A Smart Girl's Guide to the Middle East

But I'm Innocent, I Swear!

2007-09-23T17:27:00.003+02:00

Although I have been here for more than eight months, there have been restrictions on my travel into the West Bank. It is only now, with only 2 ½ months to go, that I am venturing in to Ramallah regularly to volunteer with a women’s organization there. I feel like now I have a lot less to lose if I get busted and booted out of the country.

So, after all this time, I am now experiencing a ‘real’ checkpoint, Khalandiya. Up until now the others were just checkpoints with training wheels. The first time I went through Khalandiya, my stomach was in knots. The only thing that I can liken it to is how Hollywood portrays prison security. Clanging bars, inaudible PA systems, red/green lights, and people routinized to a system that only convicted criminals should experience.

I’m not all that sure if I understood the whole process, but this is what I worked out of the system: You queue up at several turnstiles. (Actually, that’s not true. You queue up for one or two turnstiles. All of the rest aren’t manned.) The turnstiles are not your average waist-high subway turnstiles. These contraptions are about 10 feet high and connected to a fence. There are soldiers behind glass who regulate when the turnstile will operate. So, if you are standing in line, the soldiers may close that turnstile and you quickly run to the next available queue. There were two queue stampedes while I was there, but I just stayed put seeing how I had no idea what was going on to begin with.

Once you get through the first turnstile, you put your belongings through an x-ray machine and you show your ID to the aforementioned soldiers behind the glass. This is where I mucked up. I didn’t see them there, so I got my bag and proceeded to the next turnstile. After realizing my mistake, I turned back to see that I was holding up the queue of starving people wanting to get home for iftar dinner (it is the holy month of Ramadan). I slapped my passport against the glass and queued up for the second turnstile. Then the bus back to Jerusalem was stopped again as we left the parking lot for another ID check.

The whole process is definitely disconcerting. You can help but feel like the next turnstile will lead to a head shaving and delousing station. The soldiers behind the window aren’t even old enough to drink in the U.S., and I shudder when I think of their conditioning. One of the key components of the security checkpoint system is to promote an atmosphere of vulnerability and uncertainty among the Palestinian population--the arbitrariness of checkpoint closures has been well-documented by international observers. I just can’t stop thinking of the Stanford Prison Experiment, and how these kids are given so much power over other human beings.

While I’ve been working on my paper, I came across a U.N. report that noted between September 2000 and December 2002, 19 women and 29 newborn infants died at military checkpoints. From 2002 to 2005, 52 pregnant women gave birth at military checkpoints. I couldn’t even imagine being in labor and having some 18 year-old kid tell me that I am not allowed to go to the hospital because I am a ‘security threat’.

It helps to understand the ID system designed to restrict movement of Palestinians within the West Bank and Gaza Strip. I don’t think that most people are even aware that these checkpoints are within the Palestinian territories—not just keeping Palestinians out of Israel. In the OPT, there are three types of IDs: West Bank, Jerusalem or Gaza. West Bankers require a permit in order to cross checkpoints along the Green Line and into Jerusalem. They also require an additional permit to travel from one Palestinian town to another or to enter the industrial zone where they work. Someone with a Jerusalem ID is permitted to travel in and out of Jerusalem and throughout most of the OPT, but this is generally in theory. People are fearful of losing their Jerusalem residency and they are just as vulnerable to harassment by border and civil police.

Could you imagine if you lived in this system? A permit to pick your kids up from school? A checkpoint between you and your next Grande-double shot-no whip-Frappachino? That would be one short assed occupation if an entire generation of U.S. soccer moms were restricted from their Saturday morning Pilates class and the end-of-season sale at Talbots. Oooh, was that snarky? Sorry--Feeling kind of irritable right now. And I’m not even fasting anymore.

One Million Voices to End the Conflict

2007-09-22T13:23:00.000+02:00

If this was view outside your window every morning, would you ever return to Palestine to continue writing a blog? Well, I did return from Norway, although not just to write this blog. I am trapped under a landslide of work, school, and obligations. So, while I am back, I'm not going to be the most consistent blogger...

...BUT, I thought this was a really important event, so I wanted to post this website. I hope everyone adds their voice and tries to attend one of the events for One Million Voices to End the Conflict. Inshallah, I will be at the Jericho event on October 18th. Please pass the information on to everyone you know!

I'll never have an eating disorder here...

2007-08-12T22:38:00.000+03:00

Let me apologize now for what is likely to be a post loaded with typos. The problem is that I am lying on my bed with my laptop balanced on my bulging belly making it difficult for me to tap the keys with any degree of accuracy. I have just come back from dinner at a friend’s house where her mother made a deeeee-licious meal. True to Palestinian hospitality, they stuffed me like a Koosa Mahshi. This, by the way, is exactly what we had for dinner.

I am a huge fan of Thai food. I love Mexican food. I consider Chinese a real treat. But if you want the best home cooked food on the planet, Palestine is the place to be. Koosa Mahshi is probably my favorite dish. The first time I had it was with a friend of a friend from Nablus. After one bite, I thought to myself that if I lived here permanently, I would need to invest in some elastic waist pants. Not exactly a Weight Watchers approved dish. Of course, that isn’t going to stop me from trying to make it myself.

Koosa Mahshi is stuffed zucchini. It is stuffed with rice, ground beef and what I can only guess is a little bit of heaven and then poached in the oven. Then it is simmered in a sauce made of dried goat yogurt. I know I tasted cardamom, but I’m not sure if it was in the stuffing or the sauce. My friend’s mother also made some amazing lamb and salad. The meal was topped off with a cup of sweet Arabic coffee which will no doubt have me staring at the ceiling well into the wee hours of the morning. Ah…it is all worth it though.

Eric, Here's Your Damn Post...

2007-08-06T12:56:00.000+03:00

Yes, I KNOW June 10th was my last post. My dear friend has sent me several emails with the last post in the email body. Alright, already! I fell down the rabbit hole, OK?

Actually, I have been in "Arabic Bootcamp" at Hebrew University. They offer an intensive Literary Arabic course and I figured I could continue being a human being while taking it. I figured wrong. It was truly the most brutal course of my academic career...and I'm the kind of gal who sets the bar pretty high to begin with. The course was 5 1/2 hours a day, 5 days a week, PLUS there was 5 hours of homework a night. Brutal. I'm still suffering from some post-traumatic stress from the experience so I will refrain from expressing any opinions about the program until my head is clearer.

I realize I have missed some really important events while I've been away. I have been scribbling notes on scraps of paper so I could get back to the house to write a post about events as they came up. Alas, I was a slave to this course. I'll try to do better in the future.

The People Who Should Be in the News

2007-06-10T16:16:00.000+03:00

Ok, I'm getting some saddle sores from ranting on top of my high horse in the last few posts.

Moving on... At Tantur this weekend, my friend was exhibiting pictures from her Palestinian children's photo project. Check out the link below to see Palestine through the eyes of children. It really is such a great organization and I really admire her dedication to non-violent resistance. http://www.contrastproject.org/

One last thing, I just saw a documentary about the Parent's Circle. This is a group of Palestinians and Israelis who have lost their children or family to violence and have realized that the only way for the conflict to end is for them to reach out to others who have lost loved ones. http://www.theparentscircle.org/about.asp

The movie is titled Encounter Point. If you can find a screening of it, please watch it. At the very least, watch the trailer below. It will change the way you see the conflict--or at least you'll be able to see Palestinians and Israelis the way I see them. Turn off the news and meet the real people in this conflict:

http://www.encounterpoint.com/trailer/quicktime7.php

See No Evil, Hear No Evil...even when it hits you like a 30 foot wall.

2007-06-10T14:28:00.000+03:00

This weekend I went to Tantur for part of the June 5th Initiative events. Above is a picture of the set-up. It seems pretty fitting that the Wall is snaking behind the stage. It kind of puts to bed the notion that this is just a "fence". It is so tragic that many Israelis aren't even aware of how the Wall is weaving through the West Bank--not along the Green Line. The intention is to encircle Jerusalem to create new boundaries. The consequence is that Palestinian families are finding themselves on the wrong side of the fence and being physically barricaded from their family and neighbors, their property on the other side, their jobs, their hospitals... Could you imagine if you woke up one morning and found that the end of your street, on which you've lived your entire life, was blocked off by soldiers and your new view was of a concrete slab. Holy crap, I've heard of bigger protests coming from neighborhood associations demanding the dismantlement of tacky lawn ornaments. This is a little more important than pink flamingos.

I think that the Israelis who came to the events at Tantur were very courageous and I admire their curiosity. One friend was asked quite a few questions. One asked if the Wall was really as big as the activists were saying it was. She just kind of blinked and pointed behind her. "It's right there." They were absolutely shocked that they hadn't seen it. I bet they were wondering "How did I miss that big, fucking Wall?

