Picking up the Pieces in Palestine

Power Walking in Beit Sahour

A few days ago, I saret Sahouriya or, in other words, became one who hails from Beit Sahour. That’s the Palestinian way of saying that I moved to Beit Sahour, the small town bordering Bethlehem to the east. My new home is host to Shepherd’s Field, where the angel announced the birth of Jesus to the shepherds. In reality there are two separate fields—apparently the Greek Orthodox shepherd got the news while he was standing about 1 kilometer away from where the Catholic shepherd was working.

I am living with a young Christian family; the mother is 24 and they have two small sons, ages three and five. Nona, the mother, convinced me to join her on walks around the town instead of exercising at the YMCA. So, that evening we were joined by her sister-in-law, brother-in-law and their baby for an evening of power-walking.

In America, people jog to be alone to think, to listen to music, or to wind down. In Bethlehem, that’s not the case at all. People’s clocks seem to be synchronized. At approximately 8pm, the entire city, save Grandpas and invalids, descends on the streets wearing walking shoes.

What constitutes a good walking shoe varies. For teenage girls, the heel must be at least 1.5 inches and is generally color coordinated to the belt, shirt, earrings and eye-makeup. For older but not yet obsolete Christian ladies, a thickly-padded rubber sole shoe neutral in color will do. This is often offset by a shin-length navy blue or black skirt. The adventurous of this group may opt for the peep-toe version so that their stocking-covered toes are visible. The town’s Muslim women often don sportier versions of the hijab, though I did not notice one with a Nike logo. Their skirts are generally ankle-length and shoe choice varies widely. The men of Beit Sahour seem to opt for running shoes or thick-strapped sandals.

Once one enters the great outdoor track, certain rules must be observed.

Ipods aren’t allowed—listening to music hinders one from his or her social obligations in the street or town center. The ideal walker must maintain a delicate pace; somewhere between burning calories and not being so out of breath that you cannot call ‘hala, hala’ (“what’s up?”) to the neighbors you pass. And one must always, always keep the right hand free for hand-shaking and back-patting.

Strollers are necessary for children under four. Husbands are necessary to push the stroller. It isn’t normal for the exercise to take one’s breath away. It is normal for the sunset over the hills to stop you in your tracks. By 9:30PM, one can circle the town if an aggressive pace was maintained. If one arrives at Flavors, the best ice-cream shop in town, past 10:00PM she will have to wait in line behind the faster walkers.

The Tough Questions

Some days you get what you deserve. Others, you get a little bit more.

I had one of those ‘other’ days last weekend when I attended non violence training in Jenin, a Palestinian city whose name is associated with armed resistance, Israeli raids, and an infamous massacre. Nothing of these things happened while I was there but I did have my own personal collisions with a few locals.

The trainings were the first in a series of similar efforts being undertaken by Holy Land Trust, a Palestinian NGO in Bethlehem where I volunteer. As soon as a 15 minute break was announced, I found myself flanked by a group of young women all very eager to speak with me. They began introducing themselves and asked if they could practice speaking English with me. A few minutes into the conversation, another girl shyly approached the group. I asked if she was a student like the others and was promptly assured that “she’s not a student. She’s a virgin.” Arabs are a bit like children in the sense that you never know what they’re going to say next. The 15 minutes I had intended to use to gain insight into participants’ motivation for pursuing non violence proceeded thus:

Me: Oh, so you’re not in school. Are you married?

Girl 1: “No, she’s a VIRGIN.”

-I think you mean she’s single, right?

Girl 2: “No, she’s a virgin.” Looks at the other women for support, who are all nodding in agreement to the quiet one’s chastity. “So, where are you from?” they ask me.

-The U.S.

“Where exactly?”

-Alabama

Hmph. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of Al-La-Bom-Ah.” She looks at me with an eyebrow raised in suspicion and then decides to give me a chance even though I’m not from New York or California.

-So, do you know Helen?

-Keller? (Not concealing my wonderment at the thoroughness of the Palestinian education system.)

-Um, no HELEN. She was tall….blonde hair…. She came here once.

-She was from Alabama?

-No, Chicago. Well, then do you know Charlie?

-Where’s he from?

-London.

Training resumed and I had gained nothing, save a sense of the girls’ provinciality. Had I known what was coming next, I would have spent the next hour prepping rather than wondering what Helen had been doing in Jenin.

When it was once again time for coffee, I was approached by one of the lawyers in the group. We exchanged niceties and I told him where I was from, remarking that it wasn’t one of the more well known states. He laughed and said that he knew Alabama well. In fact, he could name every state in the U.S. Then he asked if the average American could name just two Palestinian cities. I saw where he was headed immediately.

I’ve had this conversation before. The first one happened several years ago on my first excursion outside the U.S. to England. It seems like most of the rest of the world has an idea that Americans are largely ignorant about the world around them. For the most part, they are right. Why, for instance, is the media giving more attention to Paris Hilton’s house arrest than to the G8 Summit? The media alone is not at fault; it is merely responding to demand.

The same man asked me if I lived in a democratic country. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He wanted to know if I understood exactly how much money my country gives to Israel and what it is used for. I said, yes I am aware and I am sorry. I am sorry that you associate the U.S. with weapons, walls and checkpoints that make occupation efficient. But you should also know how much aid the US has given to Palestinians.

He asked about the Jewish lobby and why it was so powerful. Why all the presidential candidates were saying the same things regarding Israel and the Palestinians. Why the media only showed bad things that happened to Israelis but not to Palestinians. Why America seemed to hate Arabs.

My Arabic was failing me miserably. Another young man stepped in to defend me, but I told him I could handle it. I slowed the questions being fired at me long enough to tell my colleague that I would gladly speak with him, under the condition that he also listen to what I had to say.

