The Deep Cover of Humanity

Bethlehem.

I practically swallowed my sweet mint tea the wrong way the other day while paying a visit to Noora, my elderly Arabic tutor in Bethlehem. In the two years I have known her, I have never once claimed to be Jewish. It was certainly no lie to say that I come from good Christian folks and that I was raised as a Catholic. Though the words "raised" and "Catholic" may be a little bit of a stretch, it is certainly no fabrication that my parents were married in a Catholic ceremony and that I was baptized by a bona fide priest of the Catholic Church. It is also no lie that I know a great deal of the Catholic catecism by heart and that my head possesses an entire repertoire of Jesus camp tunes, where, in the early 1990s, I was once re-baptized at the age of 13 by a nice, bearded man named "Father John the Baptist" in a lake somewhere below the Mason Dixon line of the United States of America.

Even still, I came close to choking during our conversation when Noora addressed me by my given name in its Hebrew pronunciation. The only people who ever pronounce my name this way are strangers in Israel who see my name as it is written in Hebrew and pronounce it without the vowels. Aside from a few people here and there, including my former dissertation advisor who was (not coincidentally) also Israeli-- I have never been generally called by the Hebrew pronunciation, and Noora has always used the voweled pronounciation of my name.

Hearing her say it differently immediately caught me off guard. The sound was a signal, a warning of sorts. I knew it in an instant and caught Noora watching my face for a reaction. Carefully, I gave her my classic look of linguistic ignorance. Much like a dog cocking its ear to the television set, my expression read, "I can hear you, but the sound you are making means nothing to my brain." As she does with the difficult Arabic words she has taught me in the past, she reiterated my name slowly and deliberately with the Hebrew pronunciation in her Arabic accent, then explained that this is my name in Hebrew. Again, I gave her a fake, reluctant smile and shrugged my shoulders at the sound while wondering if my perfectly good cover was blown?

In Arabic, she asked in her teacher voice if I knew the biblical story of my name and where it comes from? I answered that I always loved the story of the woman from the Bible for whom I am named--

"Is this name a popular name in America?," she asked.

"It is an old name, not popular, but it is well-known and respected because it comes from the Bible," I said, emphasing the word "Bible".

"It must be very popular among the Jews in America?," she stated rhetorically.

"Maybe," I replied evenly with a little shrug. "Since Jews and Christians share the Bible, it is a common name for both. Christians also use this name for girls in America."

My answer was decidedly too diplomatic. It was clear that it was not the response that she was looking for. So she tried again.

"So there is no one in your family who calls you {Insert Hebrew Pronunciation} as opposed to {Insert Western Pronunciation}?," she persisted.

I smiled, looked her in the eye, and said: "No. No one. Never."

Again, another honest answer.

The subject of dancing around the question of my Jewishness without asking it directly was inevitably dropped.

As I left that day, I worried. I worried about my reluctance to be forthright with Noora from the start, but quickly remembered my reasons for this at the time. The truth was that I was never egotistical enough to think that it was my job to come to Palestine to prove to the good Palestinian folks who lost their homes in 1948 and again in 1967 that a Jewish person might also be a good will ambassador of sorts. Being openly Jewish while living deep in the heart of a Palestinian refugee camp would not have been the most intelligent way to ensure positive relations among and between the people who generously hosted me. Although I will never fully know if openly saying that I was Jewish would have barred me from entry into certain homes and conversations, I can say that I already felt handicapped by my status as a foreigner. Palestinian people are overly welcoming, incredibly hospitable and entirely too polite. As such, it took a long time to get them to open up and actually allow me to join their daily lives, in order to understand their fears, superstitions and struggles.

The truth is that I made the decision to keep my faith out of my politics, and, more importantly, out of my work with human beings. There is important work to do here, and none of it involves how or where any single one of us happens to pray. Even if it is a little bit ironic that my Judaism has actually become that much deeper and observant (for me) over the past two years, I cannot say that my personal affiliation as a Jewish person has made me look at the Palestinian question any differently. If anything, my faith has enabled me to deeply contemplate where I situate myself within my work. At the end of the day, my faith in something actually makes it easier to sleep at night in light of all of the things that could otherwise lend themselves to nightmares. Of course, where some Jewish folks might hide behind their Jewish identity as a way to avoid having any contact with others (like Gentiles and Arabs, for example), I fail to think that life is interesting this way. Like the Buddhist phrase, "The finger pointing to the moon is not the moon", I see my Jewishness in much of the same light. I'm the finger, not the moon. Even better, I am a tiny, extremely unimportant piece of the mosaic, not at all an iconic or self-appointed representative of The Chosen People as a whole.

In the unrelenting sun, I made my way back through the crowded streets of Bethlehem. In two years, I have never felt so aware of my own self-consciousness as I paused to wonder if the people around me also wondered if I am a Jew, too? Certainly, they would readily dismiss the idea entirely. After all, no Jewish girl in her right mind would venture, let alone wander through the West Bank alone. Defiantly, I made my way to the Israeli checkpoint at the top of Bethlehem, where I was stopped in line by a child solder behind his bullet proof glass.

"Give me your identification," he said in a thick Israeli accent.

I slid my American passport through the hole in the window. He took it and slowly flipped through the pages before he looked at the page with my image and name.

"You know you have a Hebrew name, the name of a queen" he said. He held up the passport in the light. I watched as his eyes went from focusing on my picture in the book to looking at my actual face behind the glass. When his eyes registered on me he added with a smile, "And a pretty Jewish face, a face of a Jewish queen."

"I know," I instantly purred back at him. Despite my exhaustion, I gave him my best of my cheeky smiles and added flirtatiously, "I am soooo lucky!"

"To be alive," he sharply quipped back. With his remark, he made a pejorative hand reference to the unaware men standing behind me in line.

"But aren't we all lucky to be alive today? Such a blessing!," I purred back rhetorically without blinking. He rewarded my sarcasm by returning my passport. Back to business, I formally told him to have a good day.

Beyond the checkpoint, I jumped on the 4 shekel bus with a load of Palestinian men from Bethlehem, with whom I had waited in line. The bus was full, and one of the men generously gave up his seat for me. Another offered to share a plum with me from the large bag he was carrying. The man in the seat in front of me asked if his window was blowing too much air on my face. We chatted in Arabic, and they complimented me on my knowledge of their language.

"You speak Arabic very well!!," said one.

"So do you!," I said back.

Everyone around us laughed at my joke.

Of course, anyone else might have been very alarmed to see a Jewish girl cruising across the Green Line in a bus filled with only Arab men. But, of course, that person would have missed out on all of the fun...of simply being human.

Namaste

Suspended in Prayer

Bethlehem on A Friday in Manger Square

Bethlehem.

I found myself in the West Bank at a very inauspicious time last week, and in a most inauspicious manner.

Shortly before midday on Friday I agreed to accompany an American friend of mine to see the place where the Baby Jesus was born in Bethlehem. We spontaneously made the last minute decision to go. To save time, we drove in her Israeli boyfriend's car up to the military checkpoint on the Israeli side. I was pretty sure we could get permission to park in the lot beside the checkpoint, but the Israeli child soldier in the booth that day refused to let us park and told us to drive (with Israeli tags) on into town.

Of course, I knew from experience that cars with Israeli tags are permitted inside the West Bank. I recalled seeing this when I lived there, and so I told my friend that what we were doing was perfectly legal and ok. Still, this did nothing to reassure her.

"Oh my g-d, WE ARE IN THE WEST BANK!!! What if someone slams into me or it gets stolen? The insurance won't cover it if you take in into the territories!!"

Her anxiety about insurance issues was sudden, unexpected and practically overwhelming. I did my best to calm her, yet all of the while I couldn't help but internally note that we were prime targets for a carjacking and kidnapping in that car, especially on a Friday, when commerce is down and the peace process continues to hang in limbo. Despite my familiarity with Bethlehem, I began to have second thoughts that bringing my friend in here was a good idea. She didn't seem to have a grip on herself, and this particularly worried me...for my sake. In my effort to quell my own anxieties, I decided to keep that small tidbit of information to myself and make sure that she stayed on the main streets.