I'm always a little suspicious when an expat begins passionately talking about the Occupation and speaks critically of all Israeli citizens. As if the reaction to the occupation by the average Israeli on the street was so uncommon on the historical continuum of this violent, hateful world; people naturally avoid seeing things and addressing topics that make them uncomfortable. Wasn't the Holocaust indicative of that? How 'bout Rwanda? How 'bout Sudan RIGHT NOW? How many people regularly discuss the desperate poverty and crime within their own country? How many people really delve into the issues behind the endemic homelessness in cities around the world, especially the U.S.? How many people recognize that human trafficking and child pornography exists everywhere? How many people really take the time to get to know other people from different races, religions, and economic stratum? Let alone get involved to put an end to human suffering within their own borders? People don't ask the hard questions because usually they're not ready to hear the answers and make the tough choices necessary to act. Scratch that. Once you know the reality, acting is not a "choice", it is a moral obligation mandated by all religions. Don't like that reality? Become an atheist--I'm sorry if I offended any atheists.

Social ills exist everywhere in one form or another. I suppose this is part of the reason I can't be "pro" or "anti" anything. I think that we all need to address social justice issues in countries outside our own with a little more humility and a little less "us against them" arrogance. I don't mean that Palestinians and Israelis should do anything. I have no business telling people who have suffered from experiences that I hope to never know, what they "should" or "should not" do. When I say "we", I'm talking about the expat community that becomes voluntarily entrenched in the conflict. What this conflict needs is a group of people who can show their support while remaining vigilant watchdogs for opportunities that lead to peace. Sadly, I don't know too many expats courageous enough to build relationships in both East & West Jerusalem.

My Kind of War

2007-06-10T14:24:00.000+03:00

I hope these guys make it huge--so unbelievably talented. Check out more of their videos at http://www.baratsandbereta.com/

I'm Studying Sign Language

2007-06-10T12:12:00.001+03:00

I attended my first Women in Black demonstration this past Friday to stand in protest of 40 years of occupation. Many cars honked their horns and gave a thumbs up as they passed by, but I also learned quite a few new hand signs. The first few times that I saw one particular hand gesture, I interpreted it as being supportive and a sign of solidarity. I later found out it is far more offensive than the old school middle finger. This was probably one of the few times I was grateful that I didn't understand Hebrew. Oy! Do they kiss their mothers with those mouths?

When I was doing research on the Israeli Peace Camp, I was always fascinated by the group of women who have been standing in silent protest every week since the first Intifada. Out of all the peace groups, Women in Black is clearly the most moderate, yet they evoke the most contempt from the right-wing elements of society. Check out some very cool women's groups here: http://coalitionofwomen.org/home

What is it about a group of non-confrontational women--mostly mothers and grandmothers--that makes grown men scream obscenities and shake their fists in rage. Existing literature has led me to conclude that women’s groups that voice opposition to the Occupation are especially vulnerable to hostility--more so than all other groups in the Peace Camp. Women's activism is seen more as a betrayal because they deviate from expected gender roles. When people protest they are often labeled leftist or radicals. When a group of women stand in protest, especially middle aged women, their presence lends more credibility to the cause and their protest serves to shame a community. The reaction therefore is less political and more personal.

Ayala Emmett, one of the contributors to Our Sisters’ Promised Land: Women, Politics, and Israeli-Palestinian Coexistence, wrote that counter-demonstrators at the silent vigils in Israel used to hold signs that read: “The Women in Black are longing for Auschwitz”, “The Women in Black—A Knife in the Back of the Nation” and “We ‘recognize’ Black Widows. We recognize that they can kill, and we recognize that they are insects.” By evoking national symbols of vulnerability, the counter-protest signs implied that women in the Peace Camp are betraying the Jewish collective.

Last year, I did a news search for articles about the Peace Camp in Israeli media starting from 1988. I was horrified by the vilification of women's and bereavement groups that want dialogue. In 1990, the Jerusalem Post had an article about attacks on Women in Black. The Kach youth movement would distribute leaflets in Jerusalem listing the names, phone numbers and addresses of members of the Women in Black organization. As a result of this listing, the women had become targets of death threats and threats against the lives of their families. Other callers threatened to burn their houses down. All for standing in silence in a supposedly "free" society. (Margot Dudkevitch. “KACH NAMES WOMEN IN BLACK.” The Jerusalem Post. August 24, 1990, Friday. News. Accessed through Lexis Nexus Academic.) I've also read about cars that have tried to swipe at the women protesters and opposition groups who sprayed protesters with bug spray. Maybe there should be some community workshops on how to use constructive debate instead of vehicular manslaughter to prove our points.

In my research, I found that Israeli society is generally uncomfortable with being occupiers. The symbols of occupation are deliberately kept out of sight, so the average Israeli never actually crosses a checkpoint, sees the Wall or enters East Jerusalem, West Bank or the Gaza Strip. The "occupation" is more of an abstract concept. Yet, like the bogeyman in a child's closet, the specter of Palestinian injustice and its attendant rage is always lurking in their subconscious. When they see people who look just like their mothers standing in the light of day with signs that remind them that the Occupation is real and it is wrong, people don't know how to process their feelings constructively. Like a petulant child being punished for their bad behavior, they lash out at "mommy".

Man, this country could use some serious time on the psychiatrist's couch. Interestingly enough, the other day I was thinking "hmmm, so do I"...for moving to this cognitive rubik cube of a town in the first place.

"Those People"

2007-06-06T16:20:00.000+03:00

I often hear people make comments about Palestinians in blanket terms. Lots of "they all" or "those people" believe this or that. Sometimes the comment isn't even about Palestinians--it's a blanket comment about all Arabs...or all Muslims but they invoke the word "Palestinian" to give some kind of legitimacy to their comment. Don't even get me started about how these folks are throwing the semantics right into the Cuisinart...As if a Palestinian was the same as a Kuwaiti, and a Kuwaiti was interchangeable with a Tunisian; which of course makes a Tunisian the same as an Indonesian.

The fact is one can be an Arab without being Muslim. One can be a Muslim without being an Arab. One can be a Palestinian without wanting to strap a bomb belt on and march into a Sbaro. But I don't think that one can be a Palestinian and not feel the pain of Occupation. I'm not even Palestinian and my heart breaks a little more each day with the things that I see.

Below is a poem that I really liked. It's a conversation between two types of people who share the same pain.

You & I
By Mahmood Jamal

You want to speak of War
I want to speak of Peace

You say Punish
I say Forgive

You speak of God’s Wrath
I speak of His Mercy

Your Qur’an is a Weapon
My Qur’an is a Gift

You speak of the Muslim Brotherhood
I speak of the Brotherhood of Man

You like to Warn others
I like to Welcome them

You like to speak of Hell
I like to speak of Heaven

You talk of Lamentation
I talk of Celebration

You worship the Law
I worship the Divine

You want Silence
I want Music

You want Death
I want Life

You speak of Power
I speak of Love

You search out Evil
I warm to the Good

You dream of the Sword
I sing of the rose Petal

You say the world is a Desert
I say the world is a Garden

You prefer the Plain
I prefer the Adorned

You want to Destroy
I want to Build

You want to go Back
I want to move Forward

You are busy Denying
I am busy Affirming

Yet there might be one thing
On which we see eye to eye

You want Justice
So do I

You can choose how to view the world: with optimism and faith or pessimism and doubt.

Should We Boycott Thinking? Seriously, I Don't Know...

2007-06-03T17:13:00.000+03:00

This morning I received an email from an Israeli acquaintance asking me to sign a petition against the UCU's recent motion to boycott Israel. British University and College Union (UCU) had passed a motion on Wednesday to promote a boycott on Israel's academics. The boycott is in response to what members argued was "an apartheid state, engaging in crimes against humanity in the occupied territories. They said the situation in the territories did not allow spectators to stand idly by." The motion was approved by a 158 to 99 vote, and called for freezing European funding for Israeli academic institutions, while condemning "Israeli academia's cooperation with the occupation." According to Ha'aretz, The motion called for freezing all EU funding for Israeli academic institutions until Israel will "comply with the United Nation's resolutions."

I am absolutely stumped as to how I feel about the boycott. On the one hand, I applaud the courage of people who stand up for what they believe in spite of the consequences. And by "consequences" I mean the deluge of anti-Semitic labels that will be plastered on all 158 offending members. But UCU is not alone. According to the Palestinian Campaign for the Academic & Cultural Boycott of Israel, 130 British doctors called for the boycott of the Israeli Medical Association and its expulsion from the World Medical Association. The National Union of Journalists also declared a boycott of Israeli goods at their annual meeting in April in response to the Israeli "aggression" in the war with Lebanon in the summer of 2006. There is something so exciting about direct action campaigns that sometimes I'm not all that sure I care what the movement is actually about.

