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.
Showing posts with label intimidation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label intimidation. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Kind of Terrorism I Know All Too Well
One of my all-time favorite movies is Hope and Glory. The film is about the experiences of a British boy during WWII. One of the most memorable scenes was when the family returned from a day trip to find their home consumed by flames. The family assumed that the house had been bombed during a Nazi air raid, but the fire chief approached and said: “It wasn't a bomb, just a fire. It happens in wartime as well, you know.” Recollection of this particular scene popped into my head yesterday, shortly after I escaped from the public restroom stall in which I had been trapped for a good twenty minutes.
I think I had prepared myself pretty well for the possible encounter with politically spurred violence. I had even given considerable thought to how I would cope in the worst case scenarios, but somehow I felt less concerned about violence motivated by your everyday cases of greed and perversion. Maybe I assumed that men would be so focused on political, social and economic grievances that they wouldn’t have the luxury of engaging in the kind predatory behavior that exists in every other country around the globe. Well, just color me stupid…
After unsuccessfully hunting for the Graduate Admissions office at Hebrew University, I decided to walk in to town to buy some birthday cards. By the time I reached the Old City, I was a bit desperate for a restroom. I walked over to the City Hall complex and found a restroom sign that directed me toward the basement level via an elevator. Just as I pushed the call button, my cell rang. As my friend and I were confirming our plans for that evening, I noticed a sketchy character standing by the pay phone. He was giving the impression that he was searching for change or a phone card, but it was clear that he was doing neither. So, my gut instinct kicked in and I walked away. A couple of minutes later, my bladder drowned out the voice of reason and I went back to the elevator. I pushed the call button again, but thought better of it. I decided to find the stairs instead. After an unsuccessful search, I went back. I figured with the tight security in Israel, do I really need to be this concerned? Surely there were cameras by the elevator, so he would have to be a natural born fool to try anything.
The elevator deposited me in a dreary hall, and sitting in a dark recessed nook was another equally sketchy man with obscured features. I darted into the empty women’s restroom, and this is when I did something classically stupid: I opted not to use the first row of stalls. Instead I went to the far end of the restroom and used a stall around the corner. Common sense was trumped by the assumption that the stalls furthest from the door would be the cleanest. Yah, I know… I know. Dumb. So, as I am taking care of business, I hear a heavy door slam. At that moment, I was washed over by acute anxiety. I looked through the crack in the door in time to see the shadow of a head inching toward my stall. No footsteps, just the shadow. It stopped moving and just hovered. Clearly there was someone with their body pressed against the neighboring stall door.
Was this the way my story was supposed to end? In the dingy, smelly basement restroom of an Israeli municipal building? Sounds like a pretty shitty way to go-- pun intended. There was no way that I was destined for this nonsense. Even though up until now this story proves the contrary, I am way smarter than any chump sucka who needs to prey on women for kicks.
At that moment, I figured I better take a quick assessment of my options. First step, pull up my pants. I now know what they mean by “getting caught with your pants down”. So, I started running possible scenarios through my mind. After searching through my day pack I came to the conclusion that, despite having sat through a documentary marathon on networked gang violence in the U.S. prison system, I did not have the adequate skills necessary for fashioning a lethal shank out of my lipgloss wand.
The next possible option was to try to recall exactly how Uma Thurman executed the five-point-palm-exploding-heart-technique. I figured if need be I could kick out the door and use the element of surprise in my favor. Two obstacles arose in my mind: First, the only fight I’ve ever been in was when I was in the 5th grade and I told a butchy 6th grade girl on the bus to shut-up and stop being mean. She said “Make me.” As I marched to the back of the bus, I employed the closed-eyes-sissy-paddle-slap technique. It was not highly effective; she socked my right in the face. So, I figured it was highly unlikely that when push came to shove, the Uma within would materialize. Second, the door opened inward. So, trying to negotiate the inward swinging door, the cramped stall and my six foot tall frame might detract from the element of surprise necessary for successful execution of this plan.
Fortunately, there was no way for anyone to shimmy under the stall and the walls were too high for anyone to vault over without giving me plenty of opportunity to make a run for it. For the time being, I was safe in my pen. I figured I could just wait it out. I couldn’t possibly be the only person in Jerusalem with a small bladder. In the meantime, I thought about the benefits of screaming. Having been in quite a few situations like this over the years, I am well aware of the fact that I don’t know how to scream; I only know how to negotiate. This now made me angry. I tried to prep myself, but it isn’t like this is something that all women naturally know how to do. On the contrary, we are raised to not make a scene, don’t be rude, don’t be loud, don’t draw attention to yourself…I decided that, after I got myself out of the immediate mess, I would definitely need to find a place to practice.
