and he gave a price that seemed reasonable. My companions agreed, so we got in. We drove out of town toward Jerusalem, then he asked me if we'd come to his house for coffee. I remember hesitating, wondering if this was a hustle, then dismissed that thought and asked the others if they'd like to stop for coffee at his house. They agreed, so we turned off the main road onto a dirt road that climbed into the hills. We drove through a little village and stopped at a house overlooking the road from Khalil.
He led us into his house to meet his wife and three kids, then ushered us outside to sit in their little garden. His wife served us fruit, then coffee and sweets, then tea. His thee children, probably maybe six, eight and eleven or twelve. I started throwing a ball with the oldest boy. I had my three juggling balls so I showed him how to juggle and he worked on it for the rest of our stay. The father, whose name I can't remember, invited us to stay for dinner. I told him we had to get back to Ramallah after we got to Jerusalem, that we had to teach the next day. He urged us to stay, but we couldn't, so we said good-bye and she drove us to Jerusalem.
I won't forget their hospitality, which is typical of Palestinians and Arabs in general. Once you're in their home, you are their guest. They insist on feeding you and making sure you are comfortable, however meager their resources. When I got back home, I sent three juggling balls and some other gifts to the family. Months later, I received a tattered note from Khalil, written in English: "Thank you, Al, for the gifts. Come to see us again." It was signed with their family name.
My last day in Palestine, Khitam and I drove to the village of Lifta. It is an abandoned Palestinian village. Its citizens fled in 1948 during the war that established Israel. Most such villages were then destroyed and remnants scattered or buried to be replaced by Israeli towns. For some reason, Lifta was not destroyed and has been preserved after Palestinians petitioned to prevent its destruction. It must have been a prosperous village. Houses were stone, well built, often joined, perhaps the result of families expanding. There is a spring that feeds a swimming holes in the village. A few Israeli teens were swimming and splashing in the pool. Khitam and I sat under a tree near the pool. For several minutes, she didn't speak, just looked at the pool. Then she said: "I wonder if they ever ask who lived here." We got up and walked back through the deserted village to the car, about a mile.
Khalil and its old city, Jerusalem and its old city, the wall:
Wall, that vile wall that did these lovers sunder;
And through wall's chink, poor souls, they are content
To whisper. (A Midsummer Night's Dream)
And the people, enduring, hospitable, confused and frustrated by being walled in or walled out, separated from family, fields, opportunities. The villages, scattered across the landscape, often in the shadow of orderly settlements that look like they were dropped into place by some massive helicopter. The children, bright eyed and eager to learn, to meet someone new - Hallo! How are you? What is your name? Tani and Ireet and their family in Israel, hoping for change. Khitam and Nasser and their good and essential work...
Good-bye for now, Palestine.
Khalil, or Hebron, is the site of the Abraham's near execution of his son Isaac. As I recall - NB, may need fact checking - at the last minute, God intervened, pleased with Abraham's devotion, and Isaac's life was spared. Christians, Muslims and Jews recognize Abraham - Ibrahim, to Muslims - as a prophet. Currently, the old city in Khalil is often tense because of Israeli settlers, Israeli troops and Muslim inhabitants. Since settlers moved in and began harassing Muslim settlers, the old souk has been abandoned and parts of the old city are difficult to move through. Abraham is tugged in three different directions.
Last Tuesday, Khitam and I drove to Khalil where we met a representative of the Red Crescent Society, the Muslim Red Cross, and followed her to Red Crescent's center in the old city. There, Khitam organized art play for about sixty first grade girls. They arrived as we set up, a gaggle of very cute kids in matching school uniforms. They were herded inside by their teachers and once there, Khitam organized them into five groups that would rotate through five art areas where they would construct, paint, draw, mold clay, read or hear stories and play with puppets, aided by Red Crescent staff and me. The energy level rose to the ceiling, and the girls had great fun busily building and drawing and painting. At the end, I told a story which Khitam translated. They were an eager and focused audience, once they had wriggled into their places on the floor.
Then, about two hours after we started, it was over, They hustled out of the building and onto their bus and were gone. Khitam and the staff and I packed the materials back into her art car and off we went, out of the old city. Part of me wanted to stay, to wander the narrow streets, recalling my last visit there in 1998, when there were no settlers and the old souk was open and busy.
I remember going back to a square where taxis were parked. There were four of us, two Canadians, another American and I. We were rushed by drivers asking us where we wanted to go, each urging us to follow him. I asked one how much to drive us to Jerusalem and he gave a price that seemed reasonable. My companions agreed, so we got in. We drove out of town toward Jerusalem, then he asked me if we'd come to his house for coffee. I remember hesitating, wondering if this was a hustle, then dismissed that thought and asked the others if they'd like to stop for coffee at his house. They agreed, so we turned off the main road onto a dirt road that climbed into the hills. We drove through a little village and stopped at a house overlooking the road from Khalil.
He led us into his house to meet his wife and three kids, then ushered us outside to sit in their little garden. His wife served us fruit, then coffee and sweets, then tea. His thee children, probably maybe six, eight and eleven or twelve. I started throwing a ball with the oldest boy. I had my three juggling balls so I showed him how to juggle and he worked on it for the rest of our stay. The father, whose name I can't remember, invited us to stay for dinner. I told him we had to get back to Ramallah after we got to Jerusalem, that we had to teach the next day. He urged us to stay, but we couldn't, so we said good-bye and she drove us to Jerusalem.
I won't forget their hospitality, which is typical of Palestinians and Arabs in general. Once you're in their home, you are their guest. They insist on feeding you and making sure you are comfortable, however meager their resources. When I got back home, I sent three juggling balls and some other gifts to the family. Months later, I received a tattered note from Khalil, written in English: "Thank you, Al, for the gifts. Come to see us again." It was signed with their family name.
My last day in Palestine, Khitam and I drove to the village of Lifta. It is an abandoned Palestinian village. Its citizens fled in 1948 during the war that established Israel. Most such villages were then destroyed and remnants scattered or buried to be replaced by Israeli towns. For some reason, Lifta was not destroyed and has been preserved after Palestinians petitioned to prevent its destruction. It must have been a prosperous village. Houses were stone, well built, often joined, perhaps the result of families expanding. There is a spring that feeds a swimming holes in the village. A few Israeli teens were swimming and splashing in the pool. Khitam and I sat under a tree near the pool. For several minutes, she didn't speak, just looked at the pool. Then she said: "I wonder if they ever ask who lived here." We got up and walked back through the deserted village to the car, about a mile.
Khalil and its old city, Jerusalem and its old city, the wall:
Wall, that vile wall that did these lovers sunder;
And through wall's chink, poor souls, they are content
To whisper. (A Midsummer Night's Dream)
And the people, enduring, hospitable, confused and frustrated by being walled in or walled out, separated from family, fields, opportunities. The villages, scattered across the landscape, often in the shadow of orderly settlements that look like they were dropped into place by some massive helicopter. The children, bright eyed and eager to learn, to meet someone new - Hallo! How are you? What is your name? Tani and Ireet and their family in Israel, hoping for change. Khitam and Nasser and their good and essential work...
Good-bye for now, Palestine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)