All too often, I can’t formulate proper answers to such inquiries. But I have to try because I do live in a democratic country and theoretically have some say in its policies in the world. Sometimes I just wish I could drag a few fellow Americans over here with me and make them assist in my feeble attempts at diplomacy. Perhaps mandatory encounters with people whose lives our policies directly affect wouldn't be such a bad idea. If all went well, people might begin to care a bit more about what happens across the Atlantic. At the very least, it would give Ms. Hilton and other undeserving celebrities a break from the spotlight.

Throwing in the Habit

Well, I did it. I threw in the habit. A few of you probably feel vindicated, and want to say I told you so. You told me that I couldn’t handle living in a monastery and perhaps you were right.

I tried, I really did but I just kept failing. I sat on the couch politely nodding my head in agreement to Russian jibberish, only to have my legs smacked because they were crossed at the knee. I was reprimanded for using the wrong coffee cup—the pretty ones are apparently Sisters Only. (Talk about civil rights. I’d launch a movement for the rights of Second Rate Christians if the whole Palestinian issue wasn’t consuming my time).

Things started to look up when Joanna, a German education major and 6-week volunteer, moved in. Being new and naïve, I thought her blunders might deflect the attention that I always seemed to garner. My hopes came crashing down upon me one sunny spring day in April.

Having finished lunch, I cleared the table, washed my dishes and was whistling a tune of victory when I heard a Russian shriek (clearly identifiable by the more alarmed nature). I turned around to see Joanna holding a cup of hot tea and Sister Natasha holding the tea pot from which it came. The next thing I saw sent chills down my spine.

Ole Natti’s face was turning red from the chin up and her finger was having a seizure in MY face. Joanna, the evidence clearly still in her hand, had somehow managed to frame me for taking the hot water! I tried to explain to my Sister in Christ that water was indeed scarce in these lands, but that the situation wasn’t as dire as she seemed to think. Of course, there was no apology when it was brought to her attention that the fault was Joanna’s and not mine. She did laugh the next day, however, when I emphatically asked permission to use the hot water. In any case, I made sure to acquire a permit for each ensuing cup of tea if for no other reason than to highlight the injustice of life in the kitchen.

That day I was certainly angry, but there were others much more troubling and confusing. Take the night of March 16, 2007. I entered the kitchen to take my daily dose of mush and mash and immediately realized that there was no room at the table. Relieved to have an excuse to take my plate to my room, I prepared to take my leave but was urged to stay. Aw, I thought, they’re being sweet tonight. Matushka, the top dawg, was usually less than sugary and I thought maybe she was just in the Easter spirit. She smiled and told me that I must stay and dine with them.

Then she pointed to my chair…a lone stool in the center of the kitchen and told me to eat there. So, while everyone else happily chatted at the table for People Who Wear Black and Officially Love the Lord, I thought about how life is strangely cruel. Just at the moment when I decided it couldn’t get any worse, they all stood up, faced me, and started singing. There I was, sitting alone in the middle of the kitchen, between the congregation and the icon to which evening prayers are sung. I began to pray too, silently asking God to start giving me warning signs for similar awkward situations.

God must have an amazing sense of humor. Just a few days later, Joanna and I were talking quietly in the kitchen while the sisters and Matushka were sitting around the table, chatting and sipping tea. Not really understanding why, we were shooed out. Ran off like stray dogs. We later were told that during dinner with Matushka, no one is allowed to talk unless she poses a direct question. We also learned that the Russian Orthodox Church doesn’t change its clocks when the rest of the world does and that whistling is bad luck.

I could have stayed, really. I was managing quite well but then an email came presenting an opportunity to live in downtown Jerusalem. Thanking God for finally answering my prayers, I moved in with a sweet Palestinian Baptist (I didn’t know they existed either) who pinches my cheeks and constantly tells me how cute and smart I am. It’s a bit like living with my Grandmother, evangelical television programming and all.

Epilogue:

I haven’t abandoned the monastery. I have a close relationship with the head nun, who has a huge heart and works more than one person should. I still drive little girls to doctor’s appointments and play beauty shop in the afternoon.

If I’ve learned anything from my time in the monastery it is this: Some people have a hard time expressing love or even recognizing it—until it is gone, that is. Sister Natasha, whose love and acceptance I pined for, told me how she felt the day I moved my bags out. “Ava, why you go? I so sad.” Since that day, my every arrival is greeted with a beaming smile and four fat Russian kisses on the cheek. And each time, I’m almost tempted to stay. But I don’t; instead I walk away and in the distance can almost see her quivering hand wiping a tear from her tired old face. It’s a shame, really. Resisting love for so long, and only realizing the truth a moment too late.

Natti, ‘ole girl, we could have been so happy together.

A Strange Little Town

My current home is the place where Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, which is why it is called Al-Azariya (from the Arabic form of Lazarus). The residents also claim to host the homes of Maria and Martha, but this point is disputed. Nevertheless, situated at the foot of the Mount of Olives, this small but once vibrant town welcomed thousands of Christian pilgrims each year, particularly during the Feast of Lazarus. It was also the usual resting place for travelers between Jerusalem and Jericho, a position that accelerated its growth and sustained its economy.

Much has changed in the last five years. Once the second Intifada began, tourism dropped to almost zilch. Some of my Muslim friends told me how they used to take the kids and line the street to watch the Christians’ procession from Jerusalem to Lazarus’ tomb on Lazarus Day. That procession was held yesterday, and I counted a grand total of three tour buses which came sporadically and without grandeur. If the town fell ill to the violence that shook Israel and Palestine after the Al-Aqsa Intifada, it has all but died at the arrival of the Wall. Once the wall began to snake through the area, roping a few sections into greater Jerusalem and isolating the others, the town became isolated and the economy grinded to a halt. Many of the fellaheen, or country folk, suffered from being cut off from their land and having had their olive groves uprooted. Others just suffer from immobility. In one strange case, the path of the Wall cuts right between the homes of two brothers. One is now a Jerusalemite and the other forbidden to visit his brother’s side. An side effect that directly impacted the school where I volunteer was the enrollment, which changed daily for several months as kids who once came to schools here from Jerusalem were forced to relocate, and students living here and attending a private school in the city were denied permission.

