Since I’ve been here in Jerusalem, I have found that cooking has been a great stress reliever. I think experimenting with different spices and flavors is almost meditative. Creative processes employed in cooking indirectly help me negotiate some of the tenuous emotional voyages I have been on lately. I guess you could say that these days I’ve been doing a LOT of cooking. Ok, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration...I’ve been baking, too.
A while back I threw a dinner party for all of the residents in the guesthouse. The inspiration for the meal came from a lone can of coconut milk that I had sitting in my room. Before long the menu evolved to include a curried potato stew, roasted root vegetables, quinoa pudding with fried bananas and a Palestinian rice and lentils dish that my Palestinian guests politely shoveled under their napkins. Some “Ecumenical Accompaniers” (a group of international checkpoint watchers) in attendance asked if I would be willing to cater their farewell dinner. Whereas I can barely manage to throw together a sandwich for myself when I’m hungry; I absolutely LOVE to cook for other people. I readily agreed. Below are a few of the recipes that I compiled from the second dinner party. The measurements are by no means exact; as I tend to use a little red wine while I’m cooking (for my own consumption, not as a recipe ingredient) there is a whole lotta wiggle room.
An Accidental Sweet Potato Bake
(It’s accidental because the final recipes had none of the ingredients I had initially intended to use— that includes even the sweet potato)
1 Large sweet potato
1 small regular spud
1 pint plain yogurt
2 Tbsp sour cream
A couple of ounces of incredibly stinky Middle Eastern hard goat cheese. I mean like “who took off their old sneakers and threw up in them” kind of stinky. You can probably use feta and you’d get a similar result, but I think it would be really tasty with soft goat cheese. Play with and see what you think.
2 Pitas or I think a nice Rustic Wheat Bread would be good, too.
Up to one stick of butter
Ground rosemary
A couple cardamom pods
Black pepper to add a kick
Slice the potatoes and par-boil a little in order to reduce the baking time. Let them cool then place a layer of them in a greased baking dish. Alternate the two potatoes so their flavors are evenly divided. You’re going to have a lasagna effect when you’re done.
In a separate bowl, mix the yogurt and sour cream. Add the rosemary, pepper and break open a couple of cardamom pods. I have no suggestions for how much you should use. Wing it.
Put a layer of cheese on top of the potatoes. You don’t need to cover them completely. Then spread the yogurt mixture on top.
Put another layer of potatoes. And repeat until all ingredients have been used or you run out of room in the baking dish.
Cut up the pita into teeny little pieces. You can use a food processor, but it looks really nice when you cut it my hand into tiny weeny little cubes. Toss bread and a couple of hunks of butter in a sauté pan with some ground rosemary. Add more butter as needed, but don’t let the bread get too wet. It should be nicely coated with butter so that it will brown on top of the sweet potato bake.
Cover the top of the baking dish with the breadcrumb mixture and cover with aluminum foil. Let it sit in the fridge for a few hours. I let it sit over night. When you’re ready to bake it, toss it in the oven around 350 degrees while it’s covered. Here’s where the red wine makes my recollection a little fuzzy...I'm not sure how long it took for the dish to bake. Check it periodically. When you can stick it with a fork and the potato feels soft, take off the foil and let the top brown. Voila!
Here’s another one that everyone absolutely loved:
Roasted Eggplant:
1 Large Eggplant
1 Large Onion
2 Cloves of garlic
2 Tomatoes
Olive Oil
Salt
Turmeric
Black Pepper
Slice the eggplant into ½ inch thick rounds. Halve them again. Sprinkle each eggplant piece with salt and turmeric. Stack pieces on top of each other in a baking dish if necessary, cover and let sit in the fridge for at least a couple of hours. This will help the eggplants sweat out a lot of water; making them less bitter and easier to bake. Drain the pieces of all water before baking.
Coarsely chop the onion and garlic and sprinkle over the eggplant. Dice the tomatoes and toss on top.
Grind a little black pepper over the veggies and drizzle oil over the entire mix.
Cover with foil and bake until the eggplant feels soft. (It will look less opaque as it cooks) From time to time, check to make sure that the veggies aren’t burning to the bottom of the pan. If you discover that you didn’t add enough oil, you can add a little bit of water at this point to help it along.
This dish is always the first to go. No matter how many eggplants I use, the serving dish is always near empty by the time I get to serve myself.
Ain’t No Kissing Tonight Roasted Garlic Pasta
(For those of you who are about to crack about how I am not doing any kissing either with or without roasted garlic, you can shut it. You know who you are.)
1 Bulb of garlic
1 Onion
2 Handfuls of spinach, chopped
1 package of grape tomatoes, halved
Olive Oil
White Wine
More stinky cheese, rinsed. But improvise however you like.
Pasta of choice, cooked
Add Chicken if desired. I would probably cook it with the roasted garlic, onion and wine for the extra stink factor
Take the garlic while it’s still in its papery skin and cut off the tops of each clove within. Place garlic on a square of aluminum foil and drizzle oil over each exposed clove. Wrap the foil so it makes a little pocket and place in a baking pan with the tomato halves and a few chunks of onion. Drizzle oil, a wee bit of sugar and black pepper on the tomatoes and onion chunks. Bake for about 45 minutes. Keep checking ‘cause you might need to pull the tomatoes out sooner. Let cool and squeeze out the roasted garlic into a small bowl. Mash the garlic. Set tomatoes aside.
Cook pasta and set aside in a baking dish.
Sauté the remaining onion and garlic paste. Add chicken if desired. Add a couple of schlugs of wine. Then add spinach.
Mix the spinach, tomatoes and pasta together and sprinkle the dish with cheese. Cover with foil and bake until the cheese has melted a bit. Be prepared to stink.
You may have noticed that I don’t always put the baking temperature. That’s because the numbers on my oven are in Celsius and I must have missed that day in math class when we learned how to convert. Not like it matters, because our oven is impossible to regulate. Anywho, I have had a different experience with baking every time I’ve tried a cake recipe. For the dinner party, at the moment when the cake failed to exit the pan as proscribed, I realized that my layer cake aspirations were a bit too ambitious. There was only one logical solution:
Some See a Broken Cake...I See Trifle
I cubed my cake and set it aside in a Tupperware container.
Next, I took balsamic vinegar and powdered sugar and reduced it in a sauce pan until syrup formed. Then I tossed in a bag of frozen strawberries and a bag of frozen blueberries. I stirred until the berries had thawed and the mixture thickened back up.
