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.
Showing posts with label violence against women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label violence against women. Show all posts
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Can of Whoop Ass...Palestinian Style
I thought that I could handle the teenage boys who were harassing me on my walk home from school everyday. I thought to myself, “Heck, I’m old enough to be their mother. I’m not going to be intimidated.” Plus, I get along with kids! Aren’t I the “cool aunt”? Usually it’s adults that hop up and down on my last nerve. Haven’t I’ve always had a real Barney-esque quality about me?...shu hadda? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that these “kids” are operating under a different code of conduct. They are emboldened with each day that their behavior goes unchecked. The fact that they tried to grab my crotch demonstrates that they are testing boundaries. Even the point that they were walking down the main road, instead of taking the dirt path like all the other kids, shows that they are trying to express independence and test their courage. It’s as if they’re saying, “I dare someone to tell us that we can’t be here.” I suppose the high from stretching their wings inspires them to take it a step further by molesting me. If I was going to resolve this situation, I needed to employ resources within the local Palestinian community. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel like those resources were at my disposal.
After the weekend in Tel Aviv, I felt refreshed. But the walk down the hill toward school reminded me of what lay in store in a few more hours. Although, I had tried a number of rationalizations, I hadn’t really gotten past the feeling of powerlessness. By internalizing my feelings, I was only heightening my anxiety. By break time, my imagination had gotten the best of me. I was sharing the story with my classmates when I just burst into tears. All of them insisted that I tell the teacher what happened, but the idea of “telling the teacher” that boys were picking on me was more than I could bear. With a running nose and quivering chin I whined: “But I’m a grown-up!” So having no poker face, my teacher zeroed in on me two seconds after class started again. Not one more word was going to be taught until I ‘fessed up. After explaining how these kids had been becoming more and more aggressive over the previous three weeks, my Arabic teacher said “not to worry”. This was going to be resolved within the community.
Later on that afternoon, my teacher called my cell. He asked if the boys ever came after me in the morning. I explained that it was only a problem in the afternoon; they are presumably in school in the morning. He said not to worry; he’s hot on their trail. My teacher was out speaking with men in the neighborhood, and there were some possible leads. Later I found out that the hospital guards I greet every morning had planned to follow me to school from a distance. If the kids came after me, they wanted to be there to nab them. When they heard that it only occurred in the afternoon, they agreed to be on the look out for packs of boys from the neighboring school.
I was really touched by this concern. They felt responsible for my well being, but they also were furious that teenagers were destroying the reputation of their neighborhood. Many of the adults are aware that the foreigners in East Jerusalem work with Palestinian focused NGOs and IGOs. There is unfortunately a frustration that plagues this new generation, and they project their resentment on all non-Arabs. The logic goes like this: “the UN and NGOs have been here throughout the entire occupation, and no solution to the problem has been found. So, maybe they are part of the problem too.” At times I can’t really blame them for feeling that way. Why should they feel like any one else in the world cares? UN or no UN, there is still a big fat blimp floating over East Jerusalem every Friday to film each and every movement. The entrance points to Wadi Joz are still going to be blocked off by “flying checkpoints” at random intervals. Crazy ass settlers are still going to pop up overnight and take over property. It’s not a fair association but it would be wrong, as an international trying to help the community, not to empathize with their frustrations.
On Tuesday, my teacher and I went on our first stake out. We hypothesized the possible routes the boys could take to end up on the main road. After a while it was apparent that no one was coming, so he took me home. We pulled over to talk to one of the hospital guards who said he thought the boys were part of the group that usually skips school. Groups of boys slip out of class and come up the hospital gift shop to buy sweets. Then they hang out in the park until 12:30pm - 1pm (the time school lets out). My teacher said not to give up; we’ll hunt them again tomorrow. At least now we know that we can contact the school headmaster as an additional resource. Things were starting to look up, and I was beginning to feel less alienated and powerless. Even better, I felt like my faith in people was being restored. It is so easy to permit personal experiences to shadow perceptions of a society. All it takes is the slightest act of kindness to remind you that the enemies are not, in fact, at the gates.
