I didn’t even have ayna and bejaanab right. To all of you who study MSA and who feel pretty comfortable with your conversation skills; it is with a big heaping dose of shadenfreude that I tell you...you know nothing. Colloquial Arabic here in Jerusalem is nothing like the Arabic I learned in DC. Nothing. Does anyone know which regional dialect is closest to fussha Arabic? Wherever it is, that must be where all the newscasters come from. What a blessed country it must be for it to have all that media talent.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Giving the Gift of Laughter...and Social Awkwardness
Yesterday during one brief moment of total hubris, I thought to myself: “I think I know what’s going on here. These folks are so afraid that they won’t understand what I’m saying in English that their language anxiety precludes them from hearing that I’m actually asking in Arabic!” I became so content with this delusion that, mistaking it for a universal truth, my theory accidentally slipped out when I was chatting with one of my housemates. He sardonically replied, “Yah, that’s what it is…the Palestinians are the ones getting it wrong.” Ouch. Mind you, the derailment of my stupid train was not due to a misguided belief that I have reached any level of fluency in Arabic. It was sabotaged by the certainty that I don’t have any real Arabic fluency, save all but eight words that I am certain I know pretty well. That is, I was certain that I knew them pretty well.
One of these words is ayna. Ayna, to the best of my knowledge means “where”. So being the fearless linguist that I am, I approached the first woman I saw and asked, “Min fudlick, ayna Mount Scopus Hotel fee Sheikh Jarrar?” She smiled, looking around somewhat perplexed. I also detected just the slightest expression of “Oh crap. What did I just step in?” Still, she graciously listened as I repeated this question, and added, “Idrusu Arabbiya fee el maddrasa bejaanib Mount Scopus Hotel.” In my little head, this translates to “I study Arabic in the school next to Mount Scopus Hotel.” I have since come to the conclusion that I alone hold that supposition to be likely. We then embarked on a series of “uhhhhh, ummms...”, shoulder shrugs, crinkled noses, exaggerated neck craning, nervous giggles and empathic eye rolls to the heavens...as if by engaging in this interpretative dance lucidity would bubble to the surface of our respective consciousness. She finally asked, “Sheikh Jarrar?” I replied “Uh...na’am.” She said something to me in what apparently is real Arabic and pointed me toward the road on the right. We laughed a little and off I went in the exact opposite direction of Mount Scopus Hotel.
As I headed toward the city center in West Jerusalem, I figured I better ask someone else for directions. It was a nice day for a hike, but I had other things I needed to do. Man, I swear...It was as if there was a Neighborhood Watch alert. People were avoiding me like ham sandwich. So, doing what any unbelievably conspicuous American would do, I popped into the American Colony Hotel to buy a grossly overpriced tourist map. Too bad the Israeli cartographer who compiled the thing was unaware that East Jerusalem exists. That’s not true. It exists but only with Hebrew street names. Oy. That will get me a whole lot of love in East Jerusalem. “Min fudlick, ayna Ben Gurion Street wa Golda Meir Avenue? Ana bidi yeshiva bejaanib Mount Scopus Hotel.”
So, with my chronic optimism prodding me along, I thought I would give Arabic another try. [If I ever become famous, those better not be my ‘famous last words’.] Alas, I hope you embrace the lesson I learned from this folly and know that it is applicable for every traveler in every travel destination on this planet. If you are lost, and you need assistance there are several types of people you want to avoid:
* those who you can smell before you see them,
* those who are overly anxious to assist and insist on escorting you to a “short cut”,
and possibly the scariest of all...
* pre-teen girls who travel in packs.
My self confidence received its death knell blow when I repeated my questions to a pack of giggling schoolgirls who were walking past American Colony.
Parents: please, please, please; when you have little girls, do whatever it takes to instill in them a sense of agency, self-assurance and grace. All these bobbleheads could do was interject between giggles and snorts: “No English...snort, giggle, giggle, giggle, snort...” Their inexplicable amusement rivaled that of the pasty, Jerry Garcia T-shirt sporting, college freshman who once generously offered a bong hit upon introducing himself to me at a beach party. I wasn’t amused by him either. In an exasperated tone I said “La ‘English’, fee Arabbiya!” They would stop, walk back towards me and say OK. Then before I could get the words out of my mouth, again I’d hear: “snort, giggle, giggle, giggle, No English! Don’t...giggle...understand...giggle-giggle...English...snort” This dialogue repeated several more times before I thought to myself: “How do you say in Arabic ‘I’m going to roundhouse kick you in front of cab’?” Good grief, I wish I could go back to the days when I cut an intimidating form and I could just demand an answer from someone younger than me...and get it. For the time being, I suppose I’m at the mercy of a cadre of hijab-ed Britney Spears.
In any case, today was my first day of school. I already love it. I can’t wait to actually be able to communicate with someone other than the little Arab person in my head. ‘Cause they apparently can’t speak Arabic either. It turns out that although my Classical Arabic gets me by in a classroom in Washington, DC, it is the communicative equivalent of reading the ingredient listing on the side of a Twinkie package here. Some of the words sound familiar, but no one in their right mind wants to investigate their meaning. We all want to continue to like Twinkies.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Holy Crap! I'm Half Way to 70!
I'M TOO YOUNG TO BE 35!
I was really kind of excited to turn 35--it seemed like such a respectable age. Thirty-five is when it is all supposed to come together. Right? Wasn’t the whole cast of Friends and Sex & the City thirty-five? It has to be an enviable age. Alas, when I awoke yesterday morning the first thought in my 35 year-old head was that when I was in my mid-20s, I used to look at my 35 year old friend and think, "Wow, she looks pretty good for being that old." If I could go back in time, I would go punch twenty-something year old me right in the throat. I was definitely stupid in my twenties. Wisely, two men who work on the compound and one resident of the guesthouse wished me the happiest of birthdays and exclaimed that it is impossible for me to be a day over 25. I agreed.