Here’s where you can get creative. The easiest route is to bust out some Cool Whip and call it a day. Or, you can whip some heavy cream with a dash of vanilla and some powdered sugar. If you’re feeling very ambitious, plan ahead and make a custardy creme like I did. I took egg yolks, plain yogurt, sugar, a splash of vanilla, a pinch of nutmeg, a pinch of cinnamon, and a little cream, and stirred it for ages in a saucepan. Don’t let it sit or you’ll end up with scrambled eggs. I poured the mix into a (you guessed it) a baking dish, and let it sit in the fridge for a couple of hours until I was ready to use it.
When all three steps are ready, start by making a layer of cake cubes in a big glass bowl. Add a layer of berries, then cream layer, then cake, then berries, then cream layer, etc...I covered again and put back in the fridge until dessert time. I can say with 100% certainty that if I ever made this again, I sure as hell wouldn’t share it with anyone. It was “My Precious” kind of good.
That’s all for now. Just remember, the trick to making these recipes is to have a glass of wine in your hands at all times. Then, if the food turns out crappy at least you had a good time.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Can of Whoop Ass...Palestinian Style
I thought that I could handle the teenage boys who were harassing me on my walk home from school everyday. I thought to myself, “Heck, I’m old enough to be their mother. I’m not going to be intimidated.” Plus, I get along with kids! Aren’t I the “cool aunt”? Usually it’s adults that hop up and down on my last nerve. Haven’t I’ve always had a real Barney-esque quality about me?...shu hadda? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that these “kids” are operating under a different code of conduct. They are emboldened with each day that their behavior goes unchecked. The fact that they tried to grab my crotch demonstrates that they are testing boundaries. Even the point that they were walking down the main road, instead of taking the dirt path like all the other kids, shows that they are trying to express independence and test their courage. It’s as if they’re saying, “I dare someone to tell us that we can’t be here.” I suppose the high from stretching their wings inspires them to take it a step further by molesting me. If I was going to resolve this situation, I needed to employ resources within the local Palestinian community. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel like those resources were at my disposal.
After the weekend in Tel Aviv, I felt refreshed. But the walk down the hill toward school reminded me of what lay in store in a few more hours. Although, I had tried a number of rationalizations, I hadn’t really gotten past the feeling of powerlessness. By internalizing my feelings, I was only heightening my anxiety. By break time, my imagination had gotten the best of me. I was sharing the story with my classmates when I just burst into tears. All of them insisted that I tell the teacher what happened, but the idea of “telling the teacher” that boys were picking on me was more than I could bear. With a running nose and quivering chin I whined: “But I’m a grown-up!” So having no poker face, my teacher zeroed in on me two seconds after class started again. Not one more word was going to be taught until I ‘fessed up. After explaining how these kids had been becoming more and more aggressive over the previous three weeks, my Arabic teacher said “not to worry”. This was going to be resolved within the community.
Later on that afternoon, my teacher called my cell. He asked if the boys ever came after me in the morning. I explained that it was only a problem in the afternoon; they are presumably in school in the morning. He said not to worry; he’s hot on their trail. My teacher was out speaking with men in the neighborhood, and there were some possible leads. Later I found out that the hospital guards I greet every morning had planned to follow me to school from a distance. If the kids came after me, they wanted to be there to nab them. When they heard that it only occurred in the afternoon, they agreed to be on the look out for packs of boys from the neighboring school.
I was really touched by this concern. They felt responsible for my well being, but they also were furious that teenagers were destroying the reputation of their neighborhood. Many of the adults are aware that the foreigners in East Jerusalem work with Palestinian focused NGOs and IGOs. There is unfortunately a frustration that plagues this new generation, and they project their resentment on all non-Arabs. The logic goes like this: “the UN and NGOs have been here throughout the entire occupation, and no solution to the problem has been found. So, maybe they are part of the problem too.” At times I can’t really blame them for feeling that way. Why should they feel like any one else in the world cares? UN or no UN, there is still a big fat blimp floating over East Jerusalem every Friday to film each and every movement. The entrance points to Wadi Joz are still going to be blocked off by “flying checkpoints” at random intervals. Crazy ass settlers are still going to pop up overnight and take over property. It’s not a fair association but it would be wrong, as an international trying to help the community, not to empathize with their frustrations.
On Tuesday, my teacher and I went on our first stake out. We hypothesized the possible routes the boys could take to end up on the main road. After a while it was apparent that no one was coming, so he took me home. We pulled over to talk to one of the hospital guards who said he thought the boys were part of the group that usually skips school. Groups of boys slip out of class and come up the hospital gift shop to buy sweets. Then they hang out in the park until 12:30pm - 1pm (the time school lets out). My teacher said not to give up; we’ll hunt them again tomorrow. At least now we know that we can contact the school headmaster as an additional resource. Things were starting to look up, and I was beginning to feel less alienated and powerless. Even better, I felt like my faith in people was being restored. It is so easy to permit personal experiences to shadow perceptions of a society. All it takes is the slightest act of kindness to remind you that the enemies are not, in fact, at the gates.
On Wednesday, we resumed our position on the corner. Again, the boys proved not to be the truant little turds that we had hoped they’d be. Instead, we drove over to the cafe to re-strategize. My teacher said that we would continue to stakeout the corner and he would also continue to ask around the neighborhood for leads. As he gave me a lift back home, most of the anxiety that had plagued me on Monday had now dissipated...that is, until I saw the boys. As we were driving up the hill we slowed down to get a look at the three teenagers walking down. My teacher was absolutely shocked when the boys recognized me and waved lasciviously. We sped up the hill and made a u-turn to head back down. The highway was split on two levels so we had to make another u-turn to head back up the hill to where we first saw the boys. As my teacher had suspected, they had jumped the guard rail and were walking down a dirt path into the wadi. I had figured we’d give up at that point, but my teacher would have none of it. I think seeing their hubris first hand inspired him.
We drove through the winding neighborhood roads and immediately came upon the three teenagers. I jumped out of the car as they approached and said “hello boys”. My surprisingly spry teacher circled around and pounced. Before they knew what hit them, he started barking “Who is your father?” The kids were so scared they didn’t have a chance to lie. Knowing all of their fathers, he began his lecture. The kids at once began to deny ever having seen me before. The tubby one had the nerve to cluck his tongue at me, as if I was the one who should have been ashamed for lying. Later another chubby kid approached and I had to stop for a second and wonder if Tubby #1 wasn’t in fact telling the truth. After staring him down for a few seconds, I saw him buckle and all doubt was erased. The skinny pervy aggressor was not so quick to give up the fight. He asked “When? When did I ever talk to her?” I saw my opportunity and I cracked open my very own can of whoop ass. In my best “child-you-better-wipe-that-smirk-off-your face” voice I yelled in Arabic “Every day! Right there” while pointing up to the road. That is when they collectively crapped their pants.