I’ve learned a lot about this little town in the last few weeks. In addition to its history and its politics, I’ve come to understand that there are a lot of things about this place that may forever remain a mystery to me. It seems to have a lot of secrets, and judging from what I’ve seen lately, I don’t want or need to know them. This feeling is a direct consequence of the past two weeks, which left me feeling like the star of a second rate action film.

I started frequenting the little restaurant across the street in an effort to escape the monastery food (which is a strange hybrid of Russian recipes and Arab ingredients). One evening, the owner’s brother noticed that I was doing Arabic homework. From that day on, he would come to my table whenever he wasn’t serving someone and speak to me in Arabic. Last Saturday, once I finished my meal he suggested that we go to the pastry shop down the road for dessert. Considering that it was close, in a public area and not yet nighttime, I agreed. Oh, how I wish I didn’t have such a sweet tooth.

The next day, Sister Martha said she needed to talk to me. I thought I had inadvertently angered Sister Natasha, a scenario I would have welcomed once she began with, “The Palestinian CIA called today.” They said the person I was meeting in the pastry shop was an Israeli spy and that if I was seen with him again, I could be in real physical danger. The caller gave a very detailed description of what I had been wearing, what time I was there, etc. To make matters worse, this very same night a group of several boys decided to beat on the gate of the monastery and climb the walls. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that there is no police here in 'Area B,' which means that the town is supposed to be under Palestinian Authority but Israeli security. The irony is that the Israelis never come here and don't allow the Palestinians to actually have any authority...so there is no police and no recourse. Except the one that is secretly maintained--with whom I was about to become acquainted.

After spending the next day in class quite certain that every person in Israel was watching me, I came home and began helping the girls with their homework. I was interrupted with a phone call from a man saying I had to come open the door because we needed to talk. The man, who was reminiscent of a Palestinian Zach Morris, said he had come from Ramallah to Azariya to talk to me about my ‘meetings with the spy.’

So, I’m thinking this is turning into a big deal…I mean, someone was sent to interrogate me. I had to give detailed accounts of every conversation I ever had with Mohamed (which was quite boring I’m sure. Ex: “So, when you want to say that it’s raining and when you say that it’s cold outside, that’s essentially the same thing? Oh, and if I was late for the bus is it appropriate to say...”) Louie, the CIA wannabe, attempted to anger and intimidate me for a while. He told me that if he didn't like me, he could force the Abess to make me leave. He also clarified that he was part of the 'morality' wing of the intelligence service (which, I must admit, made me laugh....especially after his hypocritical comments about his and his girlfriend's affairs). Finally, he told me that he wanted to be my friend. He said that I really had no choice because if I were to go out in Azariya, even to buy groceries, I had to call him first.

I attempted to locate Sister Martha, whom he said had given him permission to speak with me personally, but she was nowhere to be found. The school principal, and whose name he also cited when I questioned his legitimacy, was also absent. The entire next day I was still paranoid, as Louie had recounted details about what time I left from and returned to the monastery, where I studied, the phone call from the secret police and emphasized my new dependency on him, which irritated me to no end. I felt confined to the monastery, which led me to think about other housing options. (More on that later.)

For brevity's sake, I'll skip right to the resolution of this strange little tale.

The movie on fast forward: I tell Mohamed, the restaurant man, that I’ve been informed that he is a spy and whether it’s true or not we can’t be friends. I find out from the principal that Louie is actually just some guy that lives across the street--NOT in Ramallah--nor does he work for the intelligence service. (This revelation doesn’t explain his knowledge of the phone calls to the Sr. about the spy, but it does explain a few comments he made during our conversation and the vibe I was getting that he was attempting to mix business with pleasure). So, I inform Louie of my new information, which he denies. Both give up trying to contact me after two weeks.

The cloud: I no longer feel comfortable eating at the restaurant, meaning more quality time with Sr.Natasha and her cold soup and grease pies. I also take a cab when I visit my friends who live down the street, because walking to their house would necessitate passing the spy’s shop.

The silver lining: I have been successfully interrogated in Arabic and learned a whole new set of vocabulary.

A Better Way

Sleepless Nights

Traveling back from the village of Bil’in, our car passed through the checkpoint in Ramallah where we noticed dozens of men lined up on one side of the road. Each of them was looking across the road to where a group of Palestinian boys stood facing three Israeli jeeps. Each of the boys, whose ages ranged from five to fifteen, had a rock in his hand. And each of the soldiers had his finger on a trigger. One rock was thrown, and then several more followed. My driver stepped on the accelerator as the firing started.

The four other people in the car with me, including two university professors, resumed their conversation but I didn’t hear them, nor did I clearly see the road in front of me. I thought about why a child would look down the barrel of a gun when he knew his weapon was inferior. It must be that he just had something that needed to be said. And then the soldier, who has no choice but to serve. What if it was his bullet that struck one of them? Can he sleep at night? I can’t, not tonight anyway.

There is Only One Sin

“There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. Do you understand that? When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife’s right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. Do you see?”

This is one of many lessons learned by the protagonist in Khaled Hosseini’s novel, The Kite Runner. My mind often wonders back to that book, and to this quote in particular. I question the validity of this assertion, of boiling the entire world’s injustice down to one fundamental wrong. And, most days, I find reason to agree.