In this case, I DO care and so I am even more intrigued. Is this a tipping point? Is this the beginning of something? Is there an anti-Apartheid grassroots movement a-brewin' reminiscent of the 80's South African divestment campaigns? One that is of the "little less talk and a little more action" variety when it comes to solidarity with Palestinians? In the U.S., Columbia, Princeton, Harvard, MIT, Tufts, University of California, and the University of Pennsylvania have announced their commitment to a divestment campaign and there are campaigns in 50 other U.S. universities trying to garner wide-spread support. This activism is clearly in spite of the big fat black mark those institutions are likely to get from pitbull, I mean, watchdog groups like Campus Watch.

This leads me to the inexplicable squicky feeling that came over me when I read the email and the subsequent news articles I found. One of the reasons the UCU boycott doesn't sit well is the fact that it specifically targets Israeli academics regardless of their affiliations or political positions. My blood boils every time I come across Campus Watch because they defame respected academics who have different ideological views and often write or teach in ways that are critical of Israel. Campus Watch's vitriolic attacks are intended to censor not only the offending scholar but any others who may share a similar perspective. So, when I read that a group of UK academics are rejecting Israeli scholarship based on their own ideological convictions, I have to wonder if priorities are well placed. The university setting is supposed to be a place of free thinking and a fertile ground for social change, so I wonder if avenues a dialogue are being road-blocked in an attempt to join a growing movement. I wonder if, instead of a boycott, a more affective tactic would have been a call for active debate between Israeli scholars and their UK counterparts.

On the other hand, if a boycott against an offending state is going to work, its gotta hurt all aspects of the state. Israeli universities are mostly state-funded and a large percentage of the Israeli population benefits from the higher education system. If students become directly affected by an institutional boycott then perhaps more grassroots Israeli dialogue and activism will develop. One would hope. Then again, critical introspection usually is the best answer for everything, yet rarely employed. I can't think of too many occasions when an offending collective spontaneously issued a mea culpa after a sharp international rebuke.

I am interested in hearing more about this debate. It will be exciting to learn about the strategies divestment organizers will use. From a U.S. perspective, it is really positive that there are some Ivy League heavy hitters on board to lend credibility to the campaign. My one hope is that it isn't all in vain. I hope there are experienced organizers at the helm of this movement because otherwise it will be yet another opportunity for the international community to let the Palestinian people down.

Get Your War On

2007-06-03T15:43:00.000+03:00

There are a couple of things that, I don't experience very often, but consistently have brought me a lot of joy: winter trips to the beach, online chats with my niece & nephew, a really good diner breakfast, the accidental afternoon pitcher of margaritas, and of course the sarcastic biting humor of "Get Your War On".

One of my most prized possessions is an autographed poster by GYWO creator David Rees. Last year, The Rude Mechanicals were doing their stage performance of the GYWO comic strip in DC and I was unable to attend. David Rees was there for a post-performance discussion, and my friends didn't forget me. God bless 'em.

Above is probably the tamest dialogue in the entire series, but click the image if you want to get the full cussin' & swearin' effect. Rees really captured the post 9/11 sentiment shared by a lot of people I know. Beneath the sarcastic barbs is a whole lot of rage and frustration, but his brand of humor and sharp political analysis was a real comfort to a lot of us who felt that our country was being highjacked by special interests. If you enjoy Jon Stewart, then definitely check out GYWO.

..and My Feminist Facade Bakes Off at 350 degrees

2007-06-03T14:10:00.000+03:00

I'm kind of thinking that maybe I shouldn't limit my career options to gender empowerment & Middle East pursuits. I think that maybe I should re-examine my Betty Crocker roots and embrace the inner Barbara Billingsley. Lately, I have been enjoying the escape that creative expression provides...and by "creative expression", I mean expressing myself with colored sugar and edible flowers. Of course, I realize that making a career out of cake decorating could very well lead to some thicker treads on my already over-inflated spare tire--still I have a lot of fun in the kitchen. Plus, I don't have to think about my day-to-day reality while I'm trying to figure out the best way to convey the map of Palestine on a 9 x 13 sheet cake with only a handful of Petit Buerre cookies, a jar of chocolate spread, colored sugar beads and a wooden camel.

Last night, we had a Pirate Party so I had an opportunity to resume my "art". I was a little crushed for time, so it wasn't my finest work, but it served its purpose.

An oft quoted theory is that no two democracies have ever gone to war with one another. After looking around the room at all the happy cake-eaters I would say, that when people are eating cake, they're not even thinking of war. They're thinking about more cake...and maybe icecream. What this world needs now--more than ever--is cake. I might just be the gal who will bake it for them.

Before there was MJ Rosenberg, there was Hanan Ashrawi

2007-05-21T13:53:00.000+03:00

When I was going on and on about MJ Rosenberg, I don't know how I could have forgotten my favorite female hero...Hanan Ashrawi. I'm at work right now, and I'm checking the links on the NGOs website. That's when I came across the website "Miftah". It's been a while since I've been there and I forgot what a great source it is for Israel/Palestine news.

Hanan Ashrawi is one of the reasons I have a passion about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. For quite some time I was very pro-Israel, and it was her book "This Side of Peace" that helped me recognize that my understanding of the situation was heavily biased. It is always a bitter pill to swallow when you admit to yourself that you don't know everything about everything. Of course, it is extremely frustrating to always try to see both sides of both sides. It is a whole lot more comfortable to just pick a team and be ignorant. "Blissful" you might say. So Dr. Ashrawi, I thank you for the enlightment, and I resent you for the cognitive dissonance.

Check out her organization's website: http://www.miftah.org/

I'm in Love with I...ichannel, that is

2007-05-20T12:24:00.000+03:00

Actually, I think I'm in love with the brother. I'm not sure how I found it, but I get such a kick out of ichannel. Someone put up the entire movie "28 Days Later" on YouTube, and it scared the hell out of me. I had to keep clicking to other videos until I got up the nerve to watch it again, so this clip must have been linked to "28 Days Later". Odd. They're not exactly in the same genre...ichannel is up to episode 16 now. Go to YouTube to see the rest, it will suck you right in.

Sometimes it's not what you say...

2007-05-20T10:44:00.000+03:00

Early this week I gazed into the cataract clouded eyes of the sweetest bit of crazy I've ever seen. Buckets of rain were dumped on this city, and so I opted to take the bus home from work. While waiting for the #75 to fill up, a teeny, tiny, wee little Hajjah sat down next to me. She was approximately 215 years old and I pray that if I ever make it to her age, I hope that I am that cute.

Soon after we departed the bus station, she began to make chit chat. Unsure if she was chatting with me or with herself, I didn't bother to ask her to repeat what she said. I made noncommittal umms & uh-huhs and tried to cope with the discomfort of not knowing the language well enough to follow along with her dementia. I decided that she was indeed talking to me, but it didn't really matter if I understood or not. She just had something to say.

I overheard her conversation with the driver, so I knew that she wanted to go to Makassat Hospital. The other passengers repeatedly assured her that this bus would take her close to her destination. I, on the other hand, was going to Ilmuttallah Hospital--a quick detour from the normal bus route. The driver asked her several times whether she meant Makassat or Ilmuttallah, and he explained that we were going to stop at Ilmuttallah first.

As my travel companion chatted away, I found myself looking directly at her sweet little face. She had quite a bit to say about the Israeli soldiers who were now peppered all over the neighborhoods near Damascus Gate. She also had quite a bit to say about Makassat Hospital. Rather, the people either in or around Makassat were on her mind. In her opinion, there is a whole lot of crazy there. She just kept saying crazy, crazy, crazy. It was pretty clear that she wasn't looking for a response, but I felt compelled to let her know that I was paying attention to her. I said in my broken Arabic, "I'm sorry Hajjah. I don't understand everything. I only speak a little Arabic." She beamed.

Naturally, the first question she had for me was "Are you married?" In Arabic class, in order to assuage my annoyance with this daily question/judgement, my teacher taught me to say two things: 1) "Its none of your business" and 2) "I am single, and I have no worries about it." Neither one seemed appropriate in this context, so I said: "No, but God is generous" Clearly she was tickled with this topic, and the best I could make out from her response was either she had thought I had already been married many times, OR she has been married many times. I'm putting my money on the latter. She continued to cackle away to herself for quite some time.

The bus approached the intersection where the driver turns either left for Ilmuttallah Hospital or right for Makassat Hospital. He called back to the passengers to see if any of us needed Ilmuttallah and I called back "aiwa". The name Ilmuttallah put my companion into quite a spin. Despite several passengers trying to come her down, the Hajjah jumped up, yelled "Makassat!! Makassat!! Makassat!! and darted off the bus. She was surprisingly spry for her age.