Now that the boys knew (or thought) that I understood Arabic, it was time for them to bust out their best Gregory Hines...and so the tap dancing began. My teacher pointed to the kid in the middle and asked “Is he the really bad one?” The middle one was the least guilty of the three. He had always hung back—just giggling at the antics of the other two. I looked at this kid with his twisted buck teeth and skittish wide eyes and felt so bad for the wee honey. I said “no,” pointing to the skinny one. “...he’s the one who tried to grab my crotch.” My teacher turned on him. He said sternly that I had originally wanted to go to the police, but I realized that they were probably from good families. I would never want to involve the Israelis in a community matter, so instead I asked my teacher to intervene on my behalf. He told them that I was a kind woman and that if they were lucky, I might bestow a smile on them to show that all was forgiven. All three promised never to even glance at me. The pervy one promptly said in English “I sorry”. The chubby one followed suit by putting his hand to his heart and saying “Thank you.” Sweet little Bucky just nodded his terrified little bobblehead. Of the three, Bucky needed a hug...and fewer loser friends. I did my best to maintain a classic mommy-esque stink eye, but I really wanted to let them off the hook. What’s done is done. It’s just amazing how these kids went from belligerent hooligans to the vulnerable little boys that they really are.
By now, their parents have probably heard that something had happened. People came out of the neighboring shops to see what was going on, and a few cars had driven past. I told my teacher that I would only want to contact their parents’ if they did it again. I think that getting the bejeezus scared out of them was enough to clip their wings a bit. More importantly, I think that the fact that their behavior was policed by someone in their own community is invaluable. No doubt children are always testing the limits of acceptable behavior. I can’t help but believe that they also crave the security that comes from having those boundaries reaffirmed. In a society that is unable to have its own security apparatus and is generally held hostage by the Israeli military, it is important for children to see that community networks are functioning and benevolent. Community policing demonstrates that society has not collapsed and gives these children a much needed sense of security. Authority is still evident...adults are still in control...children can still be children.
After the weekend in Tel Aviv, I felt refreshed. But the walk down the hill toward school reminded me of what lay in store in a few more hours. Although, I had tried a number of rationalizations, I hadn’t really gotten past the feeling of powerlessness. By internalizing my feelings, I was only heightening my anxiety. By break time, my imagination had gotten the best of me. I was sharing the story with my classmates when I just burst into tears. All of them insisted that I tell the teacher what happened, but the idea of “telling the teacher” that boys were picking on me was more than I could bear. With a running nose and quivering chin I whined: “But I’m a grown-up!” So having no poker face, my teacher zeroed in on me two seconds after class started again. Not one more word was going to be taught until I ‘fessed up. After explaining how these kids had been becoming more and more aggressive over the previous three weeks, my Arabic teacher said “not to worry”. This was going to be resolved within the community.
Later on that afternoon, my teacher called my cell. He asked if the boys ever came after me in the morning. I explained that it was only a problem in the afternoon; they are presumably in school in the morning. He said not to worry; he’s hot on their trail. My teacher was out speaking with men in the neighborhood, and there were some possible leads. Later I found out that the hospital guards I greet every morning had planned to follow me to school from a distance. If the kids came after me, they wanted to be there to nab them. When they heard that it only occurred in the afternoon, they agreed to be on the look out for packs of boys from the neighboring school.
I was really touched by this concern. They felt responsible for my well being, but they also were furious that teenagers were destroying the reputation of their neighborhood. Many of the adults are aware that the foreigners in East Jerusalem work with Palestinian focused NGOs and IGOs. There is unfortunately a frustration that plagues this new generation, and they project their resentment on all non-Arabs. The logic goes like this: “the UN and NGOs have been here throughout the entire occupation, and no solution to the problem has been found. So, maybe they are part of the problem too.” At times I can’t really blame them for feeling that way. Why should they feel like any one else in the world cares? UN or no UN, there is still a big fat blimp floating over East Jerusalem every Friday to film each and every movement. The entrance points to Wadi Joz are still going to be blocked off by “flying checkpoints” at random intervals. Crazy ass settlers are still going to pop up overnight and take over property. It’s not a fair association but it would be wrong, as an international trying to help the community, not to empathize with their frustrations.
On Tuesday, my teacher and I went on our first stake out. We hypothesized the possible routes the boys could take to end up on the main road. After a while it was apparent that no one was coming, so he took me home. We pulled over to talk to one of the hospital guards who said he thought the boys were part of the group that usually skips school. Groups of boys slip out of class and come up the hospital gift shop to buy sweets. Then they hang out in the park until 12:30pm - 1pm (the time school lets out). My teacher said not to give up; we’ll hunt them again tomorrow. At least now we know that we can contact the school headmaster as an additional resource. Things were starting to look up, and I was beginning to feel less alienated and powerless. Even better, I felt like my faith in people was being restored. It is so easy to permit personal experiences to shadow perceptions of a society. All it takes is the slightest act of kindness to remind you that the enemies are not, in fact, at the gates.
On Wednesday, we resumed our position on the corner. Again, the boys proved not to be the truant little turds that we had hoped they’d be. Instead, we drove over to the cafe to re-strategize. My teacher said that we would continue to stakeout the corner and he would also continue to ask around the neighborhood for leads. As he gave me a lift back home, most of the anxiety that had plagued me on Monday had now dissipated...that is, until I saw the boys. As we were driving up the hill we slowed down to get a look at the three teenagers walking down. My teacher was absolutely shocked when the boys recognized me and waved lasciviously. We sped up the hill and made a u-turn to head back down. The highway was split on two levels so we had to make another u-turn to head back up the hill to where we first saw the boys. As my teacher had suspected, they had jumped the guard rail and were walking down a dirt path into the wadi. I had figured we’d give up at that point, but my teacher would have none of it. I think seeing their hubris first hand inspired him.
We drove through the winding neighborhood roads and immediately came upon the three teenagers. I jumped out of the car as they approached and said “hello boys”. My surprisingly spry teacher circled around and pounced. Before they knew what hit them, he started barking “Who is your father?” The kids were so scared they didn’t have a chance to lie. Knowing all of their fathers, he began his lecture. The kids at once began to deny ever having seen me before. The tubby one had the nerve to cluck his tongue at me, as if I was the one who should have been ashamed for lying. Later another chubby kid approached and I had to stop for a second and wonder if Tubby #1 wasn’t in fact telling the truth. After staring him down for a few seconds, I saw him buckle and all doubt was erased. The skinny pervy aggressor was not so quick to give up the fight. He asked “When? When did I ever talk to her?” I saw my opportunity and I cracked open my very own can of whoop ass. In my best “child-you-better-wipe-that-smirk-off-your face” voice I yelled in Arabic “Every day! Right there” while pointing up to the road. That is when they collectively crapped their pants.