Sister Martha came to my door today and told me that a lady would come by the monastery looking for Layla, one of the girls who lives here. She carefully explained that I should tell the woman that Layla was in the church in Jerusalem and wouldn’t be back for days. In essence, a nun asked me to lie. My surprise must have been transparent, because she told me that I would understand her request when I understood the girl’s life outside the monastery walls. Layla, a pretty little girl who makes good grades and loves to draw, seems like most other eight year olds. Now that I know what her life has been like, I marvel at her normalcy. She is smiling every time I see her. I would never have guessed that her childhood has been stolen from her.

Since she was an infant, Layla has endured physical and emotional abuse at the hands of her father. She has suffered burns from being put into a hot oven, a broken nose courtesy of her father’s angry fist, and routine beatings that left her small body covered with bruises. Relief should have come when the man abandoned his family for another woman, who bore him the son he wanted Layla to be. But things just got worse. Her mother is a prostitute, but her graver fault is cowardice. Her cowardice and blind familial loyalty have stolen her daughter’s innocence. The woman’s brother first sexually abused Layla when she was six. The mother refused to believe the child’s accusations, even though medical exams and her behavior were clear indicators of abuse. After essentially paying the father to sign over his custodial rights, Sister Martha took Layla away for treatment for several months and the girl finally achieved a sense of security and normalcy.

Unfortunately, she is still legally bound to the mother, who often sends her to her uncle’s house while she ‘works.’ Of course, these visits launch the girl into psychological and physical seclusion yet again. Thus, I have joined the nuns in a game of hiding and lying. As far as the child’s family is concerned, school never ends. And when it does, Layla miraculously ends up in Russia for the summer before anyone has time to object (this is actually legal, thanks to the father’s avarice and/or lack of concern). The mother’s protests are usually silenced with a negligible amount of money. I suppose lying and paying people off are sins, things one would least expect from nuns. Yet, it is as Sister Martha says, every lie she tells she does so with a clear conscious, knowing that she is giving a young girl back a portion of what has been taken from her.

Sister Natasha and Me

I feel as if I have a sign on my forehead that reads, “Kick me, Sister Natasha.” I’m not special; she dislikes everyone equally, a lesson I learned on my first day when she drove me down the road to retrieve my luggage from a friend’s house. The entire ride, I regretted accepting her offer. We flew over speed bumps while she expressed her displeasure at the neighborhood and its inhabitants, explaining in stilted English that, “Arabs not interesting. Not at all.” Then, as we drove for a mile along Israel’s massive wall (officially built for security, unofficially expanding territory) she turned her ire toward the Jews: “What this? In God’s land! This thing ugly. Hurt my eyes. “

Finally, it was my turn. “You Americans tear down wall in Germany and make wall here. Why? Why you do this? I no understand America.” Her rant would likely have continued if it weren’t for a vegetable delivery truck that was stopped in the road so its driver could unload tomatoes. Rather than stop momentarily, she swerved around the truck and climbed onto the sidewalk where we came perilously close to hitting two Palestinian pedestrians. Sister Natasha was not apologetic about the near fatality nor was she ashamed to use her horn to let the delivery man know how illogical it was to be working in the middle of the day. According to her, the incident was due to a genetic deficiency: “They stupid, the Arabs. Don’t make sense.”

I’ve been living here for a week and apparently it’s still my turn. I am confounded by this woman. One minute she’s rolling around on the ground playing with the children, the next she’s yelling and slapping bottoms. My bottom has yet to be slapped, but my pride sure has taken a beating. The first scolding came shortly after my arrival. Sister Martha told me that I was free to do my own laundry, but Sister Natasha stormed into my room wanting to know why I didn’t ask her before I began washing clothes. And who did I think I was using the dryer? We never, ever use the dryer. My clothes can hang on the line just like hers. And Sister Maria does the laundry anyway, so why was I trying to mess up the system?

I was wounded. A lifelong teacher’s pet and favorite grandchild, I usually do a good job of pleasing my elders. I decided to counter the laundry incident by being Super Girl. I washed everyone’s dishes—she complained that I used too much hot water. I tried to clean up the table—she told me I put things in the wrong place. I spent hours helping one girl study for an English exam—she yelled at me for having the light on and said the little girl and I were costing the church money. I made her tea—she flatly declined, “I no want.”

Exasperated, but still determined, I decided to win her over via the children. The next day, I rushed home from my internship and spent the afternoon helping the girls with their homework. Then I kept them all busy with puzzles and coloring books. When dinner time came, the girls saved me a seat at the head of their table, a clear sign of acceptance. Sister Natasha’s deadly look forced me to decline their invitation and my place of honor in order to join her in the kitchen. It was then that she informed that I was not to speak to the children. Ever. They have a ‘regime’ and are easily distracted. And, because of me, they were late to dinner. The whole night was ruined and it was my fault. Then, in a conciliatory whisper, she let me in on a little secret, “They Arab children. Not normal.”

I think this unwarranted snipe at the girls was meant to be an olive branch to me, but I wasn’t about to encourage her racism. I also wasn’t about to incur her wrath by telling her what I thought (she probably wouldn't have understood anyway). So I just avoid her. I peek out my window to see if she’s downstairs before I leave my room to go to the kitchen. If she is, I just wait it out. This sometimes means going to bed hungry, but that's better than going to bed defeated.

Home Sweet Home?

Four cynical Russian nuns sit around a dinner table, laughing at the expense of the young American girl before them. The girl’s mind is elsewhere. She is trying in vain to hold her nose without using her hands, so as to resist the temptation to regurgitate the cold, slimy concoction of mushrooms and other, unidentifiable, objects that Sister Cruel has offered her. This dish must be left over from the hellacious rule of Stalin, she muses silently. Her thoughts are interrupted with a question from Sister Cruel. “Why are you here?” the nun demands. The girl emerges from her reverie stumped. It’s a good question.