So, my milestone birthday was spent with some fabulous thirty-something girlfriends. Our evening included: luscious martinis made with espresso and Sambuca, six orders of dessert throughout the night, and a new standard for laughing-till-the-martini-comes-out-your-nose-good-times. Each woman brought as a birthday offering the description of a single man they think I should meet...Ahhh, the birthday gods were pleased. By the end of the night, I laughed so hard that I felt like I had done 15 sets of crunches and had botox injected into my cheeks mid-smile. As my friend dropped me off, we agreed that every birthday from this day forward must be filled with the same level of merriment or else there needs to be a do-over. All-in-all, I highly recommend that everyone try turning 35 at least once.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Going on a Jerusalem Walk-About
I took the long way home today. I just couldn’t bring myself to walk up through the Arab neighborhood that separates me from the Old City. In my mind, it was worth hiking an additional 45 minutes and enduring suffocating exhaust fumes in order to avoid my new neighbors. Occasionally, when walking from point A to point B, I get a nod hello or even an “Ahlan wa Sahlan” from the old men or families walking up and down the hill. In the past couple of days, the greetings have been less hospitable. I can always count on the young boys to snicker and make comments about me after I have passed by them. The other day, a slightly bolder little girl reached out and slapped my arm as I passed. Both of those encounters are tolerable, but today’s interaction really made me reevaluate my decision to live here.
At the bottom of the hill, I passed two older boys. As I walked by they yelled “Son of a Bitch!” I didn’t bother to turn around, but braced myself expecting a rotten egg to the back of my head. I was tempted to go back and explain to them that they had it all wrong. First of all, unless you are old enough to have at one time sat in the studio audience of The Merv Griffin Show, this insult should not be in your lexicon. It has no bite. Maybe if you’re a soap opera star you can still get away with hurling such an epithet, but that’s a big fat maybe. Secondly, it doesn’t even make sense. I did a run-through in my head of how I would explain the etymology of this phrase in Arabic. I couldn’t possibly be a ‘son of a bitch’ because that insult is gender specific. If you want to be taken seriously, then drop the “son of” and just call me a bitch. You wouldn’t be the first.
I also wanted to explain that bitch alone can also be gender neutral. For example, in a prison context one would say: “I’m going to make you my bitch.” These boys should be familiar with the versatility of English words. That way they can hurl insults to a wider audience without having to go to the trouble of actually expanding their vocabulary. Goodness knows that extra curricular study might interfere with their busy schedule of skulking around the neighborhood. Furthermore they should know that bitch (or beeatch for that matter) can be used as a term of endearment, as in: “I want to give a shout out to all my bitches!” So, again, if they really want to malign me they should just yell “bitch!”, but ultimately a successful verbal attack will hinge on the appropriate tone of contempt in their voices. They seem to already have that part pretty well mastered.
Originally I had planned to use this entry as a bit of a rant. I spent the better part of the day thinking how it doesn’t make any sense for these Palestinians to harass Westerners who are living in East Jerusalem because aren’t we all clearly here in solidarity? Don’t they realize that most of the Americans, Germans, Japanese, Swedes, Brits, and Aussies walking around are buying their produce and supporting their shops? Most of the expats that I have met work for religious organizations or NGOs that are here to monitor checkpoint activity, help communities start economic development projects, and to provide assistance to local health organizations. Almost all of the expats that I have met work to get information about the plight of the Palestinians out to the rest of the world. They risk provoking Israeli soldiers at checkpoints and getting tossed out of the country, yet the message that these kids are sending to us is that “you don’t belong here-- you son of a bitch!”
This is what I thought earlier. In fact, I was quite indignant. Then around 4:30pm, I got a cold dousing of reality. On the long way home, I stumbled upon two Israeli soldiers, partially obscured by a wall, standing in a rocky field. The soldiers looked like they were barely twenty years old. They had their guns aimed at the wall and the soldier furthest from me was barking loudly in Hebrew. I couldn’t see what was happening and honestly, I was afraid to look. It felt like I was witnessing something perverse. As I passed I caught a glimpse of an Arab man, only a few years younger than my father, wearing a red and white kefiya and standing in a ditch facing the wall. I couldn’t tell if he was alone, but the soldiers were clearly terrifying him. Two Arab men were walking towards me and as soon as one heard the soldier shouting, he abruptly turned on his heal and almost plowed right into me. He quickly walked back in the direction from which he came. I don’t think I can articulate how unsettling this scene actually was, but as I am typing I can feel my heart start to race and a knot is forming in my stomach.
Since I’ve been here, I have had a few conversations with people about how individuals in both communities cope with militarization and an enveloping sense of insecurity. One Israeli explained that most people don’t talk about the experiences of the Arab population because it is impossible to reconcile the perceived need to have strict security measures with the humanity of “the other”. You can’t continue to see yourself as a decent citizen when you are forced to see people dehumanized by your own security forces. Interestingly, when I listen to people discuss the plight of the Palestinian people, there is little acknowledgement of the existential fear that pervades Israeli society. Their mocking tone implies that the angst experienced by Israelis is self-generated and unnecessary.
Everyone seemingly believes that they are rooting for the ‘good guy’, but the ‘good guy’ really depends entirely on which side of the wall you sit. Acknowledging the experiences of the other side, independent of your own fears and suffering, is bound to evoke empathy. The only problem is that when you start to see the good in the “bad guy”, you lose the moral footing upon which your position stands. So there you have it. It all boils down to the discomfiture generated by cognitive dissonance. It takes a lot more energy, creativity and courage to put down your pompoms and see what is happening to all of the human beings around you. Once eyes are opened though, there’s no going back to the team clubhouse.
So, I get that I am a son of a bitch (sorry Mom). These kids are living a reality that I couldn’t possibly know. If calling me a son of a bitch or slapping my arm as I pass is a way to equalize an asymmetric balance of power, then maybe I need to find a way to cope with their expressed frustration. I can’t come into their community all Miss Mary Sunshine and expect them to be able to disassociate me from the ‘bad guys’ that they have always known. At one point today, I thought “how can their parents let them run around and behave like this?” Perhaps, parenting skills are somewhat impeded by time spent down in a ditch at gunpoint. Next time I think about picking my pompoms back up, I’ll try and remember that.