Now that the boys knew (or thought) that I understood Arabic, it was time for them to bust out their best Gregory Hines...and so the tap dancing began. My teacher pointed to the kid in the middle and asked “Is he the really bad one?” The middle one was the least guilty of the three. He had always hung back—just giggling at the antics of the other two. I looked at this kid with his twisted buck teeth and skittish wide eyes and felt so bad for the wee honey. I said “no,” pointing to the skinny one. “...he’s the one who tried to grab my crotch.” My teacher turned on him. He said sternly that I had originally wanted to go to the police, but I realized that they were probably from good families. I would never want to involve the Israelis in a community matter, so instead I asked my teacher to intervene on my behalf. He told them that I was a kind woman and that if they were lucky, I might bestow a smile on them to show that all was forgiven. All three promised never to even glance at me. The pervy one promptly said in English “I sorry”. The chubby one followed suit by putting his hand to his heart and saying “Thank you.” Sweet little Bucky just nodded his terrified little bobblehead. Of the three, Bucky needed a hug...and fewer loser friends. I did my best to maintain a classic mommy-esque stink eye, but I really wanted to let them off the hook. What’s done is done. It’s just amazing how these kids went from belligerent hooligans to the vulnerable little boys that they really are.
By now, their parents have probably heard that something had happened. People came out of the neighboring shops to see what was going on, and a few cars had driven past. I told my teacher that I would only want to contact their parents’ if they did it again. I think that getting the bejeezus scared out of them was enough to clip their wings a bit. More importantly, I think that the fact that their behavior was policed by someone in their own community is invaluable. No doubt children are always testing the limits of acceptable behavior. I can’t help but believe that they also crave the security that comes from having those boundaries reaffirmed. In a society that is unable to have its own security apparatus and is generally held hostage by the Israeli military, it is important for children to see that community networks are functioning and benevolent. Community policing demonstrates that society has not collapsed and gives these children a much needed sense of security. Authority is still evident...adults are still in control...children can still be children.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
So Long Stinktown...
I've decided that the trick to keeping my sanity here is to make every effort to get away from Jerusalem on a regular basis. Last weekend, I took a day trip to Tel Aviv to dip my toes in the Mediterranean. This weekend, I went on a day long trek out to Wadi Kelt. By the end of the day, I was dusty and sore but I felt completely at ease. Below are some pics from the day.
First up is the obligatory camel picture. This one is dedicated to my brother-in-law. Here's your damn camel already...
I wish I could have captured how spectacular the view actually was. I suppose I could have recorded a video clip, but that would have required two things: 1) an actual understanding of how to operate my camera, and 2) the dexterity necessary to be able to look around me without sliding down the angled, narrow gravel trail to my death. Alright, that was an exaggeration. But I was hiking on 4 hours of sleep and with a minor hangover, so I didn't want to take any chances.
A quarter of the way we came upon a spring. We considered sloshing along upstream a bit, but decided to save that for another day.
The main destination was St. George's Monastery. They have a beautiful collection of icons and a preserved body of a monk that was found in a cave. I thought about taking a picture of the body and then I was like "Ew...what's the matter with you?" I was also contemplating on taking a picture of the pit toilet...I think that I had gotten too much sun.
And obligatory picture of a goat herder...
By the end of the day, the winds had really picked up. The bus was meeting us at the top of a ridiculously steep hill, so we all took lots of pictures of the view as we were leaving. I know that I welcomed any reason for a break while we were walking...
First up is the obligatory camel picture. This one is dedicated to my brother-in-law. Here's your damn camel already...
I wish I could have captured how spectacular the view actually was. I suppose I could have recorded a video clip, but that would have required two things: 1) an actual understanding of how to operate my camera, and 2) the dexterity necessary to be able to look around me without sliding down the angled, narrow gravel trail to my death. Alright, that was an exaggeration. But I was hiking on 4 hours of sleep and with a minor hangover, so I didn't want to take any chances.
A quarter of the way we came upon a spring. We considered sloshing along upstream a bit, but decided to save that for another day.
The main destination was St. George's Monastery. They have a beautiful collection of icons and a preserved body of a monk that was found in a cave. I thought about taking a picture of the body and then I was like "Ew...what's the matter with you?" I was also contemplating on taking a picture of the pit toilet...I think that I had gotten too much sun.
And obligatory picture of a goat herder...
By the end of the day, the winds had really picked up. The bus was meeting us at the top of a ridiculously steep hill, so we all took lots of pictures of the view as we were leaving. I know that I welcomed any reason for a break while we were walking...
I think next weekend I'm going to have to venture out again. It's such a great way of recharging and for gaining a little perspective.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
How Do You Say "Goddess Among Horny Boys" in Arabic?
So, with the fresh memory of a van full of avenge-lust men driving off after a smack-talking Israeli woman, I felt a little uncomfortable walking to and from school on Tuesday. This angst was further exacerbated after being told that my shoes look like “settler shoes” and my pants look like standard Israeli army issue. Great. On my return trip home, I found that perhaps my discomfort wasn’t completely unfounded. My usual route is a 25 minute walk along a busy two lane highway. As I was walking back to the house, a white van jumped the curb and drove up halfway onto the sidewalk a few yards in front of me. There are parallel parking spaces further up the road, so this was a peculiar place for the van to pull off the road. As I watched this new development unfold, I just wondered if there wasn’t a big fat bullseye painted on me.
In order to continue on my way, I needed to squeeze past the sliding passenger door of the van. My heart started to race as I approached. The windows were dark so it was difficult to assess how many people were in the van, but I was able to make out the outlines of at least three heads. Then, I tried to see if anything was reflected in the side-view mirror. If someone was going to jump out they would probably be watching me as I approached. I slowed my gait and reached into my bag to pull out the scissors that I use to cut up flashcards. If I was going to be grabbed, you better believe that someone was going to get stabbed in the neck for their troubles.
I walked flush along the wall as I approached the van. Slowly the passenger window started to roll down. I tightened my grip on the scissors and quickly scooted past the sliding door. Just then the guy in the passenger seat tried to say something. I’m not sure why, but my adrenaline plummeted. I just stopped next to the passenger door and asked in English: “Uh...What?” Again the passenger tried to say something, but instead of a making a sound, his mouth just moved. Now I peered into the van. There were three guys and it appeared that none of them could speak. One was laying on the backseat, bent over laughing. I just stood there, asking again in English “What?” and no doubt freaking them out. These characters were so HIGH they could barely open their eyes, let alone speak. I briefly flirted with the idea of doing my best psychedelic clown impersonation, but I decided to let the party people be. Poor little lambs. I give them credit for at least being able to get the van up on the sidewalk before they succumbed to their bong hit TKO. Keep truckin’ little dancin’ bears...keep truckin’.