On Wednesday, we resumed our position on the corner. Again, the boys proved not to be the truant little turds that we had hoped they’d be. Instead, we drove over to the cafe to re-strategize. My teacher said that we would continue to stakeout the corner and he would also continue to ask around the neighborhood for leads. As he gave me a lift back home, most of the anxiety that had plagued me on Monday had now dissipated...that is, until I saw the boys. As we were driving up the hill we slowed down to get a look at the three teenagers walking down. My teacher was absolutely shocked when the boys recognized me and waved lasciviously. We sped up the hill and made a u-turn to head back down. The highway was split on two levels so we had to make another u-turn to head back up the hill to where we first saw the boys. As my teacher had suspected, they had jumped the guard rail and were walking down a dirt path into the wadi. I had figured we’d give up at that point, but my teacher would have none of it. I think seeing their hubris first hand inspired him.
We drove through the winding neighborhood roads and immediately came upon the three teenagers. I jumped out of the car as they approached and said “hello boys”. My surprisingly spry teacher circled around and pounced. Before they knew what hit them, he started barking “Who is your father?” The kids were so scared they didn’t have a chance to lie. Knowing all of their fathers, he began his lecture. The kids at once began to deny ever having seen me before. The tubby one had the nerve to cluck his tongue at me, as if I was the one who should have been ashamed for lying. Later another chubby kid approached and I had to stop for a second and wonder if Tubby #1 wasn’t in fact telling the truth. After staring him down for a few seconds, I saw him buckle and all doubt was erased. The skinny pervy aggressor was not so quick to give up the fight. He asked “When? When did I ever talk to her?” I saw my opportunity and I cracked open my very own can of whoop ass. In my best “child-you-better-wipe-that-smirk-off-your face” voice I yelled in Arabic “Every day! Right there” while pointing up to the road. That is when they collectively crapped their pants.
Now that the boys knew (or thought) that I understood Arabic, it was time for them to bust out their best Gregory Hines...and so the tap dancing began. My teacher pointed to the kid in the middle and asked “Is he the really bad one?” The middle one was the least guilty of the three. He had always hung back—just giggling at the antics of the other two. I looked at this kid with his twisted buck teeth and skittish wide eyes and felt so bad for the wee honey. I said “no,” pointing to the skinny one. “...he’s the one who tried to grab my crotch.” My teacher turned on him. He said sternly that I had originally wanted to go to the police, but I realized that they were probably from good families. I would never want to involve the Israelis in a community matter, so instead I asked my teacher to intervene on my behalf. He told them that I was a kind woman and that if they were lucky, I might bestow a smile on them to show that all was forgiven. All three promised never to even glance at me. The pervy one promptly said in English “I sorry”. The chubby one followed suit by putting his hand to his heart and saying “Thank you.” Sweet little Bucky just nodded his terrified little bobblehead. Of the three, Bucky needed a hug...and fewer loser friends. I did my best to maintain a classic mommy-esque stink eye, but I really wanted to let them off the hook. What’s done is done. It’s just amazing how these kids went from belligerent hooligans to the vulnerable little boys that they really are.
By now, their parents have probably heard that something had happened. People came out of the neighboring shops to see what was going on, and a few cars had driven past. I told my teacher that I would only want to contact their parents’ if they did it again. I think that getting the bejeezus scared out of them was enough to clip their wings a bit. More importantly, I think that the fact that their behavior was policed by someone in their own community is invaluable. No doubt children are always testing the limits of acceptable behavior. I can’t help but believe that they also crave the security that comes from having those boundaries reaffirmed. In a society that is unable to have its own security apparatus and is generally held hostage by the Israeli military, it is important for children to see that community networks are functioning and benevolent. Community policing demonstrates that society has not collapsed and gives these children a much needed sense of security. Authority is still evident...adults are still in control...children can still be children.