At the bottom of the hill, I passed two older boys. As I walked by they yelled “Son of a Bitch!” I didn’t bother to turn around, but braced myself expecting a rotten egg to the back of my head. I was tempted to go back and explain to them that they had it all wrong. First of all, unless you are old enough to have at one time sat in the studio audience of The Merv Griffin Show, this insult should not be in your lexicon. It has no bite. Maybe if you’re a soap opera star you can still get away with hurling such an epithet, but that’s a big fat maybe. Secondly, it doesn’t even make sense. I did a run-through in my head of how I would explain the etymology of this phrase in Arabic. I couldn’t possibly be a ‘son of a bitch’ because that insult is gender specific. If you want to be taken seriously, then drop the “son of” and just call me a bitch. You wouldn’t be the first.
I also wanted to explain that bitch alone can also be gender neutral. For example, in a prison context one would say: “I’m going to make you my bitch.” These boys should be familiar with the versatility of English words. That way they can hurl insults to a wider audience without having to go to the trouble of actually expanding their vocabulary. Goodness knows that extra curricular study might interfere with their busy schedule of skulking around the neighborhood. Furthermore they should know that bitch (or beeatch for that matter) can be used as a term of endearment, as in: “I want to give a shout out to all my bitches!” So, again, if they really want to malign me they should just yell “bitch!”, but ultimately a successful verbal attack will hinge on the appropriate tone of contempt in their voices. They seem to already have that part pretty well mastered.
Originally I had planned to use this entry as a bit of a rant. I spent the better part of the day thinking how it doesn’t make any sense for these Palestinians to harass Westerners who are living in East Jerusalem because aren’t we all clearly here in solidarity? Don’t they realize that most of the Americans, Germans, Japanese, Swedes, Brits, and Aussies walking around are buying their produce and supporting their shops? Most of the expats that I have met work for religious organizations or NGOs that are here to monitor checkpoint activity, help communities start economic development projects, and to provide assistance to local health organizations. Almost all of the expats that I have met work to get information about the plight of the Palestinians out to the rest of the world. They risk provoking Israeli soldiers at checkpoints and getting tossed out of the country, yet the message that these kids are sending to us is that “you don’t belong here-- you son of a bitch!”
This is what I thought earlier. In fact, I was quite indignant. Then around 4:30pm, I got a cold dousing of reality. On the long way home, I stumbled upon two Israeli soldiers, partially obscured by a wall, standing in a rocky field. The soldiers looked like they were barely twenty years old. They had their guns aimed at the wall and the soldier furthest from me was barking loudly in Hebrew. I couldn’t see what was happening and honestly, I was afraid to look. It felt like I was witnessing something perverse. As I passed I caught a glimpse of an Arab man, only a few years younger than my father, wearing a red and white kefiya and standing in a ditch facing the wall. I couldn’t tell if he was alone, but the soldiers were clearly terrifying him. Two Arab men were walking towards me and as soon as one heard the soldier shouting, he abruptly turned on his heal and almost plowed right into me. He quickly walked back in the direction from which he came. I don’t think I can articulate how unsettling this scene actually was, but as I am typing I can feel my heart start to race and a knot is forming in my stomach.
Since I’ve been here, I have had a few conversations with people about how individuals in both communities cope with militarization and an enveloping sense of insecurity. One Israeli explained that most people don’t talk about the experiences of the Arab population because it is impossible to reconcile the perceived need to have strict security measures with the humanity of “the other”. You can’t continue to see yourself as a decent citizen when you are forced to see people dehumanized by your own security forces. Interestingly, when I listen to people discuss the plight of the Palestinian people, there is little acknowledgement of the existential fear that pervades Israeli society. Their mocking tone implies that the angst experienced by Israelis is self-generated and unnecessary.
Everyone seemingly believes that they are rooting for the ‘good guy’, but the ‘good guy’ really depends entirely on which side of the wall you sit. Acknowledging the experiences of the other side, independent of your own fears and suffering, is bound to evoke empathy. The only problem is that when you start to see the good in the “bad guy”, you lose the moral footing upon which your position stands. So there you have it. It all boils down to the discomfiture generated by cognitive dissonance. It takes a lot more energy, creativity and courage to put down your pompoms and see what is happening to all of the human beings around you. Once eyes are opened though, there’s no going back to the team clubhouse.
So, I get that I am a son of a bitch (sorry Mom). These kids are living a reality that I couldn’t possibly know. If calling me a son of a bitch or slapping my arm as I pass is a way to equalize an asymmetric balance of power, then maybe I need to find a way to cope with their expressed frustration. I can’t come into their community all Miss Mary Sunshine and expect them to be able to disassociate me from the ‘bad guys’ that they have always known. At one point today, I thought “how can their parents let them run around and behave like this?” Perhaps, parenting skills are somewhat impeded by time spent down in a ditch at gunpoint. Next time I think about picking my pompoms back up, I’ll try and remember that.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
I Can't Wait Until I'm Home to Bore You With Slides...
Here are a few shots of my neighborhood from our backyard. Right in the middle you can see the Separation Wall, Security Fence, Separation Barrier, Apartheid Wall, a Blatant Violation of the 4th Geneva Convention, etc... choose whichever name fits your political position. All I know is that in 1989, I took a hammer and a can of spray paint to a similar structure. There was such rejoicing when the Wall came down; even David Hasselhoff rose above it on a cherrypicker and belted out his seminal work: "Looking for Freedom". (Dear God, please don't let David Hasselhoff ever come here. While You're at it, is there any way You can stop him from signing any more pacts with the devil? There is already way too much suffering in the world without Da Hoff's "Jump in My Car" polluting the airwaves. It's so wrong. All of it is just wrong... )
This shot was taken from the roof top of Hebrew University. It always seems to be hazy like this. Perhaps, this explains why I'm always blowing soot out of my nose when I get home from a walk.
This shot was taken from the roof top of Hebrew University. It always seems to be hazy like this. Perhaps, this explains why I'm always blowing soot out of my nose when I get home from a walk.
This one was taken as I was coming down the stairs in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City. The Dome of the Rock is such a breathtaking structure that it is really hard to capture it in a photograph.