As you’ve already guessed, I’m the girl. My new roommates are the nuns. I’m not sure how this happened, but it did. A week ago, a friend put me in touch with the administrator of an all girls’ school in the Palestinian village, al-Azarea. She knew that I was looking for a room with an Arabic-speaking family and thought the boarding school might be the answer to my prayers. The price was right, the location was good, and the deal seemed too good to be true. The only requirement was that I interview with the head nun. I should be honest—I blew that interview. When questioned about my faith, my answer was evidently Protestant enough to compel one of the observing nuns to interject, “we’re all God’s children, Sister Martha.” I suppose benevolence won over, because a few days later I was entrusted with keys to a Russian Orthodox Monastery.

My first night was rough. I didn’t exaggerate the wretchedness of the soup. What’s worse is that they knew that I would hate it but couldn’t decline it. By the way they were making fun of me in Russian, I guessed that I had just been fed something akin to Mountain Oysters. My palate was later salvaged with strawberries, but the evening didn’t get much better. After being questioned about my education and career goals, I was soon defending the very nature of ambition. The head nun looked at me with a mixture of pity and condescension as she informed me that I shouldn’t have such lofty aims because I’d be 60 years old before I realized that I hadn’t made a real difference in the world and by then I’d have no time left for self-improvement—the only kind of improvement in which one can truly succeed. It sounded to me like she’d had a few hard knocks—perhaps she had failed in some Mother Teresa-esq aspirations. Whatever the case, I didn’t think it necessary to bring me down with her. Yet, still trying to be loved, I made chatty conversation that doesn’t merit re-telling.

I’m not quite sure what the terms of my stay here are. I’m not the nanny, which I had to emphasize when the actual nanny quit the day I arrived. As far as I understand, I have no real duties here but to act as an ‘older sister’ to 12 Palestinian and Israeli girls, ranging from ages 5-14, who all come from broken homes and attend the boarding school. I’m also somewhat of a personal assistant to Sister Martha, who has frequent correspondence in English and will now be signing the letters that I write.

The girls are all very curious about me, but most of them are too shy to actually speak. I’ve managed to develop a rapport with two of the older girls, and a few of the younger ones find reasons to walk in my path or lurk in shadows and giggle when I’m in the same room, yet they laugh and run away when I speak to them. So much for learning Arabic here. The biggest breakthrough of the weekend came yesterday when Sheraan, a nine-year old, told me that she wanted to buy my hair. That was the first thing she had ever said to me and I had been here for two days. Her exclamation prompted an imaginary auction, where another girl walked away with my eyes and a third with my teeth. Poor little Natalie got stuck with my nose.

I’m not sure if I’ve made the smartest move when I dragged my bags to the monastery, but of my options it was definitely the most economical and non-orthodox (excuse the lame pun). I asked for a month’s trial to make sure the arrangement is suitable to everyone. Even if I end up elsewhere, this is one stop that is sure to add a little spice to my life.

Homeless in Jerusalem

It took ten days for Jon David to break down, but he finally did. After our third night in The New Swedish Hostel (an ancient establishment that is owned and operated by Palestinians), Jon David asked me how long it had been since I had showered.

This morning, why?

Oh. (Slightly let down and changing the subject.)

I pursue: Why did you ask me that? When was the last time you showered?

Um, it's been longer than that.

When? (Voice rising.)

I haven't showered since we arrived. (He ducks in an effort to avoid the verbal onslaught.)


What?! I've been walking around and introducing you to people as my friend (read: direct reflection on my character and tastes) and you smell like garbage! I've done my part...finagled my way into a new pair of socks for you, so you could retire the week-old ones, supplied you with toiletries, offered to wash your clothes, and you can't even bathe yourself?

Well, it was too cold in there. I can't take my clothes off here.

Granted, the temperature isn't ideal but that's no excuse for poor hygiene. You have to shower. Immediately.

Our compromise, and perhaps the salvation of our friendship, came via JD's credit card. JD decided that he had "money in the bank...I mean thousands of dollars," which translated as, "We don't have to live like this." So, we packed our bags and boarded a bus to Tel Aviv where he intended to book a room in the Sheraton or some comparably nice hotel, and then collect our luggage (which we had entrusted to a swindler named Hageet). All went well, and we were soon showered and sitting down for dinner at a quaint Italian restaurant. The combination of his fresh attire and my glass of wine allowed me to begin to love him again.

It was a happy ending to our first travel experience together. Now my dear friend is somewhere in South Africa, presumably safe and sound and I find myself once again in Jerusalem at the New Swedish Hostel. The pieces of my life here haven't quite fallen together yet. I don't have a home, a cell phone, a class schedule or a job though I'm pursuing leads in all the aforementioned areas. The one thing I did have—privacy—is quickly being taken from me. The man who runs this hostel has become exceptionally friendly toward me, perhaps too friendly. He now knocks on my door and brings me tea, telling me stories of his ex-wife and offering to help me hone my Palestinian dialect. He invited me to dinner tonight, but I skillfully declined in an effort to make sure he understands that our relationship is purely business. Somebody send me some good housing karma so I can get on with life.

The following pictures have nothing to do with this story, but were taken in Jerusalem. Top to bottom:
1. Me in front of the Mt. of Olives, Church of Nations and the golden Russian Orthodox Church
2. JD and me trying to take a picture of ourselves and salvage the background. The Old City, Al-Aqsa mosque, and Western (or wailing) Wall are behind us.

A Tale of Two Stories

The air is pungent. Felines and canines have lived in, and on, what we are currently wearing; I’m in a pink jumpsuit, Jon David dons a royal blue one adorned with a collar that has seen many a dog’s backside. There is no anger here, however, only love. The apparel is just one of many gifts from our generous hosts—this, fortunately, is the only one pulled from a far corner in the basement. In the room where we work, heart-shaped plush toys and teddy bears keep us company while we chronicle our historical passage through the land of Milk and Honey. These things are only peripheral inspiration; it is the glitter butterflies and cotton leopard carcass upon which we sit that truly moves the soul and the artist’s pen(s). This chapter in our journey will be a joint effort, for Jon David—the only person in Cana who doesn’t speak Arabic—has lost all ability to communicate his thoughts without his mentor and muse, Ava.