It turns out that men in their twenties are not the ones I need to be concerned about. Their little brothers are far more threatening. There is something fundamentally wrong with a society when teenage boys grab at a foreigner’s crotch for kicks. You can’t blame the Occupation for this. The Israelis aren’t the reason that teenage boys are sexually repressed. This is simply about lack of respect for women. Nor can you pull the culture card by claiming that Western women are immodest and therefore are more titillating than a covered Muslim woman. That argument is nothing but bullshit. Jerusalem has attracted tourists and pilgrims from other lands from time immemorial. There is nothing particularly erotic about a tall dark-haired woman in loose fitting corduroys. I should know. I’ve worn these corduroys for years. Never before have I set the world off its axis by wearing these hippy dippy togs.
What this place needs is some sexual communication counseling STAT. The boys that are off running around in the streets have no means of discussing or expressing their sexual curiosity. Do they ever sit down with their fathers and discuss their urges and feelings. Or their mothers for that matter? Is it just through James Bond films and internet porn that they learn about sex? I am by no means Jenna Jameson, so I’m going to suggest that these kids are making quite an associational leap from porn star to me. Nevertheless, it was enough of a connection for them to want to grab at my crotch as I jumped into the road to avoid their advance.
What really sucks is that I have to walk past them everyday, and I doubt that they’ve gotten it all out of their system. When they came at me, I barked out a stern “Ayeb! Shu Hadda?” followed by a badass “Fuck Off!” followed again by a well poised middle finger as I called them “Little Assholes”. To round off the whole exchange, I made an attempt to ask “Don’t you have a mother?” which I believe I translated as: “Have you...I don’t have my mother with me!?” Ahhhh, touché! That’ll teach ‘em! I’ll have to practice a few solid zingers, and unleash them next time in consort with a sharp kick to the balls or box to the ears. Then it won’t matter if I mess up the translation. The problem is I’m not always good with thinking on my feet in Arabic. And when I say “I’m not always good”, I mean “not good at all”. Kind of like how when I was looking for the rest room at school and I thought I had asked the cleaning woman if the downstairs bathroom was OK to use. (it had previously been out of order) In actuality I had asked her “Is the weather good?” She just nodded, “Yes...yes...” As it turned out the downstairs bathroom was OK and the weather was good. Win-win. In any case, I think I might have to try walking on the other side of the highway until I learn to be more formidable than a pack of horny thirteen year old boys.
In order to continue on my way, I needed to squeeze past the sliding passenger door of the van. My heart started to race as I approached. The windows were dark so it was difficult to assess how many people were in the van, but I was able to make out the outlines of at least three heads. Then, I tried to see if anything was reflected in the side-view mirror. If someone was going to jump out they would probably be watching me as I approached. I slowed my gait and reached into my bag to pull out the scissors that I use to cut up flashcards. If I was going to be grabbed, you better believe that someone was going to get stabbed in the neck for their troubles.
I walked flush along the wall as I approached the van. Slowly the passenger window started to roll down. I tightened my grip on the scissors and quickly scooted past the sliding door. Just then the guy in the passenger seat tried to say something. I’m not sure why, but my adrenaline plummeted. I just stopped next to the passenger door and asked in English: “Uh...What?” Again the passenger tried to say something, but instead of a making a sound, his mouth just moved. Now I peered into the van. There were three guys and it appeared that none of them could speak. One was laying on the backseat, bent over laughing. I just stood there, asking again in English “What?” and no doubt freaking them out. These characters were so HIGH they could barely open their eyes, let alone speak. I briefly flirted with the idea of doing my best psychedelic clown impersonation, but I decided to let the party people be. Poor little lambs. I give them credit for at least being able to get the van up on the sidewalk before they succumbed to their bong hit TKO. Keep truckin’ little dancin’ bears...keep truckin’.
It turns out that men in their twenties are not the ones I need to be concerned about. Their little brothers are far more threatening. There is something fundamentally wrong with a society when teenage boys grab at a foreigner’s crotch for kicks. You can’t blame the Occupation for this. The Israelis aren’t the reason that teenage boys are sexually repressed. This is simply about lack of respect for women. Nor can you pull the culture card by claiming that Western women are immodest and therefore are more titillating than a covered Muslim woman. That argument is nothing but bullshit. Jerusalem has attracted tourists and pilgrims from other lands from time immemorial. There is nothing particularly erotic about a tall dark-haired woman in loose fitting corduroys. I should know. I’ve worn these corduroys for years. Never before have I set the world off its axis by wearing these hippy dippy togs.
What this place needs is some sexual communication counseling STAT. The boys that are off running around in the streets have no means of discussing or expressing their sexual curiosity. Do they ever sit down with their fathers and discuss their urges and feelings. Or their mothers for that matter? Is it just through James Bond films and internet porn that they learn about sex? I am by no means Jenna Jameson, so I’m going to suggest that these kids are making quite an associational leap from porn star to me. Nevertheless, it was enough of a connection for them to want to grab at my crotch as I jumped into the road to avoid their advance.
What really sucks is that I have to walk past them everyday, and I doubt that they’ve gotten it all out of their system. When they came at me, I barked out a stern “Ayeb! Shu Hadda?” followed by a badass “Fuck Off!” followed again by a well poised middle finger as I called them “Little Assholes”. To round off the whole exchange, I made an attempt to ask “Don’t you have a mother?” which I believe I translated as: “Have you...I don’t have my mother with me!?” Ahhhh, touché! That’ll teach ‘em! I’ll have to practice a few solid zingers, and unleash them next time in consort with a sharp kick to the balls or box to the ears. Then it won’t matter if I mess up the translation. The problem is I’m not always good with thinking on my feet in Arabic. And when I say “I’m not always good”, I mean “not good at all”. Kind of like how when I was looking for the rest room at school and I thought I had asked the cleaning woman if the downstairs bathroom was OK to use. (it had previously been out of order) In actuality I had asked her “Is the weather good?” She just nodded, “Yes...yes...” As it turned out the downstairs bathroom was OK and the weather was good. Win-win. In any case, I think I might have to try walking on the other side of the highway until I learn to be more formidable than a pack of horny thirteen year old boys.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Dr. Spock's Baby and Childcare: Military Edition
Doesn't anyone in the Israeli military have a kid? Maybe a niece or nephew who they had to babysit once. I ask this simply because the soldiers seem to buckle to the slightest provocation from Palestinian children. It's as if they have never had any experience with child psychology or can even recall the days when they themselves were impetuous little rapscallions. This might be a CRAZY suggestion, so take it as you will...and keep in mind that I'm not a parent either. I am by NO means an authority... but maybe...just maybe...there is a better way to deal with children who are acting up aside from shooting rubber bullets and lobbing tear gas canisters at them. I'm just sayin'...maybe?