If you squint, you can see the wee little people down at the bottom of the picture. Those black dots are men praying at the Wailing Wall/Western Wall.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Apparently, I'm not Kosher...Never Was
One of my very entertaining housemates came into the kitchen yesterday while a few of us were talking and said:
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have to tell you that you are a boar.”
I said: “You think I am a bore?”
He replied: “Yes. You are a pig.”
I exclaimed: “A pig?!”
“Yes. Not a rat, a pig. And this is your year!”
That’s when I realized that he was referring to the Chinese zodiac-- not reflecting on my conversation skills or eating patterns. I had forgotten that we had been discussing astrology over coffee the other day.
So, it’s true. I am a pig.
Master Rao at astrology.com confirmed it. I guess when it comes down to it; I was never terribly comfortable with being a rat. I don’t mean to brag, but according to Master Rao, the pig may just be the “most generous and honorable Sign of the Zodiac.” The pig is a great companion, terribly loyal, very inquisitive and studious, extremely intelligent, quite a perfectionist and not just a little badass. Unfortunately, we are often mistakenly labeled snobbish. Uh…interesting. ‘Cause sometimes they're not mistaken. Well, that’s not necessarily true. But I don’t have much of a poker face when Mr. Sketchy sits down next to me on the bus and wants to make nice-nice. Another interesting thing I read is that pigs tend to think the best of people (to the point of being naïve), but we can be “quite venomous when crossed”. Well all I can say to that is “Oink”.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have to tell you that you are a boar.”
I said: “You think I am a bore?”
He replied: “Yes. You are a pig.”
I exclaimed: “A pig?!”
“Yes. Not a rat, a pig. And this is your year!”
That’s when I realized that he was referring to the Chinese zodiac-- not reflecting on my conversation skills or eating patterns. I had forgotten that we had been discussing astrology over coffee the other day.
So, it’s true. I am a pig.
Master Rao at astrology.com confirmed it. I guess when it comes down to it; I was never terribly comfortable with being a rat. I don’t mean to brag, but according to Master Rao, the pig may just be the “most generous and honorable Sign of the Zodiac.” The pig is a great companion, terribly loyal, very inquisitive and studious, extremely intelligent, quite a perfectionist and not just a little badass. Unfortunately, we are often mistakenly labeled snobbish. Uh…interesting. ‘Cause sometimes they're not mistaken. Well, that’s not necessarily true. But I don’t have much of a poker face when Mr. Sketchy sits down next to me on the bus and wants to make nice-nice. Another interesting thing I read is that pigs tend to think the best of people (to the point of being naïve), but we can be “quite venomous when crossed”. Well all I can say to that is “Oink”.
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Kind of Terrorism I Know All Too Well
One of my all-time favorite movies is Hope and Glory. The film is about the experiences of a British boy during WWII. One of the most memorable scenes was when the family returned from a day trip to find their home consumed by flames. The family assumed that the house had been bombed during a Nazi air raid, but the fire chief approached and said: “It wasn't a bomb, just a fire. It happens in wartime as well, you know.” Recollection of this particular scene popped into my head yesterday, shortly after I escaped from the public restroom stall in which I had been trapped for a good twenty minutes.
I think I had prepared myself pretty well for the possible encounter with politically spurred violence. I had even given considerable thought to how I would cope in the worst case scenarios, but somehow I felt less concerned about violence motivated by your everyday cases of greed and perversion. Maybe I assumed that men would be so focused on political, social and economic grievances that they wouldn’t have the luxury of engaging in the kind predatory behavior that exists in every other country around the globe. Well, just color me stupid…
After unsuccessfully hunting for the Graduate Admissions office at Hebrew University, I decided to walk in to town to buy some birthday cards. By the time I reached the Old City, I was a bit desperate for a restroom. I walked over to the City Hall complex and found a restroom sign that directed me toward the basement level via an elevator. Just as I pushed the call button, my cell rang. As my friend and I were confirming our plans for that evening, I noticed a sketchy character standing by the pay phone. He was giving the impression that he was searching for change or a phone card, but it was clear that he was doing neither. So, my gut instinct kicked in and I walked away. A couple of minutes later, my bladder drowned out the voice of reason and I went back to the elevator. I pushed the call button again, but thought better of it. I decided to find the stairs instead. After an unsuccessful search, I went back. I figured with the tight security in Israel, do I really need to be this concerned? Surely there were cameras by the elevator, so he would have to be a natural born fool to try anything.
The elevator deposited me in a dreary hall, and sitting in a dark recessed nook was another equally sketchy man with obscured features. I darted into the empty women’s restroom, and this is when I did something classically stupid: I opted not to use the first row of stalls. Instead I went to the far end of the restroom and used a stall around the corner. Common sense was trumped by the assumption that the stalls furthest from the door would be the cleanest. Yah, I know… I know. Dumb. So, as I am taking care of business, I hear a heavy door slam. At that moment, I was washed over by acute anxiety. I looked through the crack in the door in time to see the shadow of a head inching toward my stall. No footsteps, just the shadow. It stopped moving and just hovered. Clearly there was someone with their body pressed against the neighboring stall door.
Was this the way my story was supposed to end? In the dingy, smelly basement restroom of an Israeli municipal building? Sounds like a pretty shitty way to go-- pun intended. There was no way that I was destined for this nonsense. Even though up until now this story proves the contrary, I am way smarter than any chump sucka who needs to prey on women for kicks.
At that moment, I figured I better take a quick assessment of my options. First step, pull up my pants. I now know what they mean by “getting caught with your pants down”. So, I started running possible scenarios through my mind. After searching through my day pack I came to the conclusion that, despite having sat through a documentary marathon on networked gang violence in the U.S. prison system, I did not have the adequate skills necessary for fashioning a lethal shank out of my lipgloss wand.
The next possible option was to try to recall exactly how Uma Thurman executed the five-point-palm-exploding-heart-technique. I figured if need be I could kick out the door and use the element of surprise in my favor. Two obstacles arose in my mind: First, the only fight I’ve ever been in was when I was in the 5th grade and I told a butchy 6th grade girl on the bus to shut-up and stop being mean. She said “Make me.” As I marched to the back of the bus, I employed the closed-eyes-sissy-paddle-slap technique. It was not highly effective; she socked my right in the face. So, I figured it was highly unlikely that when push came to shove, the Uma within would materialize. Second, the door opened inward. So, trying to negotiate the inward swinging door, the cramped stall and my six foot tall frame might detract from the element of surprise necessary for successful execution of this plan.