From the notebook of “Helen Keller”

As we end our time in Cana, I cannot help but reflect on how wonderful this entire experience has been for me. Never have I met a kinder or more hospitable family. The friends that were strangers only days ago on the Sea of Galilee have been planning our going away party since the moment we arrived. This departure was sure to be the time of our lives, and I could hardly wait to see what festivities were prepared. True to form, the Muslim families came out in droves, and there was food enough for the Israeli army (I mean, we never would have let them have it…but food enough, still). With every urine-scented breath I take, I look back on this occasion as the defining moment in my Arabic speaking life. As is the Arab custom, men and women partied together for a while until the matriarch of the room decided to separate us, the women departing to the other living room. This separation anxiety from my one form of communication, Ava, had to be handled delicately as this party was intended for my future success and happiness. I decided to play the part of the chameleon, using 4 “looks” throughout the gathering to suggest my attentiveness and social engagement. The looks are as follows:

Pensive: Self-explanatory, this look was used when trying (and miserably failing) to determine the present topic of conversation. I tossed around a few ideas based off of two hours of conversation and the discernable words, Coca-Cola, bush, Mahmoud, as well as one gesture which was surely a reference to either David and Goliath or Braveheart.

Gluttonous: This look was an ‘emergency only’ move. When I was referred or gestured to, my shame and inability to speak Arabic was best hidden by an avoidance of the others’ eyes through the consumption of food.

Conciliatory: The best defense is a good offense. As a Southern gentleman, this smile and nod can come fully equipped with a “gun shoot and wink”, although the latter were probably inappropriate given the company. The smile and nod seemed sufficient.

Pensive AND engaged: This look completely threw my Muslim friends off guard. It even merited an across the room wave from someone of great importance within the hierarchical ladder.

From the notebook of Ava the Beloved

My evening began in the kitchen, where my assistance was requested as desserts for the party were prepared. “You should know how to do this,” advised my new sister Lama. I was an eager student and a subdued feminist as we stirred and baked. My reward for being so amenable was a pretty red sweater that Lama chose for me from the store where she works. Though it resembles the Christmas frock that served as a conversation starter for Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones’ Diary, it was a kind gesture and I was very flattered.

Once preparations were finished, the party began. In the ladies’ room, my experience was slightly different than my male counterpart’s. People addressed me when they spoke, and I responded. I didn’t actually get to engage in the conversation as much as I would have liked because the little ladies in the room were all vying for my attention. Most of the conversation topics weren’t exactly in my realm of expertise, with topics ranging from the which hijab style could best camouflage Lama’s nascent second chin to advice for Amani, the soon to be newlywed.

My opinion was specifically requested, however, in regards to Amani’s choice of attire for her upcoming engagement party. The ensemble was a blue asymmetrical dress with extensive beadwork, which was to be accented with azure earrings, a necklace, bracelet and ring. To complete the look, Amani had purchased black knee high boots adorned with sparkling diamonds and silver three inch heels. Oscillating between my love for my new friend and my deep desire to revolutionize fashion in the Arab world, I took the low road and added some new brownie points for praise.

Jon David’s room – a turn for the better

Sliding back and forth into the appropriate “look” can be quite taxing, but my break was soon to come. Just as I was about to make my move from “pensive and engaged” to “gluttonous”, the clear patriarch of the group turned to me as if to speak…in Arabic. As I prepared myself for a “Thank you” in Arabic (basically the only word I know), he paused dramatically and in a mouse’s voice, turned the conversation on its head.

“Big” he whispered, wide-eyed, as if unlocking the door to the conversation.

Simpering and in shock, I bellowed “The movie????” The affirming nod of the head and devious sneer were all I needed. Finally! There was no longer a need for pensive look #1. In a chameleonic display of body language swordplay, erudition, or commiseration, I had finally been granted the key. The hour and a half conversation had been right in front of my eyes: Big starring Tom Hanks. At this point, there was no doubt that the journal would have to come out.

Ava’s Commission

My fun didn’t actually begin until Jon David strolled through the room, journal in hand muttering something about ‘Gotta remember this.’ Curiously, I followed him and asked what he was going to write in the notebook (the women all wanted to know, and I was to report back.) When I told them that he had not understood anything in the past two hours, there were several cries of ‘Ya Maskeen!’ (in Southern dialect—‘Bless his poor little heart’). Compassion and the hens compelled me to re-enter the men’s room where I could be of assistance to my dear friend. As he spoke of his trials and tribulations, my eyes scanned the room and caught the gaze of several young men who looked eager to speak to this tall, white man from America. Jon David pointed to three and told me that they had been especially amicable to him. One had even raised his hand in a sympathetic salute to the poor deaf mute.

Worried that they would mistake him for anything less than the gregarious young Southerner that he is, JD asked me to make an announcement to the group. Hesitant to give my first public speech in Palestinian Arabic, I did the nervous fake-cough that I believed to be a thing of my past. The chatter of the room did not die down. I tried again. Nothing. Finally, I loudly proclaimed my need to say something. Loosely translated, the text of that first speech is as follows:

“Um, hi. Peace be upon you all. I need to say something for my friend Jon David. He can’t talk and he’s sorry about that. He is sure you are all really great people and wants to be friends with you, but it is hard. Your language is very hard. He would like to try to learn, though.”

Immediately, the men turned into professors. “Jon, look here. This is a banana. Can you say ‘mooz’? Good, good.” Just when I thought my job was finished, Jon David realized that he had some things to get off his chest. My speech resumed: “And you Masoob, congratulations on your engagement. Jon David believes in you. He can tell you have a good personality from your eyes. He really likes you. I mean, not in a bad way. Honestly, he’s happy about the betrothal. But man, is your bride-to-be lucky!”