Despite not knowing what she was saying to me, that was probably the best conversation I've had since I've been here.

crack, crack, boom

2007-05-16T00:01:00.000+03:00

On Monday, I started working with an amazing female-run Palestinian NGO that aims to empower women politically and seeks to end violence against women in Palestinian society. This organization is one of the reasons I wanted to do research on Palestinian women's organizations to begin with, so admittedly I am a little bit star struck.

I can honestly say that this the first time I have ever had a checkpoint as part of my daily commute to work. And I thought taking the Red Line in DC was a pain in the ass...On my first day, as the bus drove through the checkpoint, I caught a glimpse of a young soldier pushing a middle aged woman and then forcefully shoving a man my father's age. I am not a good enough writer to be able to convey the feeling that this encounter evoked. "Perverse" comes to mind. "Shame" is another. I think that I always assumed that when faced with abuses of power that I would be courageous. I would be compelled to step forward. But, I didn't. Like the rest of my fellow commuters, I just continued on to my destination.

Two hours later, I am sitting at my new desk sifting through some of the organization's documents. All of a sudden, I hear crack, crack...BOOM! By now, I am used to these sounds. It could be fireworks (yes, they shoot them off even in the middle of the day...and no, I don't know why), it could be a truck back-firing, it could be teargas canisters being tossed by soldiers, it could be construction noises...in general, this is not a quiet place. Then my Palestinian co-worker ran in and said "Did you hear the bomb?" So, we tried to assess the situation from my window that faces the huge grotesque "security" wall. Some people seemed to be hesitating by the wall opening but otherwise, life was going on as "normal".

Could you imagine this happening elsewhere? You're sitting down to have lunch at work and you hear a loud explosion. After a cursory glance out the window, you return your attention to the matter at hand. Oooh, egg salad!

I don't know how much coverage there is of the Nakhba, otherwise known by Palestinians as "the catastrophe". This day marks the anniversary of the establishment of the State of Israel and the crushing blow to Palestinian national aspirations. Israelis celebrated this event a couple of weeks ago along with their Memorial Day. The Palestinians in Jerusalem don't have the luxury of having a Memorial Day. Just in case they forgot, they were reminded of their constant state of occupation by the Israeli flags that have been hung throughout our East Jerusalem neighborhood just for this occasion and by an influx of hundreds of young flag & rifle toting soldiers taking a "tour" of East Jerusalem neighborhoods.

I suppose if this wasn't enough to jog their collective memories, the crazy assed Jewish fundamentalist movement descended on our Holy City. One friend was watching a settler demonstration in the Old City where a symbolic coffin with a Palestinian flag was set aflame. Unfortunately for them, the flame was quickly doused as the skies opened up and poured down on them. Ever resourceful, the demonstrators proceeded to rip the flag apart and stomp on the "coffin". As she was relating what had occurred, I couldn't help but think that there was something very "Lord of the Flies" about this story.

I think it's important for people to know that the "crazy assed" element of this society does exist and that comment is well founded. Tragically, the other day a 35 year-old taxi driver from Beit Hanina was brutally murdered by their ilk. My co-worker came to show me an article about her childhood playmate who was murdered by two of these fundamentalists. They lured him away from Damascus Gate by getting in his taxi and then slit his throat. The victim was selected because he was an Arab, and that's all that mattered. I hope that justice will be served. The whole thing has left me sick to my stomach.

By the way, the article I link to is from the Jerusalem Post, a right wing Israeli paper (in my opinion). By the looks of the comments at the end of the article, I think that the ugliest segments of society must subscribe to this paper. Somehow, (according to the reader responses) the brutality of the crime is mitigated by the fact that Tayseer Karaki's dead body was draped with a Palestinian flag. As if his national identity somehow "proves" his own guilt for something. A human being died at the hands of hate-mongers. Period. Shame on anyone who thinks otherwise. The uncle said it best when he said: "Why is it that whenever a Jew murders an Arab they say he's crazy and deranged?" he asked. "But when an Arab murders a Jew, he's always convicted even of he really is insane." There shouldn't be a double-standard. A hate motivated, pre-meditated murder is wrong no matter who the victim is.

Man, sometimes I really hate all this hate.

In the Trenches Together

2007-05-15T23:37:00.001+03:00

Some days I have a hard time appreciating the unique opportunity I've been given and I wonder "what the hell am I doing in this place?" Then I look around at all the fabulous people I have met and I remember how blessed I am. I am living in a remarkable oasis among people who are dedicating a period in their lives to help the Palestinian people in the best ways that they can. Some risk their own personal safety to be a continuous international presence at checkpoints. Others leave behind their families and jobs to volunteer their time and skills at the nearby Palestinian hospital. Still others work with youth and inspire them to express themselves creatively. Sadly, everyone's visa runs out at some point. As much as I love having met some amazing people, it really sucks to see them go. We just said goodbye to one of the good ones, and I have posted her goodbye speech. Someday when she's famous, you'll be able to say you heard of her first here! We'll miss you Margit!

Jerusalem: A City Divine

by Margit

So I came to work in Jerusalem, in the land of milk and honey.

I wanted to live in a holy place, and Mark was offering money.

I thought I could cut it, I thought I would stay,

But life got to be wearing day after day.

The land is divided, the citizens clash,

The streets reek of burning of garbage and trash.

In the summer it's too hot, in the winter too much rain.

The tourists clog the streets and the Zionists are insane.

The policemen are mean and their teargas is choking.

My nose fills with sand and the smell of men smoking.

The boys say rude things in the city forsaken,

The stores don't sell wine, beer, liquor, or bacon.

So why did I stay here and not up and quit?

Just throw in the towel, say 'Enough of this shit'?

Because here in this desert 'tween the heat and the hate

Is a little utopia behind a stone gate.

Where the women are strong and the men are good looking,

And the common room kitchen smells of Toshiko's cooking.

The gardens are lovely, the windows are clean,

And there's never a wait for the washing machine.

Now, you know, on this same mountain is a place almost as pretty

Where Jesus came to pray to escape the troubled city.

He and his pals were in a garden, and Jesus was under a tree,

So I'd say I'm kind of like Jesus. And Jesus is kind of like me.

'Cause I'm standing in a garden, and all my friends are near,

And some of them are dozing off 'cause they've drinken too much beer.

And in a short time I will leave you. And I'll be questioned by security.

And they'll torment and harass me for my political impurity.

But then God will lift me up into the highest heavens,

Or at least to cruising altitude in a 747.

But know that when I leave you, when I've departed from this hill,

That I'll be living in my father's house, racking up the telephone bill.

And so now, in these final hours, let me say to thee and thine:

Thank you for your love and care and for making this city divine.

This Might Be Why I'm Single. I'm a Dork.

2007-05-12T12:22:00.000+03:00

Here is where the geek in me comes out. Is it possible to have an academic crush on someone? I am such a huge fan of MJ Rosenberg from Israel Policy Forum. I have sent him emails in response to some of his commentaries--once to thank him for his courage and rational analysis. In one commentary, he was describing the abuse that ordinary Palestinians endure under a military occupation but he also addressed the psychological manipulation soldiers endure at the hands of their own leadership.

Instead of making blanket accusations, Rosenberg often illuminates the causal mechanisms behind acts on both sides. In a world of "pick your tribe and shoot 'em up" politics, it is a relief to know that there are still people who refuse to take the bait. Agree with him or disagree with him (I do disagree sometimes, too), but you have to applaud the fact that there are people out there who want to stimulate dialogue and not just spew rhetoric. There are heroes and villains on both sides, but mostly there are good people who want a peaceful life without having to relinquish their dignity. So here's three cheers for MJ Rosenberg for reminding us that those people exist.

This is one article that I found interesting:
Washington, DC, May 11, 2007 Issue # 322

Why Jews Envy the Irish
Tuesday, May 9, 2007 was a great day for the Irish. It was not so great for Israelis and Palestinians.

On Tuesday, the conflict over Ireland, which began in the 12th century (and in which 3500 people have been killed since 1966), ended when ultra-hard-line Protestant leader Reverend Ian Paisley joined former senior IRA commander Martin McGuinness in a power-sharing Catholic-Protestant unity government.

In the words of the BBC, it was a "moment of such improbability that it sets a new benchmark against which the future will judge unlikely events still to come” – like the signing of a peace treaty between Israelis and Palestinians.

For a time, of course, it appeared that Israelis and Palestinians would end their conflict before Irish Catholics and Protestants. It was in 1993 that Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin and PLO leader Yasir Arafat signed the Oslo agreement on the White House lawn. But Rabin was assassinated in 1995 and, after that tragedy, neither side fully observed the agreement although it did, nevertheless, succeed in dramatically reducing the violence – which skyrocketed after Oslo collapsed in the fall of 2000.

The Irish equivalent of Oslo was the Good Friday agreement of 1998 which laid the groundwork for the power-sharing arrangement that was implemented on Tuesday.