Fortunately, there was no way for anyone to shimmy under the stall and the walls were too high for anyone to vault over without giving me plenty of opportunity to make a run for it. For the time being, I was safe in my pen. I figured I could just wait it out. I couldn’t possibly be the only person in Jerusalem with a small bladder. In the meantime, I thought about the benefits of screaming. Having been in quite a few situations like this over the years, I am well aware of the fact that I don’t know how to scream; I only know how to negotiate. This now made me angry. I tried to prep myself, but it isn’t like this is something that all women naturally know how to do. On the contrary, we are raised to not make a scene, don’t be rude, don’t be loud, don’t draw attention to yourself…I decided that, after I got myself out of the immediate mess, I would definitely need to find a place to practice.
Next, I pulled out my cell phone. Of course, in the bowels of the municipal building, coupled with my craptacular Israeli cell phone model, there was no network. Then again, shadow head didn’t necessarily know that. Having previously cursed my incredibility loud keypad, I gratefully started typing in random numbers. The plan was to give the impression that with one quick text message, I had at my disposal reinforcements in the form of Tony Soprano-like associates. Soon, my Mafioso brood would descend on this hapless punk with steel pipes and brass knuckles…BINGO! The shadow slipped back as quietly as it had entered. Of course, now I had to wonder if he hadn’t just relocated a few stalls down. After another ten minutes or so, I finally yelled: “Listen, if you’re still there, you should know that I have already called the police!”
Another minute or so of straining my ears passed. I suddenly burst out of the stall ready to start kung-fu fighting. I used the long mirror on the wall to get a quick lay of the land and then, doing my best TJ Hooker impersonation, I slid along the wall and jumped out at the first row of stalls. **hi-yaaaH!!** Nothing. I ran out of the restroom only to find a twenty-something guy waiting at the elevator. Oh crap. He cautiously looked at me as I pulled myself up to my full six feet of American bad-ass. I thought about not getting in the elevator and then I figured, “what if he wasn’t shadow head? What if shadow head was still there?” So, after sizing this one up, I figured let the 6th grade butch be damned! I have had thirty-five years to perfect my “Whatchu lookin’ at beeatch?!” face. Pretty convincing, I might add, so I got in and stared him down the entire ride up.
After what felt like a 45 minute elevator ride, I bolted out into the sunshine. Now, I fully realize that I was looking for a way to reestablish the balance of power and there was no way of really knowing if this guy was indeed shadow head. Nevertheless, I decided that I wanted to stay close to my new friend. He had a buddy waiting for him and after they said something to each other, both turned to look at me. OK, fair enough, it’s the Middle East. Men look at me all the time, but the way they leered really let loose the raging bull within…So, I tailed them. Every few feet the skinny one from the elevator would turn around and glance back at me. It just so happened that I was heading in the same direction as they were walking, but now I was doing it purposefully…while doing my best Terminator impersonation.
Soon, the boys stopped smiling when they looked back. I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to be listening to something. They stopped and pretended to look in a store window. I also stopped and pretended to look in a store window. It really started to feel good to turn the tables. I couldn't help but wonder why they were getting so jumpy and I was becoming less doubtful of their innocence. Then again, I don't care. In my opinion, it's a damn shame when a woman can't go into a public restroom without being armed with pepper spray and having to check every stall for possible predators. There have been countless times when men have followed me down quiet streets, disrespectfully whispering what ever came into their sexually repressed little heads. It is only in the past 10 years that I have come to learn that no woman has to tolerate intimidation or disrespectful behavior. The final glance back from the skinny one was one of concern. The boys darted across the street against the traffic and zipped into the pedestrian mall. I briefly toyed with the idea of following. Instead, I decided to let it go. I had birthday cards to buy. Another day, another lesson learned.
I think I had prepared myself pretty well for the possible encounter with politically spurred violence. I had even given considerable thought to how I would cope in the worst case scenarios, but somehow I felt less concerned about violence motivated by your everyday cases of greed and perversion. Maybe I assumed that men would be so focused on political, social and economic grievances that they wouldn’t have the luxury of engaging in the kind predatory behavior that exists in every other country around the globe. Well, just color me stupid…
After unsuccessfully hunting for the Graduate Admissions office at Hebrew University, I decided to walk in to town to buy some birthday cards. By the time I reached the Old City, I was a bit desperate for a restroom. I walked over to the City Hall complex and found a restroom sign that directed me toward the basement level via an elevator. Just as I pushed the call button, my cell rang. As my friend and I were confirming our plans for that evening, I noticed a sketchy character standing by the pay phone. He was giving the impression that he was searching for change or a phone card, but it was clear that he was doing neither. So, my gut instinct kicked in and I walked away. A couple of minutes later, my bladder drowned out the voice of reason and I went back to the elevator. I pushed the call button again, but thought better of it. I decided to find the stairs instead. After an unsuccessful search, I went back. I figured with the tight security in Israel, do I really need to be this concerned? Surely there were cameras by the elevator, so he would have to be a natural born fool to try anything.
The elevator deposited me in a dreary hall, and sitting in a dark recessed nook was another equally sketchy man with obscured features. I darted into the empty women’s restroom, and this is when I did something classically stupid: I opted not to use the first row of stalls. Instead I went to the far end of the restroom and used a stall around the corner. Common sense was trumped by the assumption that the stalls furthest from the door would be the cleanest. Yah, I know… I know. Dumb. So, as I am taking care of business, I hear a heavy door slam. At that moment, I was washed over by acute anxiety. I looked through the crack in the door in time to see the shadow of a head inching toward my stall. No footsteps, just the shadow. It stopped moving and just hovered. Clearly there was someone with their body pressed against the neighboring stall door.
Was this the way my story was supposed to end? In the dingy, smelly basement restroom of an Israeli municipal building? Sounds like a pretty shitty way to go-- pun intended. There was no way that I was destined for this nonsense. Even though up until now this story proves the contrary, I am way smarter than any chump sucka who needs to prey on women for kicks.
