Monday, November 11, 2013

Monday evening, 11 November
   The sun has set, the muezzins have finished their calls to evening prayer, the streets and the dogs are quiet; it's the early end of a good day.  Khitam went off this morning for a couple of meetings.  I did some work here, wrote the previous blog entry, then went with my friend Nasser to his boys middle school not far from here.  I did a workshop with a group of school counselors, substance abuse counselors, a teacher of hearing-impaired and deaf young people and a counselor who works with people in the psychotic ward of a hospital in Bethlehem.  A great bunch whom I'll meet with again tomorrow.
   Daily life may be changing in Adahya, this area.  It is supposed to have been the responsibility of the Palestinian Authority, but until recently, Palestinian police were not allowed in by Israel.  That apparently changed over the weekend and it has been "the talk of the town."  Because the Israelis would not allow the PA police in, there was no law enforcement here.  Drugs flourished; people shot off guns whenever they were celebrating; there was some violence; and young drivers squealed around corners and sped on straight-aways.  Apparently the Israeli government and the PA reached some agreement, because Friday, when Khitam and I were leaving, there were a lot of Palestinian police around.
    When we came back, we heard they had arrested fifty people for drug related offenses.  A visitor last night, a neighbor who seems "in the know," said he thought they had been planning this and that there were already PA agents inside gathering information on drug trafficking and other offenses.  Khitam agreed there had been agents inside for a while.  One of them is her neighbor.  Slower drivers would be a welcome change here.
   Where was I?  The weekend with Khitam's family.  First, some more corrections…at least one.  Khitam's mother was from Nahef, the village where her sister Zada lives and where we stayed.  Her father was from Acre, and that's where she grew up, so Nahef isn't really "her village."
Zada and Khaled

 
Naseba, picking olives
 Saturday morning, Khitam, Naseba, Khaled and I had a leisurely breakfast, the Palestinian version of a continental breakfast which would not have been the case if Zada had been there.  However, Zada wasn't there.  She had gone early to pick olives with Inas, her son, and her nephew.  We drove to meet them late in the morning.  They were busy knocking the olives off the branches with a long stick.  They stretch tarps under the trees, then hit the branches to shake the olives loose.  The olives on the lower branches, they pick.  Naseba and I picked olives off the lower branches of the tree they were working on until the long sticks got too close, but I'd have to say our contribution wasn't much.  Picking and gathering all day, as they do when they're harvesting the olives, is tiresome work.  Inas loves it and does it every year.  Zada told Khitam and me that he started when he was five years old, going out with his father and uncles to pick.  His girls are not interested, but I'll bet he gets his little guy

   By late afternoon, they were done picking.  They took the sacks of olives to the local olive press, waited their turn, then the olives were pressed and they came home with fourteen multi-gallon jugs of oil.  It's been a lean year, perhaps because of weather.  Inas said the good and bad years seem to alternate.  In a good year, they get as many as forty jugs!
   Olive trees are like middle aged and old men.  They get gnarled, a little stooped sometimes, and their leaves are small and shimmer a greenish silver in a slight wind.
   Picking olives is a part living for some Palestinians.  Zada is one of those and so is Inas.  They grew up picking olives.  Zada told me Inas first went out when he was five and stayed the whole day until the adults came home!  He urged his daughters to come pick last year and they agreed, but after two hours, they were done.  They sat in the car and read and listened to music and ate snacks.  Zada scoffed at this; she couldn't imagine not picking.  It's in her blood and in Inas the same way.  Maybe his little boy will go out with him in a few years, age five, just as he did.
 

The trees and the olives and the oil they give are dear to Palestinians.  When Israelis cut down or bulldoze their olive trees, I think a little bit of the owner dies.
   After taking Naseba home and Khaled to his brother Yousef's house, we went into the old city of Acre and walked along beside the sea.  The harbor is full of fishing boats, crowded into slips along the dock by Israeli yachts.  Boys stood on the rocks with long fishing poles.  A couple of snorkelers were looking to spear some fish.  Khitam and I stopped to have a late lunch at a fish restaurant.  She had salmon and I had calamari, both cooked to perfection in interesting and light sauces.  Of course there was also a salad and a small mezza of hummus, baba ghanoujh, olives, a slaw, bread…  Delicious!
 
Old city, Acre
We were a little nervous when we got back to Zada's because of course she was planning a big meal for everyone.  Inas and her nephew barbecued lamb, chicken and vegetables, enough to feed half again as many as were there.  There was salad, potatoes, hummus and I don't remember what else.  I got away with eating a little, though extra skewers of chicken were put on my plate when I wasn't looking. I was able to put them back untouched without incurring Zada's wrath.  Zuzu, one of her daughters-in-law said: "You don't eat meat, Al?  Why?  You don't know what you're missing," as she tore into another skewer.
   People stayed until babies and young ones were too tired to move or couldn't stop moving, running on automatic.  The house quieted down and Khitam and Zada had time to sit and chat a bit before going to bed.  I read a little, then gave in and slept.  The next morning, I was first up and just had time to make tea before Zada was up and soon  set to work organizing the olive oil.
   Another correction: I wrote "Zaza" in an earlier blog, instead of "Zuzu."  My apologies to Zuzu, a smart and busy mom whom I met at Khitam's wedding celebration three years ago.
 
   Sunday, we took our time preparing to leave.  Khitam, Zada and I sat down to a breakfast of warm hard boiled eggs; sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers and onions; warm Arabic bread with zatar, fresh olive oil, leban (yoghurt) lebaneh (yoghurt with the moisture drained away) and jam; and two kinds of olives.  I may not be remembering everything!
   Then we said good-bye to Zada and headed back here.  On the way we stopped in al Birweh, which I wrote about this morning, I think, where Khitam's family lived before the 1948 war, as did the Palestinian poet, Mahmoud Darwish.
   Acre's old city, where Khitam and Ahmad had celebrated their marriage three years before, is always good to visit, although Khitam and I had perhaps our slowest and worst cup of Arabic coffee there along the seafront.  The view was wonderful and people were strolling and talking and smoking narghiles, but we picked the wrong little spot to order coffee.  Live and learn.  Khitam did get her narghile, but she said even that wasn't as good as usual.                                                                                                                                                        

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