Then again, what do I know? I come from a culture that tends to indulge our youth and spoil them with indulgences like a good education, racial and social equality, minimal threat of home invasion and the absence of collective punishment. I'm only suggesting that perhaps...just perhaps...that if they didn't have a responsive audience they might be less inclined to cause a raucous? Perhaps, if there are no Israeli soldiers driving up and down the street then there is no real incentive to throw stones? If a trashcan gets set on fire, perhaps the appropriate response is to put it out with a fire extinguisher? Or maybe just let it burn out as the pitiful little protest it is. After all, these events are not occurring in West Jerusalem in front of skittish tourists from Calgary. They are happening in the Arab neighborhoods. Wee little Mohammad's dad will eventually come out and say, "Son, you're stinking up the laundry your mom just hung on the line whenever you burn that rubbish. Please knock it off." It's just a guess. These are good people here, let them reign their own children in. I doubt they'll use firearms and crowd control devices to do it.
A resistance movement usually requires grievance, catalyst, and obstructive force. Take away any one of those ingredients and you've got nothing to worry about. I am suggesting that perhaps the patrols of Israeli soldiers serve any one of those three functions. Let's get Zen about it: If a group of children protest the Israeli occupation by throwing rocks and there are no soldiers around to see it, is it an intifada? These are just some thoughts that have popped into my head lately. Although, I shouldn't take credit for original thinking; I'm just being moderately observant. I seem to recall similar interactions with children somewhere before. Now where was it...kids were throwing stones... and the military responded with a disproportionate amount of force. Huh. Let's see... if I recall correctly, the whole world gasped in horror when they saw the images. Now where the heck was that? Oh wait...wait just one cotton pickin' minute! Wasn't it here..during the first intifada...and the second one, too....I wonder if there were any lessons we could have taken from those events. Naw, that's crazy. I doubt it.
So, I can already hear people rumbling about lack of respect for authority...if these kids have nothing to hide then they shouldn't fear the police...there is something wrong with a society that can't control their youth...blah, blah, blah. Let me just say to those people that perhaps lack of authority among pre-teens and teens isn't necessarily exclusive to the Palestinian population. I know for a fact that in highschool I was not the only person who ever hopped a fence when the cops busted the underage kegger in which I was in attendence. Nor was I the only teen who ever used the five finger discount at the local mall. Don't even get me started about spray paint, edible fungus, Spring Break and summers at the Shore. All in all, I was tame compared to others in my crowd. So, if we could all be so rebellious in a society that was relatively free of grievance, why can't kids who live under daily military occupation act out without being labeled "terrorists". At least they are rebellious about something that matters. There is something far more noble about a teen who rebels through political protest than a kid who rebels by puking up Jungle Juice on their neighbor's labrador retriever.
So, the pictures below are from my 'hood. This first one shows Israeli jeeps blocking the intersection as the soldiers run up the street to the school where kids are acting up. School lets out at 1pm, and the soldiers have been doing a couple of laps up and down the street in anticipation of recess.
The pattern goes like this: shots are fired, people scream, "sound bombs" are detonated and tear gas canisters are hurled...then people continue on their way. Now, before you ask "Well, what did the children do to provoke the soldiers?" I ask you to go back and re-read the pattern outlined above, and then take a long hard look at your own children/cousins/nieces and nephews/kids running around your table at Starbucks/an Anne Geddes poster...and you'll find that the only logical answer to that question is "like it matters".
...and repeat. Did I mention it's a school for children?...human children?...you know, gifts from God?
I watched all of this from our deck. The road was chaotic as cars tried to make u-turns to avoid the roadblock. As an Israeli woman drove past a bunch of Palestinian teenage boys, she started to curse at them. One of the boys stood in the street yelling vulgarities after her. Just then, a van full of guys in their late teens and early twenties pulled up and they all drove off in hot pursuit. I was washed over by a wave of nausea at that moment. I could only imagine what they would do to her if they caught up with her car. It is horrifying enough to see military violence, but there is something absolutely chilling when civilians hunt one another down. As much as I feared for this woman's safety, I thought: "How do you drive through a neighborhood that is already rife with tension and start talking smack?" I hoped that they wouldn't be able to find her, but I couldn't stop thinking about the hubris on her part. A short time later the van returned and I can only hope that she lost them.
Then again, what do I know? I come from a culture that tends to indulge our youth and spoil them with indulgences like a good education, racial and social equality, minimal threat of home invasion and the absence of collective punishment. I'm only suggesting that perhaps...just perhaps...that if they didn't have a responsive audience they might be less inclined to cause a raucous? Perhaps, if there are no Israeli soldiers driving up and down the street then there is no real incentive to throw stones? If a trashcan gets set on fire, perhaps the appropriate response is to put it out with a fire extinguisher? Or maybe just let it burn out as the pitiful little protest it is. After all, these events are not occurring in West Jerusalem in front of skittish tourists from Calgary. They are happening in the Arab neighborhoods. Wee little Mohammad's dad will eventually come out and say, "Son, you're stinking up the laundry your mom just hung on the line whenever you burn that rubbish. Please knock it off." It's just a guess. These are good people here, let them reign their own children in. I doubt they'll use firearms and crowd control devices to do it.
A resistance movement usually requires grievance, catalyst, and obstructive force. Take away any one of those ingredients and you've got nothing to worry about. I am suggesting that perhaps the patrols of Israeli soldiers serve any one of those three functions. Let's get Zen about it: If a group of children protest the Israeli occupation by throwing rocks and there are no soldiers around to see it, is it an intifada? These are just some thoughts that have popped into my head lately. Although, I shouldn't take credit for original thinking; I'm just being moderately observant. I seem to recall similar interactions with children somewhere before. Now where was it...kids were throwing stones... and the military responded with a disproportionate amount of force. Huh. Let's see... if I recall correctly, the whole world gasped in horror when they saw the images. Now where the heck was that? Oh wait...wait just one cotton pickin' minute! Wasn't it here..during the first intifada...and the second one, too....I wonder if there were any lessons we could have taken from those events. Naw, that's crazy. I doubt it.