Next, I pulled out my cell phone. Of course, in the bowels of the municipal building, coupled with my craptacular Israeli cell phone model, there was no network. Then again, shadow head didn’t necessarily know that. Having previously cursed my incredibility loud keypad, I gratefully started typing in random numbers. The plan was to give the impression that with one quick text message, I had at my disposal reinforcements in the form of Tony Soprano-like associates. Soon, my Mafioso brood would descend on this hapless punk with steel pipes and brass knuckles…BINGO! The shadow slipped back as quietly as it had entered. Of course, now I had to wonder if he hadn’t just relocated a few stalls down. After another ten minutes or so, I finally yelled: “Listen, if you’re still there, you should know that I have already called the police!”
Another minute or so of straining my ears passed. I suddenly burst out of the stall ready to start kung-fu fighting. I used the long mirror on the wall to get a quick lay of the land and then, doing my best TJ Hooker impersonation, I slid along the wall and jumped out at the first row of stalls. **hi-yaaaH!!** Nothing. I ran out of the restroom only to find a twenty-something guy waiting at the elevator. Oh crap. He cautiously looked at me as I pulled myself up to my full six feet of American bad-ass. I thought about not getting in the elevator and then I figured, “what if he wasn’t shadow head? What if shadow head was still there?” So, after sizing this one up, I figured let the 6th grade butch be damned! I have had thirty-five years to perfect my “Whatchu lookin’ at beeatch?!” face. Pretty convincing, I might add, so I got in and stared him down the entire ride up.
After what felt like a 45 minute elevator ride, I bolted out into the sunshine. Now, I fully realize that I was looking for a way to reestablish the balance of power and there was no way of really knowing if this guy was indeed shadow head. Nevertheless, I decided that I wanted to stay close to my new friend. He had a buddy waiting for him and after they said something to each other, both turned to look at me. OK, fair enough, it’s the Middle East. Men look at me all the time, but the way they leered really let loose the raging bull within…So, I tailed them. Every few feet the skinny one from the elevator would turn around and glance back at me. It just so happened that I was heading in the same direction as they were walking, but now I was doing it purposefully…while doing my best Terminator impersonation.
Soon, the boys stopped smiling when they looked back. I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to be listening to something. They stopped and pretended to look in a store window. I also stopped and pretended to look in a store window. It really started to feel good to turn the tables. I couldn't help but wonder why they were getting so jumpy and I was becoming less doubtful of their innocence. Then again, I don't care. In my opinion, it's a damn shame when a woman can't go into a public restroom without being armed with pepper spray and having to check every stall for possible predators. There have been countless times when men have followed me down quiet streets, disrespectfully whispering what ever came into their sexually repressed little heads. It is only in the past 10 years that I have come to learn that no woman has to tolerate intimidation or disrespectful behavior. The final glance back from the skinny one was one of concern. The boys darted across the street against the traffic and zipped into the pedestrian mall. I briefly toyed with the idea of following. Instead, I decided to let it go. I had birthday cards to buy. Another day, another lesson learned.
I think I had prepared myself pretty well for the possible encounter with politically spurred violence. I had even given considerable thought to how I would cope in the worst case scenarios, but somehow I felt less concerned about violence motivated by your everyday cases of greed and perversion. Maybe I assumed that men would be so focused on political, social and economic grievances that they wouldn’t have the luxury of engaging in the kind predatory behavior that exists in every other country around the globe. Well, just color me stupid…
After unsuccessfully hunting for the Graduate Admissions office at Hebrew University, I decided to walk in to town to buy some birthday cards. By the time I reached the Old City, I was a bit desperate for a restroom. I walked over to the City Hall complex and found a restroom sign that directed me toward the basement level via an elevator. Just as I pushed the call button, my cell rang. As my friend and I were confirming our plans for that evening, I noticed a sketchy character standing by the pay phone. He was giving the impression that he was searching for change or a phone card, but it was clear that he was doing neither. So, my gut instinct kicked in and I walked away. A couple of minutes later, my bladder drowned out the voice of reason and I went back to the elevator. I pushed the call button again, but thought better of it. I decided to find the stairs instead. After an unsuccessful search, I went back. I figured with the tight security in Israel, do I really need to be this concerned? Surely there were cameras by the elevator, so he would have to be a natural born fool to try anything.
The elevator deposited me in a dreary hall, and sitting in a dark recessed nook was another equally sketchy man with obscured features. I darted into the empty women’s restroom, and this is when I did something classically stupid: I opted not to use the first row of stalls. Instead I went to the far end of the restroom and used a stall around the corner. Common sense was trumped by the assumption that the stalls furthest from the door would be the cleanest. Yah, I know… I know. Dumb. So, as I am taking care of business, I hear a heavy door slam. At that moment, I was washed over by acute anxiety. I looked through the crack in the door in time to see the shadow of a head inching toward my stall. No footsteps, just the shadow. It stopped moving and just hovered. Clearly there was someone with their body pressed against the neighboring stall door.
Was this the way my story was supposed to end? In the dingy, smelly basement restroom of an Israeli municipal building? Sounds like a pretty shitty way to go-- pun intended. There was no way that I was destined for this nonsense. Even though up until now this story proves the contrary, I am way smarter than any chump sucka who needs to prey on women for kicks.