Like Oslo, the Good Friday agreement hit snag after snag, with both sides caught violating its terms (just two months after Good Friday, 29 people were killed and 200 injured in an attack by an IRA splinter group in the city of Omagh, Northern Ireland designed to scuttle the peace process). But none of the major players on either side was assassinated and each setback was followed by intensive efforts to resuscitate the agreement.

Another difference worth noting is that while Oslo was signed by moderates in the Israeli and Palestinian camps, Tuesday’s Irish peacemakers were hard-liners, known for their intense animosity toward the other side.

Protestant Paisley had famously said, “If an IRA man comes to a Protestant home and my men are there they will kill that IRA man. Yes sir.” Catholic McGuinness once said, “I am prepared to go to jail. I would rather die than disrupt or destroy my code of honor to the IRA.”

This was not so much the center embracing the center as the extremes embracing the extremes (not embracing, actually, but agreeing to live in peace). On Tuesday, it was Paisley who said, “A time to love and a time to hate. A time of war and a time of peace. From the depths of my heart I believe Northern Ireland has come to a time of peace,” while McGuinness said, “To Ian Paisley, I want to wish you all the best as we step forward toward the greatest yet most exciting challenge of our lives.”

The gaps that divided Irish Catholics and Protestants until Tuesday were every bit as wide as those dividing Israelis and Palestinians. Like Israelis and Palestinians, the two sides were fighting over one piece of land (although the Northern Irish could not simply divide it between them as Israelis and Palestinians can and will). The religious animosity was as intense as that between Jews and Muslims. And the 800 year old Irish conflict was some 740 years more ancient than the six decades old Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

So why did the Good Friday Agreement succeed while Oslo collapsed?

The most significant reason is the perseverance of some critical outsiders. The governments of Prime Minister Bertie Ahearn of the Irish Republic and Tony Blair of the United Kingdom made securing peace in Northern Ireland a top priority. Both leaders intervened strenuously every time there was a set-back. Blair enlisted President Clinton to help and Clinton appointed former Senate Majority Leader, George Mitchell, as his Special Envoy to Northern Ireland. Mitchell played a critical role in keeping the process alive at its darkest moments. Additionally, leading Irish-American politicians like Sen. Edward Kennedy weighed in to keep the two sides talking.

There are additional reasons for the success of the Good Friday agreement and yesterday I asked an expert what they were. I called John J. Cullinane, a Boston based computer entrepreneur (the company he founded became the first publicly traded software company) and philanthropist. Cullinane, an Irish Catholic, has been involved in the Northern Ireland peace process from the beginning; his particular emphasis is job creation which he sees as essential to conflict resolution in economically hard hit areas.

I asked Cullinane what those of us active in advancing the Israeli-Palestinian peace process can learn from the Irish experience. His response came in a ten-point e-mail a few minutes later.

1. Getting any group of people to give up any power, whatsoever, is extraordinarily difficult, virtually impossible.

2. Doing so requires the full time effort and influence of world political leaders, other stakeholders, diasporas etc., using every possible opportunity, because the antagonists can't, or won't, do it themselves.

3. Governments can only do so much such as negotiate cease fires, arrange meetings, and organize conferences, so they need good ideas from the private sector that they can support.

4. Business leaders in the area must get involved and use their influence to promote peace and not leave things to the extremists from both sides of the conflict. G7, a group of seven business organizations which was formed in Northern Ireland to do exactly this, is a perfect example.

5. The diasporas of both sides of the conflict have to help promote peace and economic development in a coordinated fashion. Communicating the sense that both diasporas are working together is critical. The Friends of Belfast is a good example.

6. Only the private sector can create the all-important peace dividend of jobs and economic development.

7. Even the prospect of peace can set in motion a great economic revival in a depressed area.

8. The sooner most people feel that they are better off, the easier it will be for the politicians to negotiate an agreement. It’s remarkable how quickly political leaders can agree once it suits them to do so.

9 . There will always be those who will try to disrupt any progress towards peace with violent acts, or question the motives of the other side, but those promoting peace can't let these acts, or views, deter them.

10. If the conflict can be resolved in Northern Ireland, every conflict is resolvable if the respective leaders want to, or are helped to do so. This obviously includes the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

Cullinane's points make sense. However, there is one critical difference between the two conflicts. In the case of Northern Ireland, once the decision to pursue peace was made, the constituency for continued conflict started disappearing not only in Ireland but in the diaspora as well. Irish Americans wanted President Clinton to put his weight behind the peace process. They applauded Ted Kennedy, Pat Moynihan and other Irish-American politicians for helping end the Irish “troubles.” Those Irish-American groups that thrived on the conflict either changed course or shriveled away.

That never happened after Oslo. The mainstream pro-Israel community here was ambivalent about Oslo right from the start. Almost immediately groups sprang up to "monitor" the Oslo process and point to its flaws. Pro-Israel speakers and spokespeople were able to bring crowds to their feet by spouting the tired old pre-Oslo rhetoric.

And, contrary to the Irish-American support for politicians who backed the peace process, pro-Israel groups here deem the most extreme and virulent Palestinian-bashers as “staunch friends of Israel” rather than as people who contribute to Israel’s problems. Many politicians (although in ever diminishing numbers) believe that the best way to be pro-Israel is to be anti-Palestinian and anti-peace.

Fortunately the situation is changing, even though powerful institutions continue their fight to preserve the status quo. But their message is growing stale and fewer politicians are paying attention. And even those who are will tell you privately that they are eager to pursue peaceful alternatives but are constrained by campaign considerations.

That is why we have a long way to go before we can celebrate the kind of event the Irish did on Tuesday. And it is also why that is why a great day for the Irish was just another ordinary day for Israelis and Palestinians. Ordinary, and bleak.

Yesterday a pregnant Palestinian woman lost her six month old baby when a random shot fired by Israeli soldiers struck her while she was lying in her bed in the Al Ein refugee camp in Nablus. And a six-year-old Israeli boy was badly injured when he jumped from the window of his home after going into shock due to one of three Kassam rockets that landed in Sderot.

The beat goes on.

But here is some good news. According to the Forward, "The Center for American Progress is set to launch the Middle East Bulletin , which will be arriving in subscribers’ inboxes beginning next week. It aims to take on Daily Alert, published by the Conference of Presidents of Major American Jewish Organizations and prepared by a right-wing think tank in Israel." The Center is one of the most influential think tanks in Washington and its new bulletin will surely have a positive impact. You can get a free subscription here .

MJ Rosenberg is the Director of Israel Policy Forum's Washington Policy Center. If you have colleagues or friends who would appreciate receiving this weekly letter, or you would like to unsubscribe, send an e-mail to: ipfdc@ipforumdc.org
Copyright 2007 Israel Policy Forum. All Rights Reserved.
National Office: 165 East 56th Street, 2nd Floor, New York, NY 10022 Tel: 212.245.4227 Fax: 212.245.0517 ipf@ipforum.org Washington Office: 122 C Street NW, Suite 820, Washington, DC 20001 Tel: 202.347.3811 Fax: 202.347.6130 ipfdc@ipforumdc.org Israel Office: 43 Emek Refaim Street, Suite 10, Jerusalem Israel 93141 Tel: 972.2.561.7258 Fax: 972.2.561.7437

I think that one point that needs to be emphasized is that not only is it necessary to have the "perseverance of some critical outsiders", but these outsiders must be single-minded in their focus: resolve the issues that are crucial for both sides. This conflict does not need outsiders with agendas biased to one particular group. Regardless of political or religious allegiance, outsiders must be single-minded in their pressure: removal of illegal settlements and outposts, removal of a wall that appropriated Palestinian lands and separates Palestinians from their communities in order to "protect" illegal settlements, demand for the immediate halt of violence from both sides--whether perpetrated in or out of uniform or under the guise of promoting "security", removal of barriers to movement within Palestinian communities, acknowledgement that economic empowerment will not succeed under a military occupation that by its very existence stifles entrepreneurship.

I often hear remarks about how Palestinians can improve their situation in spite of the Israeli occupation. Usually, these comments aren't based on the reality on the ground, but on "economic theory" Cliff Notes. I should know, I was one of those people. I wrote my college application essay on the importance of economic growth in the Palestinian/Israeli conflict--but I missed some important variables. Yes, there is no doubt that people are less likely to take up arms in they have food on the table, a roof over their heads, a good school for their children, etc...I think that it is safe to say that most Palestinians are aware of that too. So, the question then is "Why haven't they been able to build a viable economy in which peaceful coexistence can thrive?" What barriers are there to production and market access? What resources are necessary for a factory to be built? What laws are in place to facilitate or restrict the development of industry? What resources are necessary for the shipment of goods?

No one is acknowledging the flip side of the coin. Most would-be entrepreneurs and industrialists are in a cage, guarded by lions. The outside world keeps asking: "Why don't you just make it a nicer cage?"

