"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.
Monday, April 22, 2013
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)
"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)
Sunday, April 21, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
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.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
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.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
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.
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.
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