Cut to Jon David, everyone’s favorite Hellen Keller – Amani’s favorite author

“Ava, what did you just say to him? Why is he looking at me like I’m a freak? Well anyway, just tell them that they seem really cool, and I’d like to hang out with them one day when I learn Arabic.” In a fleeting flash of insecurity, I begged Ava to make note of how effortlessly I’d mastered the alphabet only that same morning. And with that, I turned from the conversation and retired to my journal, incredibly relieved that the mere ‘thumbs up’ to every kind gesture from the crowd had not been misconstrued for snobbery. Just then, the architect (a word which took Ava 45 minutes to transcribe) asked to write something for me. The note captured my most endearing qualities…maybe because I actually had to help him construct it in English. It was short, but the brevity was all but overshadowed by the loosely sketched cartoon picture of Mickey Mouse which kindly read “Bye!” As I slipped on my borrowed pajamas for the evening, I only briefly contemplated whether the noxious odor emanated from my feet or my collar. My mind soon returned to the evening, knowing full well that with every passing hour I was assimilating. Diplomacy, you see, is a gift.

And now it’s time to say goodbye to all our company. Ava and I will conclude with the revelation brought on by our time in Cana. One does not seek celebrity status; it only befalls him…or her. We now know that iPods can break down seemingly insuperable barriers one song at a time (Celine Dion and 50 Cent wield a particularly powerful persuasion). Furthermore, we understand that Palestinians will spend their life savings on our prepared meals, all the while bringing us to our dietary deaths. And lastly, we recognize the connecting Force that our generation knows by one word: Facebook. Therefore, let us hereby take full credit and responsibility for the dissemination of Facebook accounts throughout the Palestinian territories, particularly in the event that such accounts contribute to a solution in the hitherto intractable conflict between Palestine and Israel. The revolution, ladies and gentlemen, has begun. 4:30 comes mighty early in the morning, so we bid you all farewell. Salaam alayi kuhm, and good night.

Idealism Affirmed

The last few days were of the kind that fuel my unbridled idealism and make no problem in the world seem insurmountable. If you wish to speak to me about social or political realities, now is probably not the time. Perhaps a few more weeks in less idyll areas will dampen my mood, but for now I’ll just revel in the affirmation of my heart’s desires.

Much can be said about Cana, site of Jesus’ first miracle and modern day thriving Palestinian town where we met our new friends from the beach. It wasn’t until the girls led us to the first church, which was built on the site where Christ turned water into wedding wine, that we realized the historical and Biblical significance of the town. The church itself was rather unremarkable; as, in my opinion, many churches are. Too big, too gaudy, too new and—in many a Deep South case—too much like Wal-Mart for the soul.

What was remarkable, however, was the way our two Muslim friends were greeted by the church’s caretakers. Each was absolutely at ease with the other, a pattern we would notice throughout our stay in Cana. Lama, our Palestinian guide, pointed out countless homes in mixed neighborhoods of Christians and Muslims and talked about how many considered their immediate neighbors family, whether faith was shared or not.

Jon David and I arrived in Cana expecting to spend an afternoon with our new friends and then depart for Nazareth, but I had an idea that they might invite us to spend the night. I was only slightly wrong; there was no invitation, only an expectation. “Why would you pay for a hotel room when you can stay here with us?” was the slightly offended response to our suggestion it was time to leave.

It’s a good thing we were flexible because a party had been planned in our honor and it would have been a shame to miss. Throughout the night, somewhere around twenty or so neighbors and family members drifted in and out to say hello. Jon David was quite the favorite with the children, for whom he had brought tons of candy in an effort to “speak their language.” His breakthrough didn’t come, however, until he brought out the Ipod. Immediately Ale and Yazid, the two teenage boys in the room, overcame their shyness and within hours had proclaimed JD their brother.

It was gratifying for me to watch Jon David fall in love with these people. Though he was constantly surprised by their generosity, I’ve been on this side of the world long enough to know that’s just the Arab way. It isn’t exactly that attribute that makes this family so special to me; it was that they were my first affirmation of why I am here. As part of the one million Arabs who make up 20% of Israel’s population, their quality of life is substantially higher than their counterparts in Gaza and the West Bank. Like most Palestinians, they are passionate about their cause. Yet, they are also some of the most intelligent and discerning people that I’ve ever spoken to on the subject. They readily criticized both sides for their failures and never made the kind of sweeping generalizations that people are prone to when discussing the other side in this issue. They, Palestinian citizens of Israel, are actually proud of their Israeli IDs. A few of the kids told me that Hebrew was their favorite subject in school.

In short, these are the kind of people I want to know and whose respect I want to earn. I can only hope that my path crosses many more like them, but I suppose if there were a surplus we wouldn’t be in the bind we’re in. The realist in me is warning that I may have just found a diamond in the rough in both the town of Cana and the family that welcomed me as their own. For now, I’m going to keep my rose colored lenses on though. I’m an optimist at heart; you have to be in my line of work. (I know you saw that coming, PC.)

Walking on Water & Keeping Peace in Galilee

I had a taste of Déjà vu as JD and I checked into the same hostel, Hostel Aviv, where Clint and I stayed two summers ago. After receiving our key, I realized that I would also be staying in exactly the same room. Thus, it seemed appropriate to choose the same bed. Also like the previous visit, I wanted to rent bicycles and bike around the Sea of Galilee to the Mt. of the Beatitudes. Unlike last time, we didn’t make it very far.

Jon David’s fatigue and the frequent rest stops it necessitated turned out to be for the better; one in particular was fortuitous. We stopped at a quaint little area on the shore of the Sea (which is actually a lake) and were soon hard at work taking photographs that were meant to invoke Jesus’ walk on water. There were several follies, but we eventually hit our stride.