So, I can already hear people rumbling about lack of respect for authority...if these kids have nothing to hide then they shouldn't fear the police...there is something wrong with a society that can't control their youth...blah, blah, blah. Let me just say to those people that perhaps lack of authority among pre-teens and teens isn't necessarily exclusive to the Palestinian population. I know for a fact that in highschool I was not the only person who ever hopped a fence when the cops busted the underage kegger in which I was in attendence. Nor was I the only teen who ever used the five finger discount at the local mall. Don't even get me started about spray paint, edible fungus, Spring Break and summers at the Shore. All in all, I was tame compared to others in my crowd. So, if we could all be so rebellious in a society that was relatively free of grievance, why can't kids who live under daily military occupation act out without being labeled "terrorists". At least they are rebellious about something that matters. There is something far more noble about a teen who rebels through political protest than a kid who rebels by puking up Jungle Juice on their neighbor's labrador retriever.
So, the pictures below are from my 'hood. This first one shows Israeli jeeps blocking the intersection as the soldiers run up the street to the school where kids are acting up. School lets out at 1pm, and the soldiers have been doing a couple of laps up and down the street in anticipation of recess.
The pattern goes like this: shots are fired, people scream, "sound bombs" are detonated and tear gas canisters are hurled...then people continue on their way. Now, before you ask "Well, what did the children do to provoke the soldiers?" I ask you to go back and re-read the pattern outlined above, and then take a long hard look at your own children/cousins/nieces and nephews/kids running around your table at Starbucks/an Anne Geddes poster...and you'll find that the only logical answer to that question is "like it matters".
...and repeat. Did I mention it's a school for children?...human children?...you know, gifts from God?
I watched all of this from our deck. The road was chaotic as cars tried to make u-turns to avoid the roadblock. As an Israeli woman drove past a bunch of Palestinian teenage boys, she started to curse at them. One of the boys stood in the street yelling vulgarities after her. Just then, a van full of guys in their late teens and early twenties pulled up and they all drove off in hot pursuit. I was washed over by a wave of nausea at that moment. I could only imagine what they would do to her if they caught up with her car. It is horrifying enough to see military violence, but there is something absolutely chilling when civilians hunt one another down. As much as I feared for this woman's safety, I thought: "How do you drive through a neighborhood that is already rife with tension and start talking smack?" I hoped that they wouldn't be able to find her, but I couldn't stop thinking about the hubris on her part. A short time later the van returned and I can only hope that she lost them.
Friday, February 9, 2007
No One Should Be Surprised
I was watching Al-Jazeera on January 30th; the afternoon that a suicide bomber struck in Eilat. Eilat is a very mellow resort community on the southernmost point of Israel. I have some very happy memories from that place. Eleven years ago, this small resort community was my haven after I had escaped from Kibbutz Grofit; a throw back hippy swinging commune in which I was forced to sift through truckloads of onions eight hours a day. While on Grofit, I became incredibly ill and the shrew of a nurse in the kibbutz clinic refused to excuse me from my onion sorting duties. So, being free labor with free will, I told them how they should sort their onions and left. The interesting thing about onions is that the offensive stink that emanates from someone who has just chomped down this malodorous bulb can be achieved much quicker, and with longer lingering effects, if you just inhale the juices that come splattering out of the onions as they tumble out of the dump truck and bounce through an industrial sorting contraption. On the bus to Eilat, people actually moved away from me because I was giving off such a funky scent. The point is that that experience stunk.
I don’t know how the news was received elsewhere in the world, but when the bomber hit Eilat, everyone here was baffled. It seemed like Eilat was exempt from this sort of violence and there were a lot of theories as to what had actually happened. The scraps of information that were tossed out immediately after the attack did not fit neatly into the modus operandi of any of the groups. The attacker was at one point reportedly from Jordan. Then it was reported that he was actually from Gaza but had crossed over from either Jordan or Egypt. Everyone was hypothesizing with whom this character was affiliated. All the groups initially claimed responsibility, but some had a hunch that this attacker originated from an off-shoot group trying to make the scene. Maybe Eilat was their Deb Ball. The attacker’s target also didn’t make much sense. There was no bombast. Most of us wondered what the point was. One Palestinian man said that some people think that the Israelis themselves were behind the attack. It was that much of a deviation from the strategic norm. Now it is much clearer that the target was selected out of desperation. The actual destination was thought to have been Haifa. Getting there was complicated by the fact that Mohammed Saksak apparently had a crap poker face. The Israeli who gave him a lift sensed that something was seriously wrong and Saksak soon realized that the jig was up. He must have thought any target was better than none. When all was said and done, everyone was left scratching their heads.
The events of the past week are far more unsettling. I was warned to avoid the Old City a few days ago and up until now I have not been in any rush to head down there. The warnings are for good reason, I think. Tensions have been running high with the new construction near the Western Wall and I don’t really get much love even when the Israelis aren’t actively antagonizing the Palestinian population. The other day I was in Arabic class and one of my classmates received a phone call warning her of possible riots. Later another classmate arrived, and when I gave her the warning, she confided that she had already been down to Damascus Gate. She said that as she approached the Old City, there were swarms of Israeli military and groups of tense Palestinians. She was not permitted to enter the Old City, and she could see through the gate that the cobbled streets were empty. So, she asked one of the soldiers to explain what was going on. He confirmed that there were rumors of potential violence. Well, duh. The presence of armed Israelis blocking access to the Old City and the Al-Aqsa Mosque doesn’t really engender tickle fights and Care Bear hugs.
Unfortunately, NO ONE knows what the actual situation is. I had dinner with a group of Israelis two nights ago who doubt both the Israeli and the Palestinian official positions. I have been talking with Palestinians who echoed the same sentiment and everyone is expressing frustration. It doesn’t help that every news report cites a different argument. Is Israel doing clandestine digging in an attempt to unearth more artifacts from the first Temple in order to increase the “Jewishness” of the area? Maybe. Is Israel really trying to reinforce the bridge leading up to the Temple Mount/ Haram el-Sharif? Probably. Are they deliberately trying to provoke a third intifada in order to engender global condemnation of the new Palestinian unity government? Uh...that seems like a LOT of work and a bit of a gamble. I don’t know if I buy that. The most ludicrous of the accusations is that the construction is an attempt to dig a tunnel under the Al-Asqa Mosque so that the compound will collapse. If that were the case, the Israelis would have already called up all of the reservists and would be at battle ready for the inevitable arrival of the Four Horsemen. Such an action would be national suicide. Maybe someday, if the moderate majority of Israel decides that perhaps the Diaspora is preferable to illogical communal politics, and all the crazy ass settlers have assumed cabinet positions, perhaps then Israel will be motivated to destroy Al-Aqsa. Until that day, I think that theory should be tabled.