At that moment, I figured I better take a quick assessment of my options. First step, pull up my pants. I now know what they mean by “getting caught with your pants down”. So, I started running possible scenarios through my mind. After searching through my day pack I came to the conclusion that, despite having sat through a documentary marathon on networked gang violence in the U.S. prison system, I did not have the adequate skills necessary for fashioning a lethal shank out of my lipgloss wand.
The next possible option was to try to recall exactly how Uma Thurman executed the five-point-palm-exploding-heart-technique. I figured if need be I could kick out the door and use the element of surprise in my favor. Two obstacles arose in my mind: First, the only fight I’ve ever been in was when I was in the 5th grade and I told a butchy 6th grade girl on the bus to shut-up and stop being mean. She said “Make me.” As I marched to the back of the bus, I employed the closed-eyes-sissy-paddle-slap technique. It was not highly effective; she socked my right in the face. So, I figured it was highly unlikely that when push came to shove, the Uma within would materialize. Second, the door opened inward. So, trying to negotiate the inward swinging door, the cramped stall and my six foot tall frame might detract from the element of surprise necessary for successful execution of this plan.
Fortunately, there was no way for anyone to shimmy under the stall and the walls were too high for anyone to vault over without giving me plenty of opportunity to make a run for it. For the time being, I was safe in my pen. I figured I could just wait it out. I couldn’t possibly be the only person in Jerusalem with a small bladder. In the meantime, I thought about the benefits of screaming. Having been in quite a few situations like this over the years, I am well aware of the fact that I don’t know how to scream; I only know how to negotiate. This now made me angry. I tried to prep myself, but it isn’t like this is something that all women naturally know how to do. On the contrary, we are raised to not make a scene, don’t be rude, don’t be loud, don’t draw attention to yourself…I decided that, after I got myself out of the immediate mess, I would definitely need to find a place to practice.
Next, I pulled out my cell phone. Of course, in the bowels of the municipal building, coupled with my craptacular Israeli cell phone model, there was no network. Then again, shadow head didn’t necessarily know that. Having previously cursed my incredibility loud keypad, I gratefully started typing in random numbers. The plan was to give the impression that with one quick text message, I had at my disposal reinforcements in the form of Tony Soprano-like associates. Soon, my Mafioso brood would descend on this hapless punk with steel pipes and brass knuckles…BINGO! The shadow slipped back as quietly as it had entered. Of course, now I had to wonder if he hadn’t just relocated a few stalls down. After another ten minutes or so, I finally yelled: “Listen, if you’re still there, you should know that I have already called the police!”
Another minute or so of straining my ears passed. I suddenly burst out of the stall ready to start kung-fu fighting. I used the long mirror on the wall to get a quick lay of the land and then, doing my best TJ Hooker impersonation, I slid along the wall and jumped out at the first row of stalls. **hi-yaaaH!!** Nothing. I ran out of the restroom only to find a twenty-something guy waiting at the elevator. Oh crap. He cautiously looked at me as I pulled myself up to my full six feet of American bad-ass. I thought about not getting in the elevator and then I figured, “what if he wasn’t shadow head? What if shadow head was still there?” So, after sizing this one up, I figured let the 6th grade butch be damned! I have had thirty-five years to perfect my “Whatchu lookin’ at beeatch?!” face. Pretty convincing, I might add, so I got in and stared him down the entire ride up.
After what felt like a 45 minute elevator ride, I bolted out into the sunshine. Now, I fully realize that I was looking for a way to reestablish the balance of power and there was no way of really knowing if this guy was indeed shadow head. Nevertheless, I decided that I wanted to stay close to my new friend. He had a buddy waiting for him and after they said something to each other, both turned to look at me. OK, fair enough, it’s the Middle East. Men look at me all the time, but the way they leered really let loose the raging bull within…So, I tailed them. Every few feet the skinny one from the elevator would turn around and glance back at me. It just so happened that I was heading in the same direction as they were walking, but now I was doing it purposefully…while doing my best Terminator impersonation.
Soon, the boys stopped smiling when they looked back. I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to be listening to something. They stopped and pretended to look in a store window. I also stopped and pretended to look in a store window. It really started to feel good to turn the tables. I couldn't help but wonder why they were getting so jumpy and I was becoming less doubtful of their innocence. Then again, I don't care. In my opinion, it's a damn shame when a woman can't go into a public restroom without being armed with pepper spray and having to check every stall for possible predators. There have been countless times when men have followed me down quiet streets, disrespectfully whispering what ever came into their sexually repressed little heads. It is only in the past 10 years that I have come to learn that no woman has to tolerate intimidation or disrespectful behavior. The final glance back from the skinny one was one of concern. The boys darted across the street against the traffic and zipped into the pedestrian mall. I briefly toyed with the idea of following. Instead, I decided to let it go. I had birthday cards to buy. Another day, another lesson learned.
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