Onward we drove into the heart of town as I took in the scene around me and calmly gave directions. Everything appeared calm and normal for a Friday. I found Bethlehem to be lulled into its usual sleepiness at midday. Traffic was low and the streets were practically empty. I assured my friend that we could easily park, check out the church and then quickly get back out of town. But by the time we arrived in Manger Square, my friend had completely let her fear of the unknown overtake her. I gave her the option of going back, but she insisted that she wanted to at least get out and see the church.

"Ok, so you go into the church and take a look around," I said in my calmest voice. "I'll just hang out here and keep an eye on the car while you do your thing," I told her.

The truth is that when we got there, I immediately noticed the place was unusually full of men and boys. This mildly concerned me, but also intrigued my inner researcher. I immediately wanted to ask questions and figure out why so many people were gathered there at once. Wasn't it a little hot for this sort of thing? And if a protest was about to go down, I wanted to know about it so that I could move my friend's car and get the hell out of the way.

I knew that my friend would be safe to cluelessly wander through the church, which gave me the opportunity to make immediate friends with a passing sheik and a couple of guys standing nearby. After the usual introductions and flirtations, they informed me me that the reason why so many people were in the square at that moment was because of the special Friday sermon and call to prayer.

The Omar Mosque in the Background

Since it was Friday afternoon it did not shock me that there was a longer sermon coming over the mosque loudspeaker. But, what did truly take me aback was that as the speaker's voice filled Manger Square with a condemning sermon for righteous living, it seemed as though ever Muslim male from the entire area began to fill up the place, too. Scores of large and small men and boys clung to the shaded spots along the stone walls of the square. Cars upon cars started filling in, and before I knew it the entire area turned into a parking lot of dinged up cars and Muslim males of all shapes and sizes.

When my friend emerged from the church, the look of utter despair on her face nearly made me forget where I was. Yes, the car was blocked in for a while, but I assured her that it was safe. One of my new tour guide friends offered to take her to his shop for a cup of coffee. Assured of her safety, I sent her off with him again, and told her that I would stay with the car.

Meanwhile, under the pelting sun and sermon, there must of been over a thousand men and boys in the square...and me.

Soon, the sermon ended and everyone began to line up in perfect rows on the stone ground, right there in the middle of the day. They put out their cigarretes, unrolled their colorful prayer mats to the ground and dusted off their pants. Within seconds, hundreds of colorful rows were made. Each man or boy had his own place, and everything was in order. Then, the largest public prayer I have ever witnessed began.

Peaceful Prayers and Silence

For the next 15 minutes, a sun-filled, luminous silence hung upon all of us as the men and boys peacefully moved through their Friday afternoon supplications. In perfect symmetry, they bent over and got down on their knees and put their foreheads to the ground. Together at the call of the muezzin, they rose to do it all over again and again...until it was done.

In silence and complete awe, I watched. I moved as slowly as possible and did my best to respectfully take as many pictures as I could take without calling attention to myself. When the men bowed, I popped up with my camera. When the rose, I ducked down so as to not be a distraction to the moment. In the interstitial silence of so many people working together in so much symmetry, I noticed the sense order that came over the square. Despite the beating sun, it even felt cooler. Between snapping pictures, I paused and closed my eyes. I inhaled the prayers around me, and felt my heart rate slow down as if we were all in a simultaneous yoga practice. For a brief couple of minutes, it felt as if everything was in alignment in and around all of us in that moment. The anxiety I had because of my friend seemed more like a small polished stone in my pocket, rather than something that loomed jagged and jarring in my mind's eye.

When my thinking brain resumed ticking, I couldn't help but notice these peaceful changes around and within me and think to myself with a sense of wonderment, "Hmn...so, this...this...is Islam!"...

In the end, I realized that I was in the most auspicious place to witness and experience its appeal to so many millions of followers. The feeling of peacefulness that persisted long after the prayer mats disbanded and all of the men and boys disappeared back into the sidestreets of town was still distinguishable. Given that very tangible feeling, I can now understand more descriptively why the followers of Islam often equate it with peace. And now, having witnessed such a rare and incredible moment, I think I have a much better understanding of why Islam has been such a reassuring force for much of a world that has been engulfed in post-colonial revolution, militarism and economic despair.

Suspended in Prayer

Of course, the pictures hardly speak for themselves.


Salaam aleikum,
Namaste

Full Circle Refugee

If you happen to be paying attention, there is a good chance that you will notice the moments in your own life when circles complete themselves. Over the years, I have learned the impossibility of closing a circle on my own accord. Simply: Such a task cannot be forced. Instead, I have learned to make use of the knowledge of impermanence: Life always moves on. Nothing lasts forever. Everything (yes, everything) happens for the Good. Be patient, it will come. (It always does.)

Yesterday was one of those full circle days. The Universe smiled as one of my oldest and dearest friends gave birth to her first child. A boy. Without getting too deep into the personal, I simultaneously felt a final release from the loss of my own first child nearly a year ago. In an audible click, the circle of life completed itself. But to paint the picture even better, there I was in the mid-morning--standing knee-deep in the snow next to a retired, gun-toting economics professor who befriended me this year--at the edge of my favorite Finger Lake--looking at a memorial to the Palestinian people...

If I had not been afraid of frost bite in the sub-freezing temperature, I would have publicly dropped to my knees. Instead, I smiled and made light conversation while inwardly saying a prayer for all of the victims of the world, unborn or not, both in the past and future. And yes, I also said a prayer for peace.

Random though this may seem, the stoic, meandering thread of this particular issue in my life--which, I admit has always seemed so furtive and solitary--found its way back to its own beginning. Because I truly had no idea what was around the bend when I went to live with the Palestinian people the first time, I cannot think of a single moment of foreshadowing. Who knew that I would get called to teach about all of this? Who knew that a table-pounding, gray-haired activist who was silenced for years over the same issue would find hope and the continuation of his work in me, my classroom and my students?

Who knew?

Suffice it to say, expect the unexpected, and the rest will come.

The truth is that the ongoing mass murder in Gaza is something I cannot bring myself to write about at this time. So, I will not push the envelope. But, I will go back in time to tell you about the article I read in 2006 that began this journey. The article was written by a woman named Francis Hasso, and it was entitled, "Modernity and Gender in Arab Accounts of the 1948 and 1967 Defeats".* The article told the story of the massacre of an Arab village near Jerusalem named Deir Yassin. Years prior to this, I had been involved a number of things related to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, including a protest memorial each year on April 9th to remember the victims of Deir Yassin. At the time, however, I was only beginning to know about the history of this issue in full detail.

Like many Arab villages that no longer exist in modern day Israel, Deir Yassin was once a village on the outskirts of Jerusalem that was targeted for cleansing when Israel declared its independence in 1948. Subsequently, hundreds of people were left homeless or dead during this sweeping campaign, igniting a 60-plus year refugee crisis that still exists today. Both symbolically and literally, the legacy of the Palestinian refugee crisis is at the heart of the ongoing conflict. (Just look at Gaza right now.) Yet, ironically, the stone buildings of the village of Deir Yassin remain on the outskirts of Jerusalem today. However, in a never-ending show of historical schizophrenia, the site of Deir Yassin is now a mental institution for Israeli people today.

For the time that I was living in this part of the world, I trafficked and treaded through the inner realm of Palestine's refugees. Yet, in my own, equally schizophrenic way, I suppose it is safe to say that I was seeking refuge among the people of the world's most displaced. In many ways, perhaps I realize that I still am. In the span of a year, I went from being a "child without a mother" (as one Palestinian woman said to me) to a woman without a child. Yet, somewhere in between all of this, the Universe has managed to smile and good things have happened, too.

Everything happens for a reason.

As I stood with my friend looking at his memorial on the lake yesterday, I could not help but ponder the obvious: Did I find Palestine, or did Palestine find me? Feeling the circle of my time and work here come to an end only reminded me that all of this has been preparation for what is now to come.

There is work to do, I said into the abyss.