Point #5 needs further elaboration. I have been discussing the lobbying culture in the U.S. quite a bit lately. It is definitely a topic that requires a post of its own, but I'd love to learn more about a coordinated grassroots Palestinian Diaspora movement in the U.S. The pro-Israel lobby and coordinated Jewish Diaspora was not a spontaneous collective. It is the product of years of strategic planning and activity. Like any successful social movement, the Jewish lobby is the result of strong formal and informal network ties, strong leadership that can strategically coordinate direct action campaigns and stimulate political pressure, a long history of building donor relationships and a constructed identity that links followers to the survival of the State of Israel. Is there an emerging lobbying rival in the Palestinian Diaspora community? I only know about the Arab American Institute and the Arab American Anti-Discrimination Committee. If anyone knows of more, please drop a line.

Sorry Guys. This Souvenir from the Holy Land is just for me.

2007-05-10T23:39:00.000+03:00

When I thought about what I might like to pick up while I’m here, I was thinking more along the lines of Hebron glass, or a set of beautiful hand-painted dishes made by students at the Atfaluna Society for Deaf Children, or even some traditional embroidery to support the women’s NGOs and associations that I admire so much.

Here were a few things that I didn’t plan on acquiring: Lyme Disease, the Rose of Jericho parasite, discoid eczema or ring worm. Yet, lo and behold! My once elegant left knee is now plagued with a spiral rash that is an identifying marker of all four scourges.

I feel relatively confident that I can 86 the Lyme Disease scenario. The Middle East is not an afflicted region. Plus, I don’t have any of the more obvious symptoms. But yes, I’m going to mention it to the doctor anyway. So, do not harp on me.

I had fairly well convinced myself that it was ringworm. Plus, one of my housemates is an intensive care nurse, and he seemed to think that was the culprit. By the way, ringworm is not a worm. It is a fungus that spirals out in a rash, hence the name. One of the most common ways that ringworm is transmitted here is through contact with infected cats. I don’t want to call out our garden kitten, Haitham, as the carrier, but her usual perch is along the length of my thigh and she tends to jam her claws into my knee if she gets startled. So, she will remain our most likely suspect. (BTW, I know Haitham is a boy’s name, but we didn’t realize that he was a she until a special night when the neighborhood tomcats arrived. Clearly the moon hit their eyes like a big pizza pie...Mystery solved.)

As of tonight, my ringworm diagnosis is now less definitive. I was discouraging one of my classmates from demonstrating too much “cat love” with one of our Arabic class strays, when my teacher caught sight of my blight. He said, “Oh boy. That looks like ‘Rose of Jericho’. You better get to a doctor.” The last four hours of Google surfing has yielded WAY more than I ever wanted to know about leishmaniasis, A.K.A; Rose of Jericho. Apparently, the sandfly is one bad ass mudder trucker. So, if I got bit than I’m hosting some critters in my knee. After looking at way too many pictures and reading journal articles about this affliction, I am 85% certain that it isn’t the case. But no doubt it will be one of the first things I ask my doctor.

One of my classmates noticed my burgeoning hypochondriatic melt-down and promptly informed me that is probably just discoid eczema. Awesome. That helped to put my mind at ease. Now instead of having something that is (relatively) quickly curable—albeit soooo gross-- I might be plagued by recurring flare-ups of this nonsense. But then again, it’s not itchy. Isn’t eczema supposed to itch? Then again-again, I put an apple cider vinegar compress on as soon as I saw it, so it dried up all the little pimples. Ahhhhh, Apple Cider Vinegar, is there nothing that you can’t do?

So that’s that. No doubt, I am now the grossest person you know. I hope you at least think I’m beautiful on the inside. And if you don’t, please...now is not the time to tell me. I’m still not over the really bad haircut I got a while back. I can’t take one more blow to my vanity.

My dog ate it...I lost track of time...My computer is on the fritz...I fell down a well

2007-05-01T22:43:00.000+03:00

http://www.sorryeverybody.com

I was looking for a nice "Sorry" image to apologize for not posting in a long time, and I came across this website. I realize that I'm a little behind on the times, but I thought it was a cool project. According to the website, 26,000 people responded after the 2004 election. Reading the apologies really pulls you right back to that period in time. Politics are so ugly.

One of the things that came out of the photo project was the Civil Tongue Foundation. The idea was to "promote polite, reasonable and content-based dialogue between the multitudes of American political viewpoints." You can imagine my enthusiam and child-like gullibilty that a grassroots movement to end Jerry Springer-esque mud-slinging, trash-talking and issue-spinning exists. A few Google searches later, I came to realize that the Foundation didn't have the legs for a long haul. Couldn't find anything on it. Too bad, because if the next election is decided on smoke screen issues like gay marriage, faith & family values, I might just decide to stay in the Middle East where people are rational.

I'll write more about what's what here later on...

I'm Not the Only Lucky One...

2007-03-25T19:39:00.000+02:00

...you too can study Arabic in Palestine! I have had people ask me what the options are for studying Arabic here, so let me lay it on you.

First, I have to give props to my teacher Issa. My language classes are through the Kenyon Institute which is a division of The Council for British Research in the Levant. Classes have just ended for this session but begin again on April 30th - June 28th. After that, he then starts classes back up in September. The class is mostly colloquial and is held two days a week. It is probably one of the better deals around at 1,200 NIS. (Approximately, $325) You can reach Issa directly at issa.faltas@gmail.com or contact the Kenyon Institute at kenyon@cbrl.org.uk

I met two cool people in Ramallah last week at an Advocacy Fair sponsored by AIDA and PNGO. The gave me info about their summer language programs that include homestays. The first was The Palestine Summer Encounter through The Middle East Fellowship. http://www.middleeastfellowship.org/pse2007

The second was Siraj Center for Holy Land Studies. http://www.sirajcenter.org/courses.htm
Both are definitely worth checking out. If you plan on just doing a short course, I would suggest going with a homestay.

There are also options through
Birzeit University http://home.birzeit.edu/pas/
Al-Quds University http://www.alquds.edu/qiss/index.php?page=about

I would suggest that anyone coming to study Arabic at a Palestinian institution should enter Israel on a tourist visa and keep their yap shut about their linguist aspirations. No need to risk getting turned back at Ben Gurion Airport--and people do get turned back.

If you're the adventurous type, I would even recommend not signing up for any course until you've arrive. There are quite a few options available that you won't find through an internet search. (That's how I found the Kenyon Institute)

As I hear of more, I'll post.

Gaza Imploding

2007-03-24T11:57:00.000+02:00

I love to hear Palestinians tell stories of how Gaza used to be, because it reminds me that mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, uncles, aunts, grandmothers and grandfathers live there--not just the armed militants that make the news. All anyone needs to do is to reach for their dusty copy of "Lord of the Flies" and they'll be able to understand why Gazan society is imploding. The simplistic analysis offered by armchair Middle East pundits states that "Gaza minus Settlers equals Gaza's opportunity for peace and prosperity". When Gazan tribal politics erupt, these same dumbdits state that this just "proves" their point that Palestinians are incapable of helping themselves. This somehow puts the Israeli Occupation in a positive light--the Israelis must be doing Palestinians a favor by sticking around because clearly Palestinians are predisposed to self-destructive behavior.

I completely agree that the violence among factions is absolutely sinful. The truth is that political and economic greed drives militants to engage in violence against fellow Palestinians. The power struggle includes those who pick up the banner of Islam to legitimize their claim to power. It becomes a pissing contest to see who is the real Palestinian/Muslim/Freedom Fighter. Then new groups like Army of Islam throw their kaffiyeh into the ring, and they completely up the ante. In turn, this banner provides cover for militants who attack women in the name of "honor". But let me be clear, there is no honor in attacking the most vulnerable members of society. Furthermore, the attack on "honor" is often just a means for political rivals to damage the reputation of the other. If the women of one party are deemed "dishonorable" than the entire party is tainted. It is the same logic that war criminals used when they authorized rape as a means of perpetrating genocide.

But the reality of Gaza is that it takes more than just the removal of a couple thousand settlers to empower Gazans to build a viable Palestinian state. A professor once told me that if someone ever presents a bivariate analysis of an issue as "absolute proof" of their hypothesis, you know they are either conning you or they're too dumb to know anything about anything.

Gaza is often referred to as the largest prison in the world simply because the movement of approximately one and a half million Gazans is completely restricted by land, air and sea. It is also often noted as the most densely populated place on earth. The economy is in a perpetual strangle hold due to restrictions on industry that can only flourish through the export of goods beyond the Strip. If you can't ship your goods by land, and can't ship your goods by sea, and you can't ship your goods by air, and NO ONE around you has any money because unemployment is estimated to be around 80%, what is the point of producing goods?

