Sunday is a work day in Palestine. The weekend comprises Friday and Saturday, except for businesses that also recognize Sunday as a religious holiday. I was going to teach at a school in Adahya not far from Khitam's abode, but Sunday morning we learned the students would be released early in support of Palestinian prisoners. "Why do the students have this time out of school?" Khitam asked. "There are already more than enough days when school is not in session, and they need the time in school." She was passionate about this. She questioned whether most students recognized the day as special: "This should be adults' responsibility, not the students. They need the time to study!" This even as she has many questions about the values and techniques in many Palestinian classrooms.
So our day was knocked off center. Khitam does not sit around and brood. "Do you want to go to The Dead Sea?" I said, sure, if she did. She went to the kitchen, packed a picnic and soon we were off, including Chelsea who had spent the night on Khitam's couch.
A drive to The Dead Sea is a drive down, down, down. One of the lowest places on earth, it is far below sea level. As you descend, the air gets drier and warmer, and there is less and less sign of anything growing. It isn't bleak; it's just a different landscape; like landing on a different planet. When we arrived on the floor of the valley, we proceeded toward The Dead Sea, passing a deserted Jordanian Army base en route. The Jordanians lost the fort and everything else in the 1967 June War.
We pulled into a parking lot above The Dead Sea, changed into our swim suits and climbed down many many steps to the water's edge. The land is gritty, pebbly, hard on bare feet; we all had sandals. We parked ourselves under an umbrella and unpacked lunch on a picnic table, then went into the water. Actually, it's more like going onto the water. The sea is so salty that you bob to the surface and it's a struggle to completely submerge yourself, and doing that is undesirable. If you get any water in your eyes, the stinging is intense, and the only way to wash them out is to bob back to the shore, climb out and get under one of the fresh water showers for relief. You clamber over a rocky seafloor, your balance a little cockeyed from the buoyancy of the sea, squinting out of one eye, hoping no one is watching your clumsy progress toward the relief of fresh water.
I remember the first time I swam there, in 1962, when we went by motor scooter from Beirut to Jerusalem, Bethlehem and The Dead Sea. It was easy then and so it continued until the war in 1967. Now you wonder about checkpoints and roadblocks if you're Palestinian and starting on a little trip, whether it's work or pleasure. From time to time, Khitam has to cancel a teaching project because of road blocks that can delay her passage for hours. Monday night, after she had taught for three or four hours in Jerusalem, it took her two hours to get home because of check points and an accident on the way. I had gotten home around 5:30 and expect her around 7:00. I was beginning to worry about her when I heard the door open and her voice: "Hi, babe." She had called the neighbor, Abu Abdullah, to ask him to come over and tell me she was on the way if she hadn't shown up in half an hour.
Welcome to Palestine.
Back to the afternoon, we had a picnic after floating on the sea for a while, then sat under and outside of the table umbrella for a couple of hours. Khitam and Chelsea went in for another float, then we headed home, an hour's drive. It had been a relaxing, hot and salty day, and Khitam and I caught up some more that evening. Monday, we both had teaching gigs, and it looked like they were going to happen, though you never know, here. It's such an austerely beautiful place, this land of eight month summers, and it is so tortured by the area's politics. And still, the people welcome you and say you must come to their home for a meal. You must!
Welcome to Palestine. .
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