(And miles to go before I sleep.)

Namaste


* Francis Hasso. "Modernity and Gender in Arab Accounts of 1948 and 1967". International Journal Middle East Studies (2000), 32:4:491-510 Cambridge University Press.

Story Telling

During my time in Israel and Palestine this summer, I wrote a lot about my observations of humanity. It is safe to say that at times it was incredibly difficult for me to write with an even hand. After all, these were my observations, reflections, and opinions based directly on what I saw and felt in many of the more mundane, day-to-day experiences. Typically, what I saw challenged not only my faith in humanity, but my faith in G-d, and I found myself constantly defending my faith vis-a-vis the State of Israel. Personally, I have never once questioned the right of self-determination for anyone. By default, this means that I am a Zionist because I refuse to deny the right that Jewish folks have to exist. However, I am a Zionist by default because I believe that all people have a right to self-determination. And yes, this absolutely includes the Palestinian folks, too. After all, the right to be human does not merely belong to those with more raw power or better weaponry.

There were many moments, when I felt the need to throw my hands up and cry out of sheer disappointment and frustration. There were other moments when I felt like joining the protest groups and rock-throwing young boys who have no other outlet for expressing the same frustration. There were times when my heart broke in half. For example, when I realized that the 15 year old girl who followed me through the camp was illiterate. She will spend her life in that refugee camp. I cried when I considered that her inability to know anything other than what she was born into is probably better than knowing that every young girl in Israel can not only read and write, but spend her summers swimming in the Mediterranean Sea. Niveen will never play in the sea. As a matter of fact, I hasten to wonder if she'll ever travel 15 km north to see the city of Ramallah.

During my time in the West Bank, I constantly felt as if I had arrived empty-handed, I was taking away more than I could carry, and yet I was not prepared to give anything tangible in return. So, (in the name of ethnographic research), I listened. I looked around. I explored. I noticed. While I was doing all of these things, there were many moments when the people in my life would say to me, "I don't ask that you take pity on me. All I ask is that you go home, live a happy, healthy life, and tell our story."

Little did these people know that they were talking to a story teller of all story-tellers...

Little did these people also know that I am a Jew. The funny thing is that there were times when I, myself, seemed to forget that this was somehow an important point of distinction. Part of me looks back and wonders if they knew and decided to overlook it. Part of me also wonders if they would overlook it now if I told them. The last part of me chooses not to care.

So, here I am a few months later. I am home, or at least in the process of making one. I am celebrating Hannukah with the love of my life, who has not only restored my faith in humanity, but restored my faith in my ability to both a religious Jew and a secular Zionist by way of my foundational belief that all people have a right to self-determination. I am a humanist, and I am finding more and more that even the most ardent of religious Zionists cannot foundationally disagree with my point of view. I am here and I am telling these stories. I am giving lectures, putting words on paper, and talking openly and fervently about what remains of life in the death of Palestine. I give credit where it is due, and I don't make apologies for it.

This will be all for now.

Peace on Earth and Good Will to All,

Namaste

Bethlehem

Above is a picture that I took this summer. I climbed up on the base of the barrier wall that extends around the city, and circles in around Rachel's Tomb. Just after I took this picture, I was told to get down by an Israeli solider in the tower to behind this picture. Interestingly, the same spot was captured by National Geographic. Cut and paste to check out this video:

http://magma.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/2007-12/bethlehem/video-bethlehem.html

Quiet Moments

The past several weeks since I have been back have been far from boring. However, despite my big, awkward extroversion and sheer abundance of work offset by adult ADHD, I have managed to find time for a number of thought-filled moments. These moments usually occur when I'm taking a hot shower, eating alone, or walking somewhere. It's in these moments that I feel the emotional wave of the last several months begin to rise up over me. These moments are when I feel myself missing my time with my host family and friends in the West Bank.

A smile crosses my face when I think about how I was woken up at the same time every morning to sit quietly in the kitchen with Um Ahmad, the mother of my family home. Breakfast consisted of pita bread, olive oil for dipping with green zatar spice, leftover homemade hummus, sometimes a few slices of cheese, and a little bit of yogurt (also for dipping), and tea with sugar and mint. No matter what, there was always tea. I miss this. I miss how Um Ahmad muttered about the heat every day, and how I made a study of her face, her hands, her body language and the tone her voice when she spoke to me. I miss the children in the camp--particularly the triplets in my extended family, Ahmad, Ghasan and Wajd. I miss the sarcasm and dark humor of their mother, Amal. We developed a strong connection based on her desire to practice her English so that she could teach her children.

I miss Aida, my 65-year-old, multi-lingual tutor, and the repetitive stories she told me about her life and her family. I miss the squeaky sound of her laughter, but most of all, I miss how she always greeted me on her front porch with a famous Palestinian triple-kiss, and then an automatic pronunciation drill when I told her about how I walked to see her. (For some reason, she always wanted to know which way I came from the camp, even though it was always the same.)

I miss my dear friend, Ilhan. God, I miss her. I miss her voice, her intelligence, her unwavering commitment to her family and fighting the good fight. She challenged me a great deal, which I automatically recognized as a sign of respect and love. She was so incredibly gifted and strong that I often felt inadequate in her presence. At one point, I remember thinking that Ilhan's character and personality most closely resembles who I would have been if I had been born in her shoes. Her profoundly healthy outlook and determination to be a role model for her children will be a source of inspiration to me for many years to come.

No, I don't miss the uncertainty and anxiety of living one day to the next. I don't miss the blurry background of violence that was always waiting just beneath the surface to rear its ugly head. I don't miss the profound sense of guilt I had for being able to come and go through the checkpoint as I pleased, while the people I spent the most time with were stuck at home, waiting for my return. I don't miss the daily, low-level traumas associated with living in a place where gunfire was a routine disruption to my Arabic lessons. I don't miss the fear of leaving the threshold of my family home without without my passport and a bottle of water. My side bag was always packed with first aid supplies and a spare set of clothes. Fortunately, the spare set of clothes regularly came in handy for impromptu slumber parties more than anything. But still.

But still...

...I do miss eating with 6 people at once in the middle of the day. I miss how we all just sat around a big, steaming bowl of rice and meat, and how the concept of sharing meant that no one used a plate...a fork...or even a napkin. I miss how the food was always fresh and delicious, how eating became a source of strength, not just nutritionally, but socially as well. I miss how my chronic hunger fueled me to know the names of every fruit and vegetable in the market and how to bargain for them. It's funny to say it, I guess, but I miss being chronically hungry.

In my quiet moments, especially when the big house I am now sharing with two other PhD's is empty in the early morning, and I am left to the silent devices of my own thoughts, I find that I am left to ponder my lessons. As I do this, I remind myself that the weight of my solitude is not just a cultural thing, but also a gift. Why? Because I'm here. Now. And the best part is that I lived to tell about it.

Namaste

Flying Circus

My day actually began shortly after 3 am, when Bro had the compulsion to hear my voice from so far away. His phone call startled me from a deep, ear-plug induced sleep. Once my brain registered that the phone was ringing, I fumbled in the dark for my phone. With no cell signal in my concrete room, I answered and told Bro to call me back in 5 minutes. That's when I jumped out of bed, threw on a pair of jeans, slid into my flip flops and hurried out to the street. By this point in my stay in the camp, I learned that if I held on to one of the metal fencing outside of the camp with one hand while talking with the other, my cellular signal radically improved. It was in these moments that I was particularly thankful for my own resourcefulness, but also for the the lack of rain...and lightening...in this part of the world.