At that moment, I figured I better take a quick assessment of my options. First step, pull up my pants. I now know what they mean by “getting caught with your pants down”. So, I started running possible scenarios through my mind. After searching through my day pack I came to the conclusion that, despite having sat through a documentary marathon on networked gang violence in the U.S. prison system, I did not have the adequate skills necessary for fashioning a lethal shank out of my lipgloss wand.
The next possible option was to try to recall exactly how Uma Thurman executed the five-point-palm-exploding-heart-technique. I figured if need be I could kick out the door and use the element of surprise in my favor. Two obstacles arose in my mind: First, the only fight I’ve ever been in was when I was in the 5th grade and I told a butchy 6th grade girl on the bus to shut-up and stop being mean. She said “Make me.” As I marched to the back of the bus, I employed the closed-eyes-sissy-paddle-slap technique. It was not highly effective; she socked my right in the face. So, I figured it was highly unlikely that when push came to shove, the Uma within would materialize. Second, the door opened inward. So, trying to negotiate the inward swinging door, the cramped stall and my six foot tall frame might detract from the element of surprise necessary for successful execution of this plan.
Fortunately, there was no way for anyone to shimmy under the stall and the walls were too high for anyone to vault over without giving me plenty of opportunity to make a run for it. For the time being, I was safe in my pen. I figured I could just wait it out. I couldn’t possibly be the only person in Jerusalem with a small bladder. In the meantime, I thought about the benefits of screaming. Having been in quite a few situations like this over the years, I am well aware of the fact that I don’t know how to scream; I only know how to negotiate. This now made me angry. I tried to prep myself, but it isn’t like this is something that all women naturally know how to do. On the contrary, we are raised to not make a scene, don’t be rude, don’t be loud, don’t draw attention to yourself…I decided that, after I got myself out of the immediate mess, I would definitely need to find a place to practice.
Next, I pulled out my cell phone. Of course, in the bowels of the municipal building, coupled with my craptacular Israeli cell phone model, there was no network. Then again, shadow head didn’t necessarily know that. Having previously cursed my incredibility loud keypad, I gratefully started typing in random numbers. The plan was to give the impression that with one quick text message, I had at my disposal reinforcements in the form of Tony Soprano-like associates. Soon, my Mafioso brood would descend on this hapless punk with steel pipes and brass knuckles…BINGO! The shadow slipped back as quietly as it had entered. Of course, now I had to wonder if he hadn’t just relocated a few stalls down. After another ten minutes or so, I finally yelled: “Listen, if you’re still there, you should know that I have already called the police!”
Another minute or so of straining my ears passed. I suddenly burst out of the stall ready to start kung-fu fighting. I used the long mirror on the wall to get a quick lay of the land and then, doing my best TJ Hooker impersonation, I slid along the wall and jumped out at the first row of stalls. **hi-yaaaH!!** Nothing. I ran out of the restroom only to find a twenty-something guy waiting at the elevator. Oh crap. He cautiously looked at me as I pulled myself up to my full six feet of American bad-ass. I thought about not getting in the elevator and then I figured, “what if he wasn’t shadow head? What if shadow head was still there?” So, after sizing this one up, I figured let the 6th grade butch be damned! I have had thirty-five years to perfect my “Whatchu lookin’ at beeatch?!” face. Pretty convincing, I might add, so I got in and stared him down the entire ride up.
After what felt like a 45 minute elevator ride, I bolted out into the sunshine. Now, I fully realize that I was looking for a way to reestablish the balance of power and there was no way of really knowing if this guy was indeed shadow head. Nevertheless, I decided that I wanted to stay close to my new friend. He had a buddy waiting for him and after they said something to each other, both turned to look at me. OK, fair enough, it’s the Middle East. Men look at me all the time, but the way they leered really let loose the raging bull within…So, I tailed them. Every few feet the skinny one from the elevator would turn around and glance back at me. It just so happened that I was heading in the same direction as they were walking, but now I was doing it purposefully…while doing my best Terminator impersonation.
Soon, the boys stopped smiling when they looked back. I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to be listening to something. They stopped and pretended to look in a store window. I also stopped and pretended to look in a store window. It really started to feel good to turn the tables. I couldn't help but wonder why they were getting so jumpy and I was becoming less doubtful of their innocence. Then again, I don't care. In my opinion, it's a damn shame when a woman can't go into a public restroom without being armed with pepper spray and having to check every stall for possible predators. There have been countless times when men have followed me down quiet streets, disrespectfully whispering what ever came into their sexually repressed little heads. It is only in the past 10 years that I have come to learn that no woman has to tolerate intimidation or disrespectful behavior. The final glance back from the skinny one was one of concern. The boys darted across the street against the traffic and zipped into the pedestrian mall. I briefly toyed with the idea of following. Instead, I decided to let it go. I had birthday cards to buy. Another day, another lesson learned.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
One Part Gloria Steinem, One Part Marilyn Monroe
Just when I start to feel like I am in an exotic foreign land, I realize that it is indeed a small world after all. Since I’ve been here, I have had quite a full social life—at least more than what DC afforded me. That could be due in part to the fact that in DC, every spare second of my life was consumed by a soul-sucking academic schedule. Anywho, I am fortunate enough to have an Israeli pal who has introduced me to a fabulous bunch a gals.
The other night, I went to a dinner party hosted by one of the ladies and before long, the conversation turned heated. Of course, this is the Middle East, so which topic could have stimulated such a discussion? The Palestinian-Israeli conflict? The Iraq War? The Iran nuclear threat? Yeh, no. The universal issue of greatest importance to a group of educated, passionate, politically informed women is naturally…boys. So, sitting among a group of fantastic women who hail from every corner of the globe, it occurred to me that the world is not as diverse as I had previously thought. I think the one thing I came away with was the realization that if I had thought the dating pool in DC was a bit shallow; I am now certain that it is positively parched here. Then again, this is the Holy Land, so miracles do happen.