I had suggested from the beginning that to avert any potential violence, the Israeli authorities should have invited the Waqf to send an observer. All parties were allegedly notified weeks ago that construction would begin, but I haven’t heard of any real attempts to find a compromise or to establish a proactive approach to a highly contentious issue on either side. I just read this morning that someone proposed that cameras be installed and then the work can be broadcast live over the internet. Olmert has allegedly approved that plan so I’ll try to find a link. Anything that adds transparency would be the right step toward diffusing the tension. When the construction began, the archaeological representative announced on the news that they have nothing to hide and anyone can come see for themselves. I suppose that statement would have a little more validity if anyone were actually allowed to enter the area. As I was walking back from West Jerusalem, I saw soldiers and police checking IDs and turning Arabs away from entering the Old City. I wonder if any of them were interested in observing the excavation. I’m going to bet that the answer to that question is yes.
So, now violence is here. As I was walking up to the entrance of the compound, I saw a large fire in the middle of the road just a few yards beyond our neighborhood shops. The police had blocked off the road and by the time I had run back to my room to get my camera, the fire was out. I’ve attached a picture of what is normally a beautiful sunset over the Old City.
I don’t know how the news was received elsewhere in the world, but when the bomber hit Eilat, everyone here was baffled. It seemed like Eilat was exempt from this sort of violence and there were a lot of theories as to what had actually happened. The scraps of information that were tossed out immediately after the attack did not fit neatly into the modus operandi of any of the groups. The attacker was at one point reportedly from Jordan. Then it was reported that he was actually from Gaza but had crossed over from either Jordan or Egypt. Everyone was hypothesizing with whom this character was affiliated. All the groups initially claimed responsibility, but some had a hunch that this attacker originated from an off-shoot group trying to make the scene. Maybe Eilat was their Deb Ball. The attacker’s target also didn’t make much sense. There was no bombast. Most of us wondered what the point was. One Palestinian man said that some people think that the Israelis themselves were behind the attack. It was that much of a deviation from the strategic norm. Now it is much clearer that the target was selected out of desperation. The actual destination was thought to have been Haifa. Getting there was complicated by the fact that Mohammed Saksak apparently had a crap poker face. The Israeli who gave him a lift sensed that something was seriously wrong and Saksak soon realized that the jig was up. He must have thought any target was better than none. When all was said and done, everyone was left scratching their heads.
The events of the past week are far more unsettling. I was warned to avoid the Old City a few days ago and up until now I have not been in any rush to head down there. The warnings are for good reason, I think. Tensions have been running high with the new construction near the Western Wall and I don’t really get much love even when the Israelis aren’t actively antagonizing the Palestinian population. The other day I was in Arabic class and one of my classmates received a phone call warning her of possible riots. Later another classmate arrived, and when I gave her the warning, she confided that she had already been down to Damascus Gate. She said that as she approached the Old City, there were swarms of Israeli military and groups of tense Palestinians. She was not permitted to enter the Old City, and she could see through the gate that the cobbled streets were empty. So, she asked one of the soldiers to explain what was going on. He confirmed that there were rumors of potential violence. Well, duh. The presence of armed Israelis blocking access to the Old City and the Al-Aqsa Mosque doesn’t really engender tickle fights and Care Bear hugs.
Unfortunately, NO ONE knows what the actual situation is. I had dinner with a group of Israelis two nights ago who doubt both the Israeli and the Palestinian official positions. I have been talking with Palestinians who echoed the same sentiment and everyone is expressing frustration. It doesn’t help that every news report cites a different argument. Is Israel doing clandestine digging in an attempt to unearth more artifacts from the first Temple in order to increase the “Jewishness” of the area? Maybe. Is Israel really trying to reinforce the bridge leading up to the Temple Mount/ Haram el-Sharif? Probably. Are they deliberately trying to provoke a third intifada in order to engender global condemnation of the new Palestinian unity government? Uh...that seems like a LOT of work and a bit of a gamble. I don’t know if I buy that. The most ludicrous of the accusations is that the construction is an attempt to dig a tunnel under the Al-Asqa Mosque so that the compound will collapse. If that were the case, the Israelis would have already called up all of the reservists and would be at battle ready for the inevitable arrival of the Four Horsemen. Such an action would be national suicide. Maybe someday, if the moderate majority of Israel decides that perhaps the Diaspora is preferable to illogical communal politics, and all the crazy ass settlers have assumed cabinet positions, perhaps then Israel will be motivated to destroy Al-Aqsa. Until that day, I think that theory should be tabled.
I had suggested from the beginning that to avert any potential violence, the Israeli authorities should have invited the Waqf to send an observer. All parties were allegedly notified weeks ago that construction would begin, but I haven’t heard of any real attempts to find a compromise or to establish a proactive approach to a highly contentious issue on either side. I just read this morning that someone proposed that cameras be installed and then the work can be broadcast live over the internet. Olmert has allegedly approved that plan so I’ll try to find a link. Anything that adds transparency would be the right step toward diffusing the tension. When the construction began, the archaeological representative announced on the news that they have nothing to hide and anyone can come see for themselves. I suppose that statement would have a little more validity if anyone were actually allowed to enter the area. As I was walking back from West Jerusalem, I saw soldiers and police checking IDs and turning Arabs away from entering the Old City. I wonder if any of them were interested in observing the excavation. I’m going to bet that the answer to that question is yes.
So, now violence is here. As I was walking up to the entrance of the compound, I saw a large fire in the middle of the road just a few yards beyond our neighborhood shops. The police had blocked off the road and by the time I had run back to my room to get my camera, the fire was out. I’ve attached a picture of what is normally a beautiful sunset over the Old City.
It’s just a tad hazy from all the burning tires and tear gas canisters that have been lobbed continuously throughout the latter part of the afternoon. One of my housemates and I were discussing how our mouths and eyes were burning a little and I was feeling a little nauseous. It didn’t occur to us at first that maybe it was the tear gas that was getting to us. Duh. Every once in a while there is a rattle of gunfire, but I can’t see any actual fighting. Then again, I’m not going out looking for it. All of the roads seem to have temporary roadblocks, and when I went out to take some pictures I saw another one had been set up down the street. (The picture that I’ve attached shows a bus trying to turn around after it encountered another obstacle in our neighborhood.)
Although, I would love to go out and have a beer at the OHCHR Happy Hour tonight, I don’t want to have to don a flak jacket to do it. It will clash with my shoes and handbag. I think this will be a quiet Friday night for me.
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