It only took me half a minute to reach the lip of the camp, which was designated by the large, green, 60-year-old trash bin with the letters of the UN written on both sides, and almost always abuzz with the territorial hisses and spats of Palestine's finest ferrell cats in their search for leftovers of hummus, bits of pita and the rare delicacy of unused chicken parts. Ever fearful of rabies and other communicable diseases, I stood as far away from the trash bin as possible. My five minute window for Bro's phone call lapsed into ten, then fifteen, but because I didn't have enough money on my phone card to call him back, I had no choice but to wait patiently to hear his voice. In my head, I could already anticipate what he would say when I picked up, how the sound of his Southern drawl from so far away would make me smile. In his always irreverent way, he would no doubt say something completely off-color and politically incorrect about me and where I was living. I would laugh, and respond in kind by lapsing into the accent from the place of our childhood, telling him to "hush" and to "stop being ugly". Unlike me, who only employs her Southern American accent in moments of drunkenness, frustration, when talking to other people from the South, and/or times of socially expedient "cuteness", Bro wears his own Southern accent like a little Boy Scout badge. WIth this comes his raw sense of humor, which can be socially awkward at times. Nevertheless I, for one, never fail to appreciate his dry wit. I had no doubt that the first thing he was going to say from his sunny back porch in Virginia was: "Wattup, Rambo!! How are those rice balls treating you? Have you had a shower this week?"

I stood there waiting in the darkness, absently allowing the minutes to pass. Suddenly, my phone started flashing with a text message from Bro which said that he tried calling (dammit) but couldn't get through. Apparently, all lines were busy in Palestine at 3am. He would try calling again tomorrow.

Damn.

Disappointed and now hopelessly wide awake, I decided to take my time heading back to the airless room on the ground floor where I was supposed to be sleeping. Without the moon, it was difficult to see, but my path was lit by the white glow of the plaster walls of the camp, which I could now navigate through with a blindfold. Aside from the occasional hiss of an unseen cat, the blanket of night imposed a shroud of silence on everything, making my pathway that much darker and that much grittier. For the first time since my arrival 8 weeks before, I noticed the open septic drain beneath me and how much trash was at my feet. I came to a stop and felt myself observing how the silent spirit of desperation adorned every graffiti covered wall in black, red and green, in the colors of Islam, of Palestine, and the competing Arabic slogans for "Fatah" and "Hamas", respectively. It occurred to me that in my two months of living there, I really hadn't seen these things. If I had, they were muted by the vibrant pulse of the camp during the daylight hours, by the irreconcilable sounds of unfolding interpersonal dramas in a language and culture far from my first, second or even third. I loved how the children trickled into the streets each morning after a breakfast of pita with olive oil and remained there all day. They rough-house and carried on, sometimes they bled and made each other cry, but they gave energy and life to this otherwise lifeless place of questionably-engineered septic lines and concrete houses covered in political graffiti. The exuberance of the children competed with the bright sunshine of each blisteringly hot summer day in a way that seemed to whitewash everything. Perhaps this is because the magic of childhood allows there to be no past, and where there is no past, there is also no future. Perhaps this was the gossamer yellow that blurred over my own day-to-day experience. Perhaps the darkness and shadows of the camp were always there, I thought, only I had been so busy paying attention to life by playing with the children and taking tea with the ladies that I had neglected to observe its antithesis.

As I walked, it occurred to me that the camp was a place where each day is truly like the next, and despite the fragility of a being a people without land, for these generations of refugee camp dwellers, there is a certain stability to this particular place in time. I couldn't help but think that the constancy of children in the camp kept everything solidly bolted to the ground, the way trees keep the soil from eroding. Perhaps the children themselves prevented everyone from packing up and disappearing into the desert like a flying circus? While it occurred to me that while it is impossible by default for refugees to grow roots, it is also equally impossible for these people to keep running, especially when there's truly no place left to go. At the same time, a 60 year old refugee camp still retains the savior faire of an ultimate circus on wheels. It is at once a very real microcosm of magic, while simultaneously being rather invisible to the naked eye. Each entrance and exit to the camp blends into the city at large, so much so that an outsider would never know the reality of what is within.

In this dark interim between days, I realized that I was bearing silent witness to a tenderly exposed rawness of the Palestinian reality that most people never see. In fact, there was a such a tangibly sharp, surrealistic permanent feeling of impermanence to everything around me that for a second I forgot that these concrete walls contained a honeycomb network of babies, old ladies and generations of sleeping families within. Suddenly, from somewhere ahead of me, I heard the distinct sound of person running very fast in hard-soled shoes. There was such an urgency in this sound that, given the hour and the darkness around me, I felt the instinctive response to simply get out of the way. As the running came closer, I folded myself into the nearest doorway, completely pressing my body up into the shadow created by the thick concrete wall around it. The second that I took cover, a hard-breathing, 13-year-old kid that I recognized from the street ran within inches of me. In the half-second that he was in front me I noticed that his gait was slightly off. This was because he was carrying what looked like an old Kalishnakov rifle under his arm. The gun was nearly was big as he. While I'm sure that if he had encountered me in the alley, he would have stopped, politely said hello, and then kept running, but this is beside the point.

Jesus, was pretty much all I could think to myself as the sound of his hard shoes disappeared into the night. Given my location just a short walk from where the Jesus man himself was presumably born, the irony of my chosen curse word didn't escape me in the least. Still, with all of my senses fully engaged, I waited in the doorway for a few more minutes, just to make sure that my friendly little gun runner wasn't being chased by a bigger fish. Silence closed around me again. Nothing more came barreling down that alley. I took this as a signal to head back to bed.

I returned to the state of my dreams that night wondering what this generation of children will mean for the future of the Palestinian people. Two weeks before this, Hamas had just violently taken power in Gaza. There was a level of unseen, yet entirely felt tension in the choked air of the West Bank that I knew better than to write home about. I knew better than to attempt to explain the nuances of my observations to a world imbued with the moral authority of the Rupert Murdoch Information Empire. I had decidedly stopped reading the news because I knew that I was living it instead. How on earth could I attempt to explain any of this, when that same day, the children of the camp stood out in the streets of Bethlehem, passing out stickers of the Palestinian flag to every passing car. Even the smallest of them shouted to anyone who would listen, "We are all Palestinians! We want peace!"

Maybe I'll find a way to write about this someday, I thought when I stopped to take one of the green, red and black circle stickers from the hand of one of the kids. Who knows...(I smile coyly to myself as I pause to take a sip of my coffee as I write this)...maybe I will...

Transitioning

Despite the fact that I am an extremely low-maintenance kind of girl, it happens that everything I could possibly need or desire at the moment is on one of two large duffle bags on wheels. Personally, I wish I had even less to carry, but what I have is basic and necessary. After all, I'm not on vacation. I don't have a cool, hipster apartment to call home back in the States. I am my duffle bags and my duffle bags are me. This hit me last night...like, whoa...I actually kind of live here...

The first bag contains my clothing, my yoga mat, an assorted collection of underwear and the flip flops that hurt my feet so I only wear them in public showers. The second bag contains what I lovingly refer to as my "pharmacy". It contains my latest acquisition of a half dozen books from used bookstores all over Israel, and dirt-cheap toiletries that a girl living out of two duffle bags simply can't live without. This bag also contains 2 towels, and an assortment of quick-remedy medications for everything from stomach issues to bacterial infections. I also have a portable water purifying device and my back-up discs for my computer. I may be low-maintenance, but this doesn't mean that I'm not prepared.

At the moment, the weight of the bags combined equals my body weight. So, one bag is roughly half of me. Thanks to the sister of a close friend of mine who lives in Jerusalem, I am in the process of relocating my things in pieces to her apartment in anticipation of my Hebrew course starting on Tuesday. Yesterday, I dragged half of me up the street in Bethlehem to the local bus that takes me through the checkpoint and into Jerusalem.

Yes, it is pretty much a spectacle to see a little girl dragging a big bag on wheels up the street in Bethlehem. Every taxi cab driver honked, and a guy in a little green Volkswagon took the liberty of driving by me several times in a circle, but never once stopped to ask if I needed help. For the past several weeks, the same green Volkswagon guy has been a recurring source of annoyance. Some might call his behavior a sign of "cultural differences". I would label it "stalking". I have silently said a prayer for him should he ever attempt to get out of his car. I'm really not as cute and innocent as I look.

I am also not as rich as I look. There was a reason why I was dragging my bag up the street and not taking a taxi. There was also a reason why I selected the local bus which charges $1.25 to get to the Damascus Gate instead of paying $25 USD for a taxi. (I can live for a week on $25 in the West Bank, and this includes bus fare and icecream treats.)