Possibly in my favor is this new-found freedom to behave as an unabashed flirt without feeling silly about it. At home, I’d be afraid of making a fool of myself. Here, making a fool of myself is a daily past-time. I am under no illusion that I am projecting an image of a confident, capable woman. That conception of self was duly erased the first night here when I mistakenly ate a half pint of sour cream thinking it was yogurt. Anyway, the silliness has already paid off…literally. I got my friend out of a $100 + parking ticket thanks to an exaggerated hair flip, pouty boo-boo kitty face, and some hum-min-na hum-min-na eyes at two Israeli traffic policemen. My friend came running out of the bank to find me cooing to two men who had moments before been yelling threats. After a few minutes of sweet talk, they said that they’d waive the ticket, but if someone with a real handicap showed up, we were going to have to move. Is it really this easy? Has my hard, feminist exterior in the U.S. been working against me all of these years? Does ‘dummying it down’ actually make me smarter? I’m afraid of the answer.
Mind you, I only engage in this kind of overt flirtation on the Israeli side. In my Arab neighborhood, I don’t see too many women out and about. I couldn’t imagine there being a benefit to making myself even more conspicuous. Let there be no mistake; people are wonderful here. The Palestinians I have met so far have been so gracious and hospitable. For example, one day while I was butchering their language in the neighborhood shop, one of the female customers standing at the counter shyly handed me a bonbon. Now, there is an off chance that she hoped with the bonbon in my mouth I would have to stop desecrating her beautiful ancient language. The more likely scenario was that she was trying to show me that I was welcome.
Still, the politeness that I have encountered troubles me a bit, if only for one reason: I am not quite sure if I am making any sense when I speak in Arabic. Everyone indulges me and they nod along as I say my little schpiel. Then as soon as I’m done, they start speaking to me in English. I’ve decided that I’m going to have to put my foot down and insist that people speak only Arabic. I will do that as soon as I expand my vocabulary beyond the two verbs and six nouns that I seem to have mastered. First step: learn the numbers so I can stop holding out a hand-full of coins to the cashier every time I need to pay for something.
The other night, I went to a dinner party hosted by one of the ladies and before long, the conversation turned heated. Of course, this is the Middle East, so which topic could have stimulated such a discussion? The Palestinian-Israeli conflict? The Iraq War? The Iran nuclear threat? Yeh, no. The universal issue of greatest importance to a group of educated, passionate, politically informed women is naturally…boys. So, sitting among a group of fantastic women who hail from every corner of the globe, it occurred to me that the world is not as diverse as I had previously thought. I think the one thing I came away with was the realization that if I had thought the dating pool in DC was a bit shallow; I am now certain that it is positively parched here. Then again, this is the Holy Land, so miracles do happen.
Possibly in my favor is this new-found freedom to behave as an unabashed flirt without feeling silly about it. At home, I’d be afraid of making a fool of myself. Here, making a fool of myself is a daily past-time. I am under no illusion that I am projecting an image of a confident, capable woman. That conception of self was duly erased the first night here when I mistakenly ate a half pint of sour cream thinking it was yogurt. Anyway, the silliness has already paid off…literally. I got my friend out of a $100 + parking ticket thanks to an exaggerated hair flip, pouty boo-boo kitty face, and some hum-min-na hum-min-na eyes at two Israeli traffic policemen. My friend came running out of the bank to find me cooing to two men who had moments before been yelling threats. After a few minutes of sweet talk, they said that they’d waive the ticket, but if someone with a real handicap showed up, we were going to have to move. Is it really this easy? Has my hard, feminist exterior in the U.S. been working against me all of these years? Does ‘dummying it down’ actually make me smarter? I’m afraid of the answer.
Mind you, I only engage in this kind of overt flirtation on the Israeli side. In my Arab neighborhood, I don’t see too many women out and about. I couldn’t imagine there being a benefit to making myself even more conspicuous. Let there be no mistake; people are wonderful here. The Palestinians I have met so far have been so gracious and hospitable. For example, one day while I was butchering their language in the neighborhood shop, one of the female customers standing at the counter shyly handed me a bonbon. Now, there is an off chance that she hoped with the bonbon in my mouth I would have to stop desecrating her beautiful ancient language. The more likely scenario was that she was trying to show me that I was welcome.
Still, the politeness that I have encountered troubles me a bit, if only for one reason: I am not quite sure if I am making any sense when I speak in Arabic. Everyone indulges me and they nod along as I say my little schpiel. Then as soon as I’m done, they start speaking to me in English. I’ve decided that I’m going to have to put my foot down and insist that people speak only Arabic. I will do that as soon as I expand my vocabulary beyond the two verbs and six nouns that I seem to have mastered. First step: learn the numbers so I can stop holding out a hand-full of coins to the cashier every time I need to pay for something.
Monday, January 8, 2007
Getting my feet wet...I mean, muddy
Right off the bat let me suggest that the smartest thing a girl could do when she moves to the Middle East is to get a map. Lesson learned. I have been in East Jerusalem for a week so far and I have yet to make a run for it; although truth be told, days one and two tested me a bit. Then again, if I don’t have a map, where the hell am I going to run? The transition is getting easier. Just when I'm about to say "what the $!#@& am I doing here..." I catch sight of the Dome of the Rock, or another landmark triggers a memory of my younger days, and I just squeak with excitement. What a place this is.
I am living on the highest point in East Jerusalem, so I can see all of Jerusalem from my vantage point. You know what I can't see? A road to get down there…Or one to get back up for that matter…Or any buses that could solve this mystery once and for all…Instead, I've been walking along the perimeter of the place via the new main road, no doubt adding a good 45 minutes to my commute--and probably making me look like a jackass in the process. I figured I would just follow the signs to “City Center” and that would eventually drop me in the center of something.
On my third day, I was attempting to get back up to the house from the Old City. (See picture: house is located near the tower on the hill) I figured as long as I could still see the house from the road that I was on, I would keep walking toward it. Next thing you know, I am way lost in the middle of an Arab neighborhood with a mob of small boys running around me yelling "Hello, how are you?...Are you American?” That in itself was not disconcerting. It was the fact that they were shooting me in the face with their toy machine guns while they were asking that stimulated the icy grip sensation on my lower intestine. At least they weren't hurling rocks through slingshots this time. Things have apparently changed since I was here 10 years ago. Inshallah.