Meanwhile, a team of UN workers had pulled up alongside us in a plain white bus simply marked ‘UN’ in huge black letters. They spent a good deal of time imitating the pictures we had just taken and then packed up to leave. Curious to know what they were doing (and if they could perhaps secure us jobs), Jon David decided to make their acquaintance. According to JD, they “freakin loved” him. By the time I strolled up, all thirty of them had their cameras out and were posed to take pictures with us. We had a nice chat and learned that they were all peacekeepers on mission in the Golan and were just traveling for the day. We politely declined the invitation to join them on their way back to the Golan, and immediately wondered if we had made the right decision. The next acquaintance we made affirmed that we had.

After the UN left, we stayed on the shore a little while longer to allow my pants time to dry. A half hour earlier during the walking on water episode, I had fallen in after an apparent loss of faith. While we were waiting and soaking in the sun, a big family that appeared to be Palestinian arrived and set up shop a few meters down the beach. Eager to speak Arabic to someone (my recent Hebrew attempts had left me feeling inept) and because I’m currently searching for an Arabic-speaking family to live with in Jerusalem, I decided to approach them.

Like Jon David’s success with the Indians, I was an instant celebrity. They were a group of ten women and several children and one leathered old lady who was obviously the grandmother. She, in true Arab form, only waited about three minutes before inquiring about my marital status and pondered aloud why I didn’t marry “that boy you were sitting with before.” At this point in the conversation, all of them turned their attention down shore to Jon David, who had captured the intrigue of the only little boy in the group. I'm not sure that my explanation was sufficient, but it assuaged their curiosity and we eventually began to talk about other things. After only 20 minutes or so, I had their address, emails and cell phone numbers, along with an invitation to visit them at their home in Cana the following day. In an effort to entice me to follow through with my promise to stop by the town, they mentioned that there was a church all Christians loved to visit. Assuring them that we'd be there, we waved goodbye and I went to tell Jon David about our change of plans for the following day.

And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Arrival in Israel

After a couple of years of waiting, wishing, and winking at old men in scholarship interviews, I have finally found myself in the Promised Land once again. In a few short weeks, my classes at Jerusalem’s Hebrew University will begin. In the meanwhile, however, I have an extensive to-do list which includes securing a room in an Arabic-speaking home, arranging the details of my research project, and learning to travel with Jon David Conolley, my dear friend and temporary travel companion. As this is his first and perhaps only trip to Israel, I’ve decided to show him all the beauty and intrigue of this unique country that I can fit into ten short days. That is, if I don’t kill him first.

Upon our arrival in Tel Aviv, one thing was immediately clear—he’s willing to spend extra money at any given moment whereas I am as penurious as a seventy-five year old widow living on food stamps. Uncle Sam has been good to me, but not quite as good as Regions Bank has been to JD. Thus I write this entry from the rooftop of a hostel in Jerusalem’s Old City, wearing a pea coat and scarf while wrapped in three blankets that don’t compensate for the lack of a heating system. My alarm is set for 8:30 am so that I’ll be able to catch the last 30 minutes of the daily 7-9am hot water flow.

As bad as this place is, it is ten times better than the rat hole where we rested our heads on our first night in Israel. Tel Aviv’s Gordon Inn had community showers with no hot water flow at all, beds covered with sheets that hadn’t seen a washer in days, and a bathroom that only Kate Moss could fit in. The only perk was the free breakfast at a beach side restaurant ran by hippies, but even that cost us a 5 mile walk. By the time we arrived, the lunch crowd was pouring in.

Nevertheless, we have mostly good memories from Tel Aviv. The place itself is beautiful, ensuring that our day long leisurely stroll through the city passed quickly. It’s a small area, and we canvassed most of it in about 12 hours. Stops were rare, except in a few cases where we stumbled upon a unique niche in the landscape. I imposed a two-meal-a-day rule (to save time and money), but the locals begged some quality people-watching time. We spend a solid hour on the boardwalk, snapping inconspicuous photos of grandmas whose chests had been struck by gravity, families walking hand in hand, teenagers smacking gum while wearing their shirts too high and pants too low, and businessmen and other hurried pedestrians oblivious to the world around them.

Highlights: Yitzak Rabin’s memorial, on the spot where he was assassinated in 1995; Old Jaffa—a beautiful neighborhood on a hill overlooking the beach; Our waiter at the Restaurant Espresso…after an entire afternoon and evening, he was the first person we met who was actually warm and friendly.

Goodbye Misr

My time in Egypt came to a close far too soon. In a mad rush to prepare for the move to Jerusalem, I’m not sure I allowed myself time to digest that fact that I’m really moving on. The last few days were of the sort that lends itself to some great conversations with Dr. Magdi, but I’m afraid that I won’t be painting on any more rooftops for some time. I also won’t be talking Asmaa out of one job and into another. Nor will I sip coffee with Gee and have the kind of conversations that are impossible to forget. So many people here have made me feel like I belong—Gee, Nada, Asmaa, Ramy, Doaa, Hadeel—to name just a few.

My only regrets are a few relationships that began too late. Only the night before I left did my roommate Shaima and I admit to each other that we had ideal living situation. It’s rare to live with a person and have absolutely no complaints, but we got lucky. The person who I met far too late in the game was my colleague and friend Chris. Together we commiserated on various topics including our lowly station at the newspaper, our mutual romantic shortcomings, thesaurus over-usage and dictionary under-usage, my bad dates, and Chris’s Indian Curse. When nostalgia kicks in, it is these people who will be remembered.

There is much that I miss already, but I am not as sad as I expected. Much of this can be explained by the fact that I tend to look ahead, and what’s in store has been on my mind for quite some time. Moreover, goodbye lacked a sense of finality. No matter how many times I leave her, I’m not sure Egypt will ever leave me.