From the Damascus Gate, I dragged by bag another quarter of a mile through the busy street vendors in East Jerusalem to the Arab-only bus stop, where I picked up the Number 1 bus to Hebrew University. As far as I am concerned, the Arab buses are the only way to travel. They are cheap, air-conditioned and direct. Best of all, there are no Jewish fundamentalists riding on the Arab buses, there is little to no tension in the air, and they always play awesome music. Of course, my arrival at the bus stop was to the deep consternation of the Arab bus driver. Little, ethnically-ambiguous girls don't set foot on these buses, especially ethnically-ambiguous girls with travel bags. Fortunately, after a brief conversation in Arabic, the driver let me on and took me to the exact place where I needed to be dropped. A taxi driver would charge me out the yang for this. And an Israeli bus driver would never be so obliging, much less actually help me with my bag.

I'm moving to Jerusalem on Tuesday, and trying to wrap my mind around the extremely cultural shift that I am about to experience in the distance of just 15 km, literally to the very next hillside. I am sure that I will be the only person in my class to have ever set foot in the West Bank, let alone lived there for 10 weeks. Part of me wishes I could stay in the camp and continue learning Arabic. The other part of me struggles with the fact that I know that my diet is about to radically improve in a matter of days, and I'll soon be back on track with a regime of studying, eating right and taking much better care of myself and eating everything with a fork and a knife. I'm looking forward to the cooler nights in Jerusalem, where I won't sweat through my dreams or worry about bedbug infestation. I'm looking forward to taking a weekly yoga class at the YMCA downtown. I'm also looking forward to library. For all of this, I look around at my friends in the camp, and I feel entirely superficial, pointless and guilty for being able to so easily translate my life into so much luxury.

Bus Chasing and Mustang Riding

This morning, I was running late to meet Dr. B for our pre-travel grocery shopping date. We were meeting in Beit Sahour to buy groceries for our early departure to Jordan tomorrow. Because I was running late, I was hauling ass through town and getting a lot of attention for doing so. While I could of taken a taxi to the blue and white, 1950's ramshakle bus that takes me down to Beit Sahour for 35 cents, I decided to save the 50 cents on a taxi ride and get my day started with a 5km stroll. My biggest obstacles are crazy drivers, broken sidewalks, and men and teenage boys who sometimes refuse to move out of the way with their unnecessary gawking. Other than this, the walk is mostly downhill, which is usually breezy and nice. Of course, walking also means getting harassed by every single taxi cab driver that is looking for a fare, but this is not because I'm Western. The drivers harass everyone here.

So, there I was bopping along to some ridiculous 1980's technofunk on my Ipod, when I rounded the final corner, looked ahead and realized that my bus was pulling away without me.

Here's the thing: I'm not a person who runs after buses. I'm just not. I consider myself way too cool for this. I also do not like the be the bus-chaser who attracts attention to herself, then fails to hail the bus in the first place. I hate to then be the failed bus-chaser who has to stand on the street and wait for another bus anyway. At the same time, I also hate being the bus-chaser who does manage to hail the bus but holds up the rest of the bus passengers when doing so. As a bus passenger, I find this irritating when successful bus-chasers do this. I do not like to be an irritating type of person. So, in all, it's fair to say that bus-chasing is just not "me".

But since the bus only comes on the half-hour (and sometimes not at all), I was forced to make the quick decision this morning that bus-chasing is, in fact, within my repertoire of things to do at 10 o'clock in the morning in Palestine. Trust me, bus-chasing is a great way to start the day.

The bus usually stops half-way up the hill that leads to Manger Square in the center of Bethlehem. It was struggling to inch it's way into on-coming traffic, which bought me a little bit of time. I started walking a bit more quickly, then realized that there was no way for me to make it if I didn't burst into a sprint. Dammit!- I thought. I can't believe I'm doing this!

As I ran up the hill, the men who sit outside of the falafel shop that I pass every day started chanting in unison, "Go, go, go! Go, go, go!"

A few women that I passed stopped and stood speechless. Even children stopped walking and watched me dodge around them in my scramble. Along with the men, the children chanted, "Go, go, go!" They actually squealed for joy and clapped their hands as I passed. Because of this, I nearly had to stop and breakdown from the laughter. It really was beyond hilarious. But because failing to chase a bus is worse than bus-chasing itself, I was determined not to miss my mark.

Of course, just when I was just about to make it, the bus lumbered forward like a fat old man up the hill. Memories of wind-sprints from high school track practice I dreaded more than anything suddenly flashed through my mind. Since I was already running at this point, I had no choice but to kick it into turbo and run that much faster. As I did this, it occurred to me that even though I've been walking everywhere for the past two months, I am in no shape for sprinting. Of course, none of this was helped that I had managed to gather the attention of every single person the busy street. The only time people actually run here is if they are being chased by soldiers, so yes, this was beyond remarkable.

Miraculously, at the top of the hill, I managed to overcome the bus, dart between a few parked cars, and emerge on the side of the street with my arm out for pick-up. The driver opened his door and let me come on board, only the bus was completely full and there was nowhere to sit. Even the aisle was crammed full with passengers. The two women in the front row looked at me like I had 6 heads growing out of my shoulders, and none of the men seemed willing to give up their seat. Since the men usually stand on the stairs by the door, I decided to stand there, too. The driver gave me a look like I was completely nuts, which I returned with a look that said, "Listen, dude, it's pretty obvious that I can run faster than your little bus to Cartagena here. I don't care about your silly gender laws. I can ridewherever I like."

The good news is that I made it to Beit Sahour in plenty of time to meet Dr. B, and also discover that our favorite community grocery store was closed.

But, because there are eyes and ears everywhere in Palestine, it didn't take long for word to travel back to my friends in Azza Camp that the Non-Arab Girl has superhuman powers. I returned home late this afternoon to a round of applause from some of the adults on the street.

"You are famous in Bethlehem today!," one of them said when I walked up to say hello. Of course, I had no idea what she was talking about. "We heard that you ran through town today like a ghost!" The funny thing is that the story of my sprint up the hill far surpassed the event itself. Actually, the story was much, much better.

Apparently, because of my "ghost-like" sprinting abilities, I was told tonight that "all" of the men who have been asking about me around the camp now say that they don't want to marry me because I am too strong and stubborn for their liking. I believe that this is only because Arab women are not really encouraged to sweat. Instead, they must be placid, serene, unaffected and doll-like in public. My friends say that a girl who runs in the street like I did today is considered to be something that cannot be tamed, kind of like a "mustang horse", they say.

Of course, I laughed whole-heartedly at this, and wondered if "bus-chasing" shouldn't be my middle name.

Wala Ishi

For all of the children I have held, hair I have braided, kisses, smiles, hugs, optimism, and gracious, unwavering encouragement I have given to my new friends here, it is without a doubt that I feel compelled to say that it would just be nice to come home at night and curl up on the couch with a hot cup of decaffeinated tea and sleep a solid night in the arms of someone who cares about me.

It's just one of those days.

The Strut

I suppose it's a compliment to be told that I walk "like a man". I've never been one to stroll. Depending on where I am and the context of the situation, I typically make it a point to stick out of the crowd rather than blend in. Of course, this is entirely contextual, but my general rationale for this is merely out of a simple fear I have of being someone's collateral damage in a targeted killing. These things really do happen here, and they have become more prevalent problem in the past month between members of Hamas and Fatah. As a result, innocent people get caught in the crossfire. These flashes of fury, as I call them, almost always happens in broad daylight, on a busy street. As such, my eyes and ears are constantly surveying my surroundings for any potential snake in my path. Between the intense sunshine, dodging between the chaos of the traffic, navigating over and around poorly laid sidewalks and craters in the road, and dodging the most dodgy of male creatures, I do sometimes feel an artist in my endeavor to get from Point A to Point B.