How are people supposed to embrace democratization and enforce the rule of law when they are trying desperately to find a way to feed their family? Healthy legal and social institutions don't just spontaneously emerge in a power vacuum. In times of severe economic crisis, an organic socialist model in which all people benevolently care for one another does not automatically emerge (although, against great odds, Palestinian civil society has demonstrated remarkable skill in that area) I don't mean to get all Thomas Hobbes on you, but when times are hard, people take care of their own. It is human nature to hunker down into a tribal mentality. As a result of years of economic and political misery, good people are getting caught in the crosshairs of factional violence that erupts as these "tribes" scrambled to gain control of scarce resources.

Settlers or no settlers, when people are starving they become desperate. These are desperate times in Gaza.

Why Do We Hurt Each Other with Our Words?

2007-03-16T23:17:00.000+02:00

A couple of years ago I took a class called “Voices of Modern Jewish Literature”. For anyone who would like to understand more about the motivations of Israelis, American Jews and Zionist support networks in relation to security, it would serve you to read some of the remarkable works of fiction that came out of the Diaspora community. One of my favorite books is an anthology titled “Lost Tribe: Jewish Fiction from the Edge”. I tried to get rid of most of my possessions before moving here and leaving that particular book behind almost broke my heart. I hate the idea that someone, who doesn’t appreciate this kind of literature the way I do, might be using it as a coaster for their morning coffee. “Dreaming the Actual” is another fantastic anthology by female Israeli writers.

Below is a list of short stories that I absolutely loved. I had to read through my old journal entries to find the titles, but it is funny how over the years I have “memories” of these different stories. Every once in awhile I think about the little boy in “The Story of My Dovecot” or I remember the haunting feeling I had when I read “The Shawl”. The only problem is that I forgot to write from where the short stories came. I’m sure if you Google the titles or authors you’ll be able to find the name of the collection. One anthology is probably “The Cambridge Companion to Jewish American Literature”.

“A Dream of Sleep” by Steve Almond
“How to Make It to the Promised Land” by Ellen Umansky
“A Room on the Roof” forget the author—about Israeli & Palestinian relations through the lens of both gender and ethnic identity.
“Hayuta’s Engagement Party”
“Legacy of Raizel Kaidish: A Story” by Rebecca Goldstein
“The Shawl” by Cynthia Ozick
“The Story of My Dovecot” by Isaac Babel
“The Spinoza of Market Street” by Issac Singer
“Angel Levine” and “The Magic Barrel” by Bernard Malamud
“A Yom Kippur Scandal” by Sholem Aleichem

I have been thinking about this particular literature class lately because I realize now that my professor wasn’t the xenophobe I had thought him to be. Uh, that’s not completely true. He probably is. He used to address the Christian minority in the class by saying, “Gentiles, are you familiar with blah, blah, blah...?” On the face of it, it doesn’t seem to be that offensive, but if you plug any other religion or ethnic group into that example, you’d have to agree it is a little peculiar to make such a distinction. For example, if there is a minority of Caucasians in an African American literature class, it would be highly irregular for the professor to say “Okay White People, are you familiar with the expression blah, blah, blah...?”

I now have to admit that his paranoia wasn’t completely without merit. My professor was very open about his belief that as a Jew, he was a walking target. The Passion of Christ had hit the theatres and he believed that Mel Gibson was heralding a new era of anti-Semitism. Although he was boycotting the film (so he had no first hand knowledge), he was certain that it was a deliberate provocation against the Jewish people. At one point when discussing the reason why most Jews view Israel as a lifeboat in a tumultuous, hostile sea, he exclaimed, “All it takes is for one severe financial crisis to hit this country and you might as well spark up the ovens-- ‘cause we’ll be the first to go.” I asked him, “Do you really believe another Holocaust is likely in this day and age—and here in America?” He replied that it wasn’t a question of “if” but “when”. At the time I thought what a kook.

I think I owe my professor an apology. Since I have been here, I am chilled to say that anti-Semitism is alive and well. I am not referring to the heated debates that arise from the political situation between Israel and the Arab World. I absolutely deplore those people who claim that critics of either Israeli policies or AIPAC are anti-Semites. Gagging free thinking and human rights advocacy by crying the wolf of anti-Semitism is a disgrace. It is as unethical as accusing a man of pedophilia in order to thwart his political ambitions. That kind of ad hominem accusation causes irreparable harm to one’s character and, despite conclusive proof of innocence, it is impossible to ever fully erase the mark of Cain. Furthermore, the indiscriminate use of the word desensitizes people to the real meaning.

For me, the specter of anti-Semitism has arisen in the company of some European and Australian expats. The conversation usually begins by discussing something seemingly innocuous. One French woman I know was discussing the violation of Muslim civil rights in her own country. She was talking about how there are horrible examples of racism against people of African descent in France. Then apropos of nothing she said “But the Jews have laws to protect their civil liberties! Why do Jews always get such special treatment! You can’t say anything derogatory about a Jew for fear of breaking the law...there is such a sense of entitlement!”

I just stared at her because I couldn’t figure out her logic. Did she think that Jews were given protection at the expense of Muslims? Here’s a crazy notion: instead of revoking the human rights of Jews, why not push for legislation that will protect the human rights of Muslims, too? Or better yet, maybe ALL humans, regardless of religion or national origin, should have the right to live and work in a safe, prosperous society? I would think that those two things are mutually exclusive, no? She is a citizen of France, so I would think that if Muslim rights were an issue of utmost importance to her and her well heeled Parisian friends, collectively they could rock enough political boats to bring about real change. She had no response. Probably because she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the right of African Muslims in France--she needed a springboard for her anti-Jew rant and that issue served her well.

On a side bar, this same woman can’t seem to stop telling me how absolutely cretinous Americans are. I am the only American in my Arabic class and I generally ignore generalizations about my fellow compatriots—especially when they come from people who have never even been to my fair land. (I include in that classification those foreigners who lack the imagination to ever venture beyond New York City.) The other day though, I just snapped. She was yapping on about how fat Americans are--despite the fact that she is considerably pudgier than me. She also made this comment shortly after rejecting an invitation to join me in doing yoga a couple of times a week after class. (We do need to start preparations for bikini season, afterall.)

This woman was spouting on about how Americans only eat McDonalds and I just cut her off. I said “That is sooooo unoriginal and every time I hear a European say that, I just want to tell them how stupid it sounds...There are 300 million people in America, are you seriously going to tell me that you have absolute knowledge about the dietary habits of such an extremely large, ethnically & geographically diverse population?” At that point, the other women chimed in that they also had had enough. Stereotypes are hurtful and pointless. I think they were just embarrassed that this woman was so oblivious. Even if she really believed what she was saying, where were her manners? Where does someone get the idea that they can blabber on authoritatively about a country they’ve never even been to? Truth be told, I will never suffer carpal tunnel due to excessive flag waving, but the Yankee Doodle in me comes out when I encounter people who are hungry for an all-American knuckle sandwich. If you don’t have an intelligent, well-formulated criticism, shut your yap. Plus, everyone was really getting along before her rant; nationality was completely irrelevant to everyone but the frog. (yes, I know that was mean. Maybe my Big Mac withdrawal is making me cranky.)

Another topic that rings like nails down a chalk board for me is that of the “Jewish Mafia” in the United States. There is one Australian character here who I try desperately to avoid—often to no avail. One of his favorite topics to discuss AT me is the Jewish Mafia Conspiracy in the United States. It is so “Elders of Zion” I just want to stab myself in the eye so I can feel something less painful than listening to his vitriolic account of everything that is wrong with my country. I just stare blankly ahead and hope that if I don’t move he will believe that he has successfully brainwashed me into believing his verbal diarrhea. “Yes...Master...Paul Wolfowitz is an Elder...not just an incompetent twat who guided my country into a senseless war without any nuanced understanding of the Middle East...ummmmm....Master...we are all puppets of the Jews.”

I think on one level I am bothered just because he begins from the assumption that 1) I have no understanding of how power politics actually work within the U.S. lobbying culture. He thinks that I need tender guidance so he can reveal to me the dark underbelly of the U.S. system...DUN, DUN, DUUUUUUUUUN: AIPAC! I feel like saying, “Listen Assface, what exactly do you think my background is? I know more about the topic than some half bake like yourself, so why don’t you go sit down, crack open another Fosters and leave the conspiracy theorizing to those clever enough to put together a kitschy weblog or a syndicated column in The Guardian”.

And 2) it’s not just me he is underestimating. He is assuming that my entire country has been duped. According to this guy, the secret of AIPAC is so well concealed that only the highest echelons of the U.S. government are privy to its AWESOME power. I’m like, “Dude, we have every conceivable ethnic mafia and special interest group in the U.S.: Italian, Irish, Russian mafias...MS-13 are running roughshod from Washington, DC to El Salvador...There are Political Action Committees (PACs) for gun control, anti-gun control, tobacco, anti-smoking, oil, steel, plastics, pro-life, pro-choice, pharmaceuticals, communications, environmental conservation, insecticides, coal mining, the Catholic Church, the MILITARY INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX... If you want to pull the strings in America, you need three things: organizational strategy, a unifying issue and moohla. And if you have the first two, the third will likely follow. It’s not a secret formula. The steam behind AIPAC is that so many boogeyman stories have been told that it is hard to tell myth from reality. The fact is they have brilliant strategists. The best we can do, if we don’t like AIPAC’s influence in the U.S., is to learn from their strategy and mimic it.