Anywho, the encounter was slightly harrowing seeing I had no idea how to get out of there. Perhaps I have read Lord of the Flies too many times, but there is nothing more uncomfortable than to be surrounded by children who descend on you en masse. Under normal circumstances, kids reign themselves in out of fear that you might know their parents. Not having that edge, I just responded, in what in my head sounds like Arabic, and kept walking with an air of "I totally know where I'm going." That was a brilliant strategy…until the road ended. So, the choices were to walk ALL the way back up the hill (despite the obvious rejection of the laws of physics, everything is uphill) through the neighborhood with the wee little freedom fighters or to cut through the olive grove. After a millisecond of deliberation, the olive grove it was. Fortunately, after coating my new shoes thoroughly with clay-like mud, the grove path led me straight to the road that led up to the house. Unfortunately, the road was practically a vertical angle. Oy. In all fairness, I vaguely recall making a New Year’s resolution that had something to do with transforming my doughy physique into something considerably firmer, so from this point forward I will consider my Stairmaster neighborhood a blessing.
To be completely truthful, I'm definitely feeling a little culture shock. Everyone speaks English so I don't know why I morph into a deaf mute every time someone asks me a question. I would have starved yesterday (or just gone to McDonalds) if some sweet old man hadn't stopped to help me when he saw me salivating outside of a shwarma shop. On the upside, after being jostled by these pushy little bastards and ripped off by my taxi driver and his fruit market cousin, I met some very nice pregnant ultra orthodox women who, after I helped them carry their baby carriages up the stairs, offered hospitality and asked if I was all alone. (I said I wasn't) and some very hot soldiers who asked me the same question. (I said that I was)
To assuage this newfound culture shock I ventured out to meet up with a long-lost girlfriend. I figured that, in Jerusalem of all places, the wine must be blessed, so we promptly got spiritually loaded…Then, to cap off the night, I got ripped off by another taxi driver. The driver said that he wouldn’t turn on the meter because “after 9pm the fare is twice as much. I’m doing you a favor.” To emphasize his point, he pointed to the number two on the idle meter—as if that meant anything to me. I thought about it briefly, was certain he was scamming me and finally said “oh, OK”—not before giving him a master stink-eye. There was no way in hell I was negotiating that steep hill in the dark-- powered only by half a bottle of Merlot. I later found out he charged me 15 NIS more than the meter would have charged. *sigh* I need to stop being a rookie. I know better than this. So, I guess the second thing a “smart girl” does before moving to the Middle East is to pick up a travel guide or two.
I am living on the highest point in East Jerusalem, so I can see all of Jerusalem from my vantage point. You know what I can't see? A road to get down there…Or one to get back up for that matter…Or any buses that could solve this mystery once and for all…Instead, I've been walking along the perimeter of the place via the new main road, no doubt adding a good 45 minutes to my commute--and probably making me look like a jackass in the process. I figured I would just follow the signs to “City Center” and that would eventually drop me in the center of something.
On my third day, I was attempting to get back up to the house from the Old City. (See picture: house is located near the tower on the hill) I figured as long as I could still see the house from the road that I was on, I would keep walking toward it. Next thing you know, I am way lost in the middle of an Arab neighborhood with a mob of small boys running around me yelling "Hello, how are you?...Are you American?” That in itself was not disconcerting. It was the fact that they were shooting me in the face with their toy machine guns while they were asking that stimulated the icy grip sensation on my lower intestine. At least they weren't hurling rocks through slingshots this time. Things have apparently changed since I was here 10 years ago. Inshallah.Anywho, the encounter was slightly harrowing seeing I had no idea how to get out of there. Perhaps I have read Lord of the Flies too many times, but there is nothing more uncomfortable than to be surrounded by children who descend on you en masse. Under normal circumstances, kids reign themselves in out of fear that you might know their parents. Not having that edge, I just responded, in what in my head sounds like Arabic, and kept walking with an air of "I totally know where I'm going." That was a brilliant strategy…until the road ended. So, the choices were to walk ALL the way back up the hill (despite the obvious rejection of the laws of physics, everything is uphill) through the neighborhood with the wee little freedom fighters or to cut through the olive grove. After a millisecond of deliberation, the olive grove it was. Fortunately, after coating my new shoes thoroughly with clay-like mud, the grove path led me straight to the road that led up to the house. Unfortunately, the road was practically a vertical angle. Oy. In all fairness, I vaguely recall making a New Year’s resolution that had something to do with transforming my doughy physique into something considerably firmer, so from this point forward I will consider my Stairmaster neighborhood a blessing.
To be completely truthful, I'm definitely feeling a little culture shock. Everyone speaks English so I don't know why I morph into a deaf mute every time someone asks me a question. I would have starved yesterday (or just gone to McDonalds) if some sweet old man hadn't stopped to help me when he saw me salivating outside of a shwarma shop. On the upside, after being jostled by these pushy little bastards and ripped off by my taxi driver and his fruit market cousin, I met some very nice pregnant ultra orthodox women who, after I helped them carry their baby carriages up the stairs, offered hospitality and asked if I was all alone. (I said I wasn't) and some very hot soldiers who asked me the same question. (I said that I was)
To assuage this newfound culture shock I ventured out to meet up with a long-lost girlfriend. I figured that, in Jerusalem of all places, the wine must be blessed, so we promptly got spiritually loaded…Then, to cap off the night, I got ripped off by another taxi driver. The driver said that he wouldn’t turn on the meter because “after 9pm the fare is twice as much. I’m doing you a favor.” To emphasize his point, he pointed to the number two on the idle meter—as if that meant anything to me. I thought about it briefly, was certain he was scamming me and finally said “oh, OK”—not before giving him a master stink-eye. There was no way in hell I was negotiating that steep hill in the dark-- powered only by half a bottle of Merlot. I later found out he charged me 15 NIS more than the meter would have charged. *sigh* I need to stop being a rookie. I know better than this. So, I guess the second thing a “smart girl” does before moving to the Middle East is to pick up a travel guide or two.
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