No matter what, I move with my own rhythm. Lately, my morning walk to my tutor's house involves a songlist on my Ipod which includes Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" song as well as Technotronic's infamous "Pump up the Jam". I've also recently rediscovered Abba. I can't say that I would listen to Abba or Technotronic in my normal life, but, let's face it, nothing is quite normal here.

If I were to give a lesson to Westerners in how to properly walk through the street in the Middle East, my first bit of advice would to never stop to gawk or stare at the things that strike me. I never stop at all. Never. I am swift-moving and entirely focused. The kiss of death is to look lost or confused. This only invites calamity. In my approach and wake, I have grown accustomed to being stared at and spoken to by Arab men. Arab women don't move like I move, I know this. They also don't wear sunglasses or hats. I wear one or the other, to avoid sun damage, but also to keep my eyes free of dust and debris. I also don't mind breaking a sweat. Compared to slow-moving Arab woman in her uncomfortable shoes and cumbersome long, black hijab, I probably look like a lithe, predatory animal of some sort in my Puma-like sneakers and jeans. I'm ok with that. For what it's worth, I'm properly covered with a linen shirt, too. But I refuse to be stopped, and I also refuse to be the slowest in the herd.

I have learned how to stop a car by simply looking the driver in the eye and giving him a little smirk as I pass. This stops all men cold. It simultaneously tickles them, but also stuns them, too. Women don't look men in the eyes here. I make sure not to do this in a way that invites more attention. Rather, my body language tells them that I am fully aware that they are looking at me, but that they are permitted to look, but not touch. No one is permitted to stop me, or to be foolish enough to follow me. The reality is that I am not a very big or strong girl, but I am quick, and I sure as hell walk like I not only own the street, but I will veritably eat anyone who gets in my way. I also know who the plain-clothed Israelis are by the way they look me. The fact of the matter is, no one in their right mind wants to deal with the fall-out of Western girl caught in their cross hairs. My "walk", which actually a very confident strut, signifies that I'm not only here, but that I will pass unharmed and so will all of those around me.

Today, I dipped into a shop to check out a really cute shirt I've been eyeing in the window for a while. It's a low-cut, super cute yellow and green Brasil futball team tank top. It's funny that in a world were women are covered from head to toe, this sort of thing is even in the windows, but I digress. I walked in the doorway and the clerk immediately started chatting with me. Of course, since I pass by his shop at least twice a day, I recognized him as one of the men who stand in their door fronts every day to watch the city go by. When I told him that I wanted that particular tank top, he asked me if I was from Brasil. I told him no.

"You are from Chile," he said. (A lot of people from this area have family in Chile.)

"No," I said. Before I could say more, he cut me off--

"You are from Honduras," he persisted. (A lot of people work in Honduras from here.)

"No, enough," I said, "I am from America."

In English, he came back with: "You are not American!"

"No, I am, I promise," I laughed, with my blatant American accent.

"But I see your face on the street. You don't walk like American! You walk like the Brasil or the Chile. From the hips. You walk like one of them! You walk like a man!"

Unfortunately, I ended up not buying the shirt. Not because I didn't want it, but because the price wasn't right. Just because I walk around with my wits about me doesn't mean that I spend money like a fool.

Next time.

Blind Muse

Ahmad, 2 years old, in front of the Muhayyim Azza Mural in the camp

The LCD screen of my digital camera shattered last week, when I managed to take a less than elegant spill down the 2000 year old stone steps in the Basilica of the Nativity that leads down to a place on the floor that is acclaimed to be the birthplace of The Baby Jesus. At first, I wasn't sure if the nuns in the grotto were shushing me for falling or shushing as a way of shaming me to cover myself. The irony, you see, is that I went out of my way to wear an appropriate length skirt and long sleeved shirt, just so that I wouldn't offend the ladies of God. Meanwhile, during the tumble, my appropriate length skirt managed to reveal my upper thighs. "Haram!," they say in Arabic here. This means bad or forbidden. "Haram, Haram!", they all kept hissing. When I realized that I had no sprains or broken bones, I was tempted to hiss back at them for not coming to help me up. Haram for not being nice about it!!--Even if I did land with my bare bottom on the spot where Baby Jesus may or may not have dropped into this world...

Yeesh.

With a bruised backside and a broken camera, I limped my way back to Azza Camp, where my 16-year-old shadow, Niveen, greeted me as teenagers do here: with a kiss on each cheek and a very cool high-five. Niveen has been playing around with my camera since she first saw it. When I showed her that it was broken, she asked if she might "pretend" to use it anyway. I fiddled around with it for a while and discovered that even though the LCD screen is completely shattered (and there is no view finder), it still takes clear pictures. The only problem is that taking a pictures is basically like shooting blind. But, for Niveen's sake, this meant that she got herself a brand new camera.

In the past week, Niveen has come running to my room in the evening to show me her day's collection of photos. Already, she has documented 2 weddings. Yesterday, she was in the streets when the camp greeted a man who came home from an Israeli prison. He had been gone for 4 years. Every night, I upload her pictures to my computer, and the family sits around and enjoys her slideshow.

As of today, Niveen has over 500 pictures of her life and the things she deems important in the camp. Even though she's taking the images blindly, she's showing remarkable depth and clarity for finding moments that are saucy, honest and real. Even a well-trained photographer couldn't capture life here like Niveen does by simply pointing and clicking. Every night, I hug and kiss her and tell her that she has a great talent and a wonderful eye. As one of 6 siblings, I can tell that she loves this attention.

Our little project is giving her something to look forward to every day, which I like a great deal. It's incredible what a broken camera in Palestine can do.

Enjoy,

Namaste

"This is my grandmother in front of the store," says Niveen.

"This is the man that the Jews let out of prison yesterday."

"This is Dalia and Ruta. Sisters. You see?"

"This is Dalia. She is dancing in my room."

"This is our wall with the garden."

Concrete Gentleness

The refugee camp I live in is no longer a bunch of UN tents on the outskirts of the city of Bethlehem. In fact, it sits just in between a split in the road, where the city has enveloped and grown around it. The entrance and exit to the camp are largely unassuming. One is marked by a large UN trash bin left over from the late 1940's. The other end is marked by a white sign that says Azza Camp Something-or-Another on top of a wall that has "Fatah Army" spray painted on it from God only knows when.

It would be easy to walk right by Azza camp and never know what it is. As the smallest refugee camp of the 1948 Palestinian Diaspora, it sits behind rows of Bethlehemite shops on either side, which, in my mind act like cinder block facades to the true life within. The dirt paths of the camp, as I imagine them in my mind, have been unevenly paved over with white concrete. To an outsider looking at Arab living for the first time, this is either a progressive, modern thing, or a way of solidifying a ghetto. Some people clean and sweep the concrete path outside of their home every day. Others don't. Interestingly, some people have painted murals of flowers and trees on the outside walls of their houses, others prefer the more, blanched, austere look of caked concrete. While there isn't a single blade of grass to be found anywhere in the camp, or for that matter, in Bethlehem at large, the children are constantly playing, as children do, in the narrow alley that comprises the camp's main street. Their favorite game is something with a rock or a marble. They gather in large groups of boys and girls, respectively, and play like this all day. Part of me wants to buy them large jump ropes and teach them how to double dutch. The other part of me wants to set up a free band-aid clinic for all of the scraped knees that are produced on an hourly basis by these hearty children. If anything, I have to say that it is refreshing to see kids being kids. They may not have an easy life ahead of them, but at least they aren't starting it half doped on Ritalin and absentee parental neglect. They aren't shoved in front of a television, or force-fed processed food. Instead, they are loved, held, flooded with kisses and fussing, screamed at when they are naughty, and above all else, truly cherished. The amazing thing is that while each child has one mother and maybe 3 or 4 brothers and sisters, they are simultaneously mothered by the collective of women in the community, and held in concert with the small tribe of children their age. Here, the camp life manages to maintain its own socialized, small village identity, even though the great-grandchilden of the men and women who were originally forced to flee for their lives 60 years ago will never return to the place of their ancestral beginnings in present-day Israel.

