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.