Anyway, if he wants to talk about AWESOME lobbying power, he should check out AARP! Now that is a scary bunch of well organized mo-fo’s. Senior citizens run the most powerful lobby my country has ever known. So, if you want to simplify things, find a way to coordinate the senior citizen agenda with the rights of Palestinians. Then just sit back and watch the blue hair fly.

And then Hell froze over...

2007-03-15T14:13:00.001+02:00

So, last weekend I was frolicking about in a mineral mud pit at the Dead Sea in 80 degree weather and now it’s sleeting and snowing outside. My wussy response to the change in weather has resigned me to the fact that I’m no longer entitled to call myself a New Englander. I decided to skip school because I didn’t trust my feet to make it down the 45 degree angle on which every road in Jerusalem is built. I’m just not equipped for the terrain anymore...I don’t even have a scarf with me...My shoes have lost their tread from all of the walking I do here. I could fall!...Stop judging me. I just didn't feel like going.

Anywho, I’ve just been reminded that I haven’t posted in a long time. My internet connection is pretty erratic, so I have been using the few moments of consistent connection judiciously. You know, for important things like quality celeb gossip surfing and downloading episodes of "The Office" from iTunes. So here is a recap of my life recently:

I cut class on Thursday so I could go get a MUCH needed hair cut. 170 Shekels later I realized that I would have been better off if I just snipped my split ends with toenail clippers and called it a day. I walked out looking like I was wearing a wig from the “Pat Benatar and Chrissie Hynde Rock the 80s” Collection. This is not my first time trying to negotiate a haircut in a foreign language and usually I am able to convey what I want. (Case in point: Quito Ecuador, November 1998. Hair "salon" was actually someone's garage. Hair was washed with dish detergent and request was conducted completely in Spanish. End result was a flawless angled bob. It would be worth the airfare to go back for regular trims.) If I can't give precise instructions, at least I am able to convey that I am absolutely terrified that they are going to chop it to bits, so most stylists are pretty gentle with me. My dentist proceeds with the same kind of caution.

In my naiveté, I really thought that it would be a safe bet to go to a salon that was a little more expensive. The hairstylist seemed so passionate and meticulous. Seeing my reluctance, he assured me that he loves long hair. What he didn’t mention was that it was long hair of the “business in the front and party in the back” variety. The end result was something that my four year old niece could have pulled off with her safety scissors and a well positioned upside down bowl on my head. After all of the years that I have been trying to grow my hair out long, you couldn’t possibly understand my pain... I'm thisclose to chopping it Winona Ryder short and going back to blonde.

This weekend was pretty mellow. I went out Friday night to see what I thought was going to be Flamenco dancing. It wasn’t—just a quartet playing flamenco music. By the end of the performance everyone was asking each other "The email said "dancing", right?" About halfway through, I realized two things: 1) I have never actually heard flamenco music. I think I went because I had images in my head of a woman in red frilly tiered dresses stomping her feet and clicking her castinettes. And when I say “a woman in red frilly dresses”, I mean “Bugs Bunny dressed as a woman in a red frilly dress trying to outsmart Elmer Fudd”. Sadly, I think that is the extent of my Iberian cultural fluency.

And 2) I don’t know what avant garde means. I really enjoyed their traditional pieces, but every original composition was introduced as being “avant garde”. I suspect it means music without a consistent beat, melody or theme. Not once did the music inspire my foot to tap or make me sway to the beat. We left and went to Jerusalem Hotel to hear some fabulous live Arabic music, and that’s where the foot tapping and swaying began in earnest. My friend and I were coaxed out of our chairs to dance with the local crowd, and I did my best to recall the moves from my “Hip Drop-Hip Hop Belly Dance Fitness for Weight Loss” DVD. True to the spirit of “Arab Hospitality” everyone was very gracious and no one laughed too loudly.

The next day the Mount of Olives community was hit by tragedy. A taxi driver was arrested by Israeli soldiers on Salahedin Street and died in their custody. There have been conflicting stories about what had happened, but the version I heard most frequently was that he was arrested for having a Palestinian woman, who was in Jerusalem without authorization, in his sherut taxi. The Israelis claimed that he had a heart attack, but the man’s family insists that he had been beaten to death. I have not heard whether or not his body had been released for an independent investigation, but no one believes that it was just a heart attack. Maybe if he was severely obese, a heavy smoker with a history of heart problems and a cocaine addiction then, sure... a 35 year old man can have a heart attack. The death of an innocent man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time is just the kind of provocation that brings people out into the streets.

Saturday night we were leaving the compound to go to see “The Lives of Others”. A mob of men were blocking the gate and we were unsure if we were going to be able to leave. They eventually let us through and you could see quite a bit of commotion at the bottom of the hill. One of the men said that we should go to the right because it was unsafe for us to drive down toward the protests. There is something surreal about driving into West Jerusalem, to do something as banal as going to a movie, when there is unrest on the East side. I think with the exception of the few pockets that are obsessed with security, most Israelis are completely oblivious to what is going on a mile or two away.

For a few days after the taxi driver was killed, Israeli military jeeps were parked on the corner down from our compound. The first day they were restricting traffic from entering the Mount of Olives, but on the following days, I think they were just trying to make their presence known. Whenever I see the soldiers camped out at an intersection that leads to Mount of Olives or Wadi Joz, the same image always appears in my mind. The soldiers serve as the lid on a boiling pot. If they keep the neighborhoods contained then no one outside of them will get burned. In reality, it really is just a matter of time before that pot boils over. And when it does, I think the foremost response in West Jerusalem will be one of surprise.

Interestingly enough, “The Lives of Others” has been playing to sold out crowds here. I find it somewhat ironic. The film is about life in East Berlin from 1984 up to the reunification of the two Germanys. The movie revolves around an artistic community and their assumed subversive activities. But as the movie progresses, a Stasi agent emerges as the unlikely protagonist. By observing the lives of others, he is touched by their humanity and begins to realize that his devotion to the ideals of the state was at the expense of his own humanity. Previously he had viewed all civilians as potential enemies of the state, but a set of circumstances led the inspector to become involved in the most intimate details of a couple’s relationship. The more time he spent eavesdropping on their daily lives, the more he began to empathize with them.

What I found ironic is that the Palestinian community lives in a similar state of constant surveillance. Their society has an equal share of collaborators and intelligence gathering institutions designed to crush subversion. There are some checkpoint soldiers who have commented that they don’t blame the Palestinians for their response to the occupation. These soldiers witness the lives of thousands of human beings as they are herded through checkpoint turnstiles. I think that Israelis can only cope with this “security state” by either creating alternative realities that strip an entire population of individual human characteristics, trying to completely avoid witnessing the treatment of the Palestinian population or by abandoning their unwavering allegiance to the state apparatus.

I would highly recommend that others check out this film. You can check out info through this link: http://www.sonyclassics.com/thelivesofothers/

Eating Away My Feelings...

2007-02-26T18:34:00.000+02:00

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.

Can of Whoop Ass...Palestinian Style

2007-02-26T00:15:00.000+02:00

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.

So Long Stinktown...

2007-02-25T16:58:00.000+02:00

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...

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.

How Do You Say "Goddess Among Horny Boys" in Arabic?

2007-02-15T14:42:00.000+02:00

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.

Dr. Spock's Baby and Childcare: Military Edition

2007-02-12T14:27:00.000+02:00

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.

No One Should Be Surprised

2007-02-09T19:31:00.000+02:00

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.

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.

Just an addendum to my last post...

2007-01-24T18:00:00.000+02:00

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.

Giving the Gift of Laughter...and Social Awkwardness

2007-01-23T19:43:00.000+02:00

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.

Holy Crap! I'm Half Way to 70!

2007-01-19T12:28:00.000+02:00

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.

Going on a Jerusalem Walk-About

2007-01-16T19:45:00.000+02:00

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.

I Can't Wait Until I'm Home to Bore You With Slides...

2007-01-14T18:19:00.000+02:00

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 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.

Apparently, I'm not Kosher...Never Was

2007-01-13T18:26:00.000+02:00

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”.

The Kind of Terrorism I Know All Too Well

2007-01-12T14:28:00.000+02:00

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.

One Part Gloria Steinem, One Part Marilyn Monroe

2007-01-09T23:37:00.000+02:00

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.

Getting my feet wet...I mean, muddy

2007-01-08T16:28:00.000+02:00

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.