Despite the modern nature of concrete, camp living for me is much like camping out. I sleep on something like a cot and cherish a cold shower every couple of days. Because of the heat, I sleep with the windows open, and there is a rooster that lives somewhere near my window, which wakes me every day at sun-up. When the rooster settles down, the muezzin call to pray electrifies the camp at 6am. After this, the "Fruit Guy" (as I call him) comes through the camp yelling "FRUIT! FRUIT!", even though it seems like no one really cares. In the confines of my concrete room, which constitutes the original house of my amazing host family, I vacillate between an on-going debate of privacy versus air. If I close the window that opens to the street, I can pretty much be left alone, but I will inevitably turn into a hot, sweaty puddle of myself. If I open the heavy metal shutters of the window for air, I am suddenly an object of curiosity for all of those who pass by. Also, if the window is open, it means that I am home, which is taken as an invitation for people to not only want to look inside to see what I am doing, but to demand that I come out for rounds of visiting and drinking tea.

There is a certain creativity here that only true pioneers of camp life possess. From the way that the homes have been layered upon each other from the ground up, to the functional use of making the most of every ounce of food and water, nothing goes spoiled or unused. As a child, when I went camping with my father on his famous river canoe trips, my favorite meal was anything involving canned brown beans cooked over a fire. Here, because I'm walking everywhere in the sun and using every ounce of energy my body can muster to get up and down the very steep hills, I internally salivate in anticipation of a big, evening meal of rice and chicken. I have become a fanatic for putting sour yogurt on everything, and I practically cry for joy when I see that there is cinnamon in my chicken and rice dish. My other all-time favorite is a tomato based soup with okra, small bits of onion and chopped cucumber in it. Of course, when I'm not gorging on my one big meal a day, I seek sustenance in the Kroger-brand jar of crunchy peanut butter I discovered in a food market in Beit Jala, the next town over. Because I have no spoon, I eat my peanut butter with butt of ink pen that no longer writes.

I suppose there is a certain romanticism to the idea of living in the Middle East for nearly a year. I regularly encounter other travelers who ask what I am doing here, then go on to tell me how much they envy my position when I tell them. To this end, there is something even quaint about the notion of living in a Palestinian refugee camp. Given the poverty of my graduate school-induced lifestyle, I suppose the ironic thing is that I could be typing while eating generic peanut butter of a a jar here or back home. The difference is that here, in this moment, I may be covered in sweat and dirt and somewhat simple by design, but I am living my dream. I don't need a particular latitude and longitude to find my sense of purpose, but it is safe to say that I am particularly happy here, happy in this moment. Perhaps I find fulfillment in the fleeting? Or maybe I am an addict of austere adventure. Either way, my mother would say that I am truly a "pig in shit". In this case, I might even be tempted to agree.

It's one thing to walk through life without a sense of agency, letting the world swirl around us in random, seemingly complicated patterns that impress upon us the idea that we are nothing more than unimportant specks in this great, cosmic soup. I recently watched this through the eyes of a good friend who spent only a month here. While he was here, he never truly dug in. As they say, he didn't "use" the experience. Rather, he made the decision to get through his 25 days in Palestine with as much minimal sweat as possible. Rather than connecting to his larger importance, he become self-important. He let the days pass, he let experiences go by. He fussed when dinner was the same thing night after night, or when his clothes weren't cleaned to his liking, due to a lack of water. After two weeks, he made the egregious error of convincing himself that he had nothing more to learn or see. He claimed that he "got what he came for", which to me meant that he wanted to look at Palestine through a museum glass, rather than actually feel, touch, and dance through the joys and the pains of the Palestinian people. But the thing is, to one degree or another, all of us do this in life.

My point, of course, is that experiences like this may not be for everyone, but in our daily lives we make a series of deliberate choices that allow us to use the present moment to the fullest or not. It becomes a rather deceptive game that we play with ourselves, where we impose walls around our fears and weaknesses rather than simply acknowledging and addressing them and moving on. To this end, of course there are times when it is terrifying to be in Palestine. It can be asphyxiating to stop and think that I am placing not only an incredible gamble on my personal well-being, but my academic life and career as well. I have no idea who or where I will be when I return to the priviledged place that gave me the privelege of carrying an American passport. At this moment, I have no idea if I'll be financially secure, or if I'll ever marry my soul mate, or have children, or plant my own garden, or live happily ever after. But, as Coelho writes, "Let us remind ourselves that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. No heart has ever suffered when it's gone in search of its dreams." Ultimately, my choice is not to suffer or dwell in the vagueness of the menacing What-If. I won't ever look back and long for something I should have said, should have done, or even could have done if I let the world convince me that a great deal of harm comes to those who fly without a net. Maybe this is because I never had such a net in the first place, even though it is a daily choice not to lower myself to the idea that I could, conceivably fail to achieve any of my dreams. Ultimately, the choice is mine, yours, it's open to all of us. For example, your choice to read this essay to it's final paragraph says something about your own search for honesty and gentleness. This is what we are all looking for.

And so, in such a harsh place, where the sun burns through a t-shirt, and high school-aged children are authorized to carry guns, I am gentle. I have to be. Otherwise, I would easily lose my mind. As an outsider, perhaps it is easier to have this perspective, but it still helps to practice finding the hidden gentleness behind every wall that we build, in everything that we do. Like the grass-free refugee camp that happens to be bustling outside of my window right now, I could cover my heart with concrete as a way of minimizing the dust and debris that accumulates in life, but deep inside, I'll always find a way back to a sense of home, to the original place of kindness that resides in my soul. There is a purpose to this, and just like the people who have welcomed me into their small camp village, I have welcomed and invited myself to dwell within my own sense of original purpose. It may be selfish to admit this, but living in the moment is incredibly liberating.

Good Days

From one minute to the next, my mind conceives of 40,000 different ways to connect what I'm seeing and feeling. But I seem to strangely doubt and wrestle with my words here. I'm wondering if this is because I'm struggling to learn a new language and my mind cannot rectify the incompatibility of thoughts and sounds?

That said, I haven't been able to keep up with myself. If my lack of access to bathing water at the moment is in direct correlation to my ability to get on the internet at will. Both are not a daily sort of activity one can engage in in the West Bank without being trite and cheeky (in a negative way).

The good news is that I was called "cheeky" in a positive way today by a man from Norway when I told him that I have discovered a way to eat breakfast for free in Jerusalem. The Notre Dame Catholic Church sits opposite of the New Gate in Jerusalem. I went there the other morning to get a cup of tea and sit in the shade for a little while. I was heading to a conference on health care issues in the Occupied Territories. It was blazing hot at 8am, and I told the guy at the restaurant of the hotel that I wanted tea. He told me that I needed to go to the breakfast room. Because I had not eaten breakfast (or dinner the night before), my eyes lit up like a Baby Jesus Christmas Tree at the sight of...so...much...food!

In my tea-length skirt and collared dress shirt, the assumption was made that I was a good Catholic patron of the Notre Dame Hotel. Because I was starving, I allowed this to work in my favor, and before I knew it, I was feasting on watermellon and really yogurt and tea and jam and cheese. This made me a very happy Namaste. At one point, as the fresh watermelon was going into my mouth, I had to wonder if I will karmically pay for my thievery? Upon consideration, I decided to give 10 shekels to the next begger I met on the street. (And I did.)

Of course, after the conference, since I happened to stay the night in a cheap hostel in the Arab Quarter, I went back to to the Notre Dame hotel restaurant the next morning to see if I could get free breakfast again. Again, no problemo. Maybe this whole lapsed Catholic karma thing isn't so bad...

So, my Norse friend called me cheeky, and bought me an adult beverage at the Jerusalem Hotel, and I just smiled and sipped and accepted compliments on how I really don't look my age. Meanwhile, I got to relish in the fact that this is the first day in nearly two weeks that I had not completely managed to sweat through my clothing, down to my toes, and simultanously out of my teeth. It's been so bloody hot. No, it is beyond hot. There are no words for this kind of hot. Hot.

To summarize, it's kind of like this: You know it's a good day when your stinky pigtails aren't glistening with sweat and somehow smell like feet. It's a good day when you can get out a few sentences in Arabic and not sound completely mentally challenged. It's a good day when you can manage to avoid eating bread. (If you happen to have an unfortunate gluten allergy.) It's a good day when you find shortcuts through what seem like unbearable, shadeless treks across the city. It's a good day--at the end of the day--when you walk back into the camp and all of the children come running to hang out with the white girl. And yes, it's a good day when you say to yourself, "Wow, this shirt doesn't smell so bad--I think I might wear it again." This means that it only smells like ass, and not a dead animal, and yes, this is a good thing...

More to come. Forgive me. For now, this must suffice.

In peace,

Namaste

Pigtails

(My neighbor cried when I ask her to tell me about the wall behind her.

She cried because it destroyed the house that took her family 10 years to build.)

Because water is a privilege and never a promise here in Palestine, I've grown accustomed to wearing my hair in two braided pigtails in order to keep it clean for a few more days. Beyond this, I wear a cap and try not to allow the American in me (who sometimes takes 2 showers a day) to anxiously consider my funk. With temperatures reaching beyond the boiling point, I happen to find the trickle of a cold shower extremely refreshing, even when the water has a yellowish color, I can't seem to wash off the soap that I scrubbed into my skin with the water turned off, and the part of it that came into my mouth tastes like metal.

It is during these moments that I remind myself that I have nothing to prove. I didn't choose to live in a Palestinian refugee camp so that I could use all of my family's restricted water in an effort to demonstrate to them how Americans really live. Rather, I am here to let them teach me about the world from within their windowsill. It is my choice to be here, and so it is my choice to live as they do without reservation or pretention. In fact, the most difficult thing to reconcile is that while I have both the means and ability to leave at any moment because of my American passport, the people who have welcomed me with so much warmth cannot even leave their homes without their identity cards in tow.

Each night, I join some of the women in the camp in their multi-generational circle of plastic chairs. When the sun goes down, they set up camp across from the house where I now live. The children of the camp run to and fro across the narrow alley, which is actually the main street of the camp. The women all seem to genuinely look forward to having me sit among them. After studying their faces, I've concluded that they are all related, some more closely than others, but a family of sisters, nonetheless. Sometimes I am able to follow along in their conversation. Mostly, I just sit there, smile, accepting copious amonts of sugar-sweet tea and occassional patting. Every new person that comes along looks at them, then looks questioningly at me. I've grown accustomed to the stares and relatively unselfconscious when it comes to the predictable scrutiny that ensues when they curiously examine my face, hair, clothes and body. I find it interesting that they don't look away when I catch their eye as they examine me. They smile, which I take as a good thing. After all, I am the only uncovered woman in the group, the one who stumbles through basic conversation, the one with the funny pigtails. It must really be a novel thing to them to have a single American girl living in their camp.

When words fail me (which happens countless times in a conversation), I've learned to express myself with my eyes. Because I've received so many nice responses, I'm certain that I must be doing something right. And since it takes so long for my brain to gather all of the words that are fired around me at rapid speed, I've learned to tune out the noise and simply pay attention to interplay of energy between people and how this turns into a game of intonation and body language. Sometimes I feel like a deaf person, with a heightened sense of perception for everything I see.

Bethlehem Birth Day

Last night was the first night in several weeks that I slept in a room by myself. Oddly enough, the prospect of doing so troubled me. I felt lonely and unable to sleep without the whirl of someone's energy near me. Funny how that happens. As I tossed and flipflopped, all I could think of were the activities of the day. Already, my new home in the Azza refugee camp is turning out to be a source of light, if not utmost stimulation. I kept reviewing in my head how much Arabic I sputtered, stuttered and unbelievably butchered in the course of several hours.

A young mother in my family just had twins. Last night, the grandmother asked if I would walk with her and the mother to the hospital, where the twins are being kept until they are big enough to face the world. We walked up the hill, along the sad wall that surrounds Rachel's tomb at the very top of Bethlehem. Just before the checkpoint, where the Israeli soldiers stand with their big guns, we veered right, along a smaller road to a building that stood on a bluff, overlooking the entire valley below Bethlehem.

While the young mother went into the hospital to breastfeed her newborns, the grandmother and I sat together for two hours on a stone wall on the hillside, while the setting of the sun illuminated the Muslim call to prayer. The grandmother spoke only Arabic. She was an engaging, enthusiastic woman who seemed to take great pleasure in being my first teacher. Like a child, I sat with her and played a game of pointing to things and learning new words. Flower, bee, wall, grass, tree, sunset, hospital, prayer, etc. At one point, a Muslim woman emerged from the hospital and sat next to us on the wall. It happened that we were facing east, and so the woman prayed.

Maybe I'm crazy, but the woman simply radiated as she prayed. I was only a foot away from her, and even though I could only understand snippets of her prayer, I could feel her spirit resonated through the wall, into my feet, down my spine, and out through my hands. Out of respect, I sat there in utmost stillness and allowed the moment to take me. It's in those moments, when I allow myself to free fly that I suddenly hit my own existential walls. This time, it was the realization that I was sitting outside of a hospital in Palestine. With all of Bethlehem at my feet, I was compelled by the feeling of flying and swallowing too much of the ocean at once. It was such an odd feeling.

Not being able to sleep last night was also due to the fact that I couldn't take my mind off the bedtime story that I'm going to tell my daughter one day. I think it will go a little something like this:

"Once upon a time, when your mommy was living in Palestine, she met a very nice lady who took her by the hand. The lady walked her up a hill to a place where babies were born, and together they watched the sun set over the place where Mary gave birth to the Baby Jesus..."

Indeed.

In 30 Minutes

"We always see the world better when we allow the mystery of our encounters to be unveiled."--Paulo Coelho

After a long, sometimes funny, sometimes absolutely insane month of living with a young, Christian Palestinian family with a collective zoo of relatives and two very active and animated young children, I packed up my two trusty duffle bags with wheels this morning and headed out into the heat of the day. A few weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to stay on another month in the West Bank. My belief is that the fellowship awaiting me in Jerusalem can wait. I'm getting more done here and seeing more things than I could possibly witness from afar. The view from the ivory tower may be more dazzling, but let's face it: Nothing can replace the real thing. Academia may inevitably kick me out for having my fair share of nitty-gritty, real world experiences, but, I am 100% certain it will still be there when I'm good and ready to return. As things stand, I may never have the opportunity to live and work in the West Bank again.

That said, I am moving in with a young Muslim family today. My new family lives in the Aida Refugee Camp, on the other side of Bethlehem, from where I am now living. I will spend the next 6 weeks there.

Ensha'Allah, it will be a complementary experience to what I have seen already.

Namaste

On Waging Peace

So, the news is pretty gnarly in this part of the world lately. Since I'm not in the headspace to get into a political overture when, by the time I finish my little missive, something new will completely displace all that I have to say. In the meantime, I thought maybe it would be good to hear what the children here have to say about the matter. I asked some of them, and they say that they can't tell the difference between a family that supports Hamas versus one that votes for Fatah. Honestly, they'd much rather play, or get to see the ocean one day. There's a great deal of darkness here. But there's also tremendous beauty.

Here are the children of Beit Sahour.

"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."

-Mother Teresa

"Peace is not just the absence of violence but the manifestation of human compassion."
--His Holiness the Dalai Lama

"Peace, to have meaning for many who have only known suffering in both peace and war, must be translated into bread or rice, shelter, health and education, as well as freedom and human dignity."

--Ralph Johnson Bunche

"Do you know what astonished me most in the world? The inability of force to create anything. In the long run the sword is always beaten by the spirit. Soldiers usually win battles and generals get the credit for them. You must not fight too often with one enemy, or you will teach him all your art of war. If they want peace, nations should avoid the pin-pricks that precede cannon shots."

--Napoleon Bonaparte

"The most disadvantageous peace is better than the most just war."

--Desiderius Erasmus

"There was never a good war or a bad peace."

--Ben Franklin

"We look forward to the time when the Power of Love will replace the Love of Power. Then will our world know the blessings of peace."

-- William Gladstone

In peace,

Namaste