After the weekend in Tel Aviv, I felt refreshed. But the walk down the hill toward school reminded me of what lay in store in a few more hours. Although, I had tried a number of rationalizations, I hadn’t really gotten past the feeling of powerlessness. By internalizing my feelings, I was only heightening my anxiety. By break time, my imagination had gotten the best of me. I was sharing the story with my classmates when I just burst into tears. All of them insisted that I tell the teacher what happened, but the idea of “telling the teacher” that boys were picking on me was more than I could bear. With a running nose and quivering chin I whined: “But I’m a grown-up!” So having no poker face, my teacher zeroed in on me two seconds after class started again. Not one more word was going to be taught until I ‘fessed up. After explaining how these kids had been becoming more and more aggressive over the previous three weeks, my Arabic teacher said “not to worry”. This was going to be resolved within the community.
Later on that afternoon, my teacher called my cell. He asked if the boys ever came after me in the morning. I explained that it was only a problem in the afternoon; they are presumably in school in the morning. He said not to worry; he’s hot on their trail. My teacher was out speaking with men in the neighborhood, and there were some possible leads. Later I found out that the hospital guards I greet every morning had planned to follow me to school from a distance. If the kids came after me, they wanted to be there to nab them. When they heard that it only occurred in the afternoon, they agreed to be on the look out for packs of boys from the neighboring school.
I was really touched by this concern. They felt responsible for my well being, but they also were furious that teenagers were destroying the reputation of their neighborhood. Many of the adults are aware that the foreigners in East Jerusalem work with Palestinian focused NGOs and IGOs. There is unfortunately a frustration that plagues this new generation, and they project their resentment on all non-Arabs. The logic goes like this: “the UN and NGOs have been here throughout the entire occupation, and no solution to the problem has been found. So, maybe they are part of the problem too.” At times I can’t really blame them for feeling that way. Why should they feel like any one else in the world cares? UN or no UN, there is still a big fat blimp floating over East Jerusalem every Friday to film each and every movement. The entrance points to Wadi Joz are still going to be blocked off by “flying checkpoints” at random intervals. Crazy ass settlers are still going to pop up overnight and take over property. It’s not a fair association but it would be wrong, as an international trying to help the community, not to empathize with their frustrations.
On Tuesday, my teacher and I went on our first stake out. We hypothesized the possible routes the boys could take to end up on the main road. After a while it was apparent that no one was coming, so he took me home. We pulled over to talk to one of the hospital guards who said he thought the boys were part of the group that usually skips school. Groups of boys slip out of class and come up the hospital gift shop to buy sweets. Then they hang out in the park until 12:30pm - 1pm (the time school lets out). My teacher said not to give up; we’ll hunt them again tomorrow. At least now we know that we can contact the school headmaster as an additional resource. Things were starting to look up, and I was beginning to feel less alienated and powerless. Even better, I felt like my faith in people was being restored. It is so easy to permit personal experiences to shadow perceptions of a society. All it takes is the slightest act of kindness to remind you that the enemies are not, in fact, at the gates.
On Wednesday, we resumed our position on the corner. Again, the boys proved not to be the truant little turds that we had hoped they’d be. Instead, we drove over to the cafe to re-strategize. My teacher said that we would continue to stakeout the corner and he would also continue to ask around the neighborhood for leads. As he gave me a lift back home, most of the anxiety that had plagued me on Monday had now dissipated...that is, until I saw the boys. As we were driving up the hill we slowed down to get a look at the three teenagers walking down. My teacher was absolutely shocked when the boys recognized me and waved lasciviously. We sped up the hill and made a u-turn to head back down. The highway was split on two levels so we had to make another u-turn to head back up the hill to where we first saw the boys. As my teacher had suspected, they had jumped the guard rail and were walking down a dirt path into the wadi. I had figured we’d give up at that point, but my teacher would have none of it. I think seeing their hubris first hand inspired him.
We drove through the winding neighborhood roads and immediately came upon the three teenagers. I jumped out of the car as they approached and said “hello boys”. My surprisingly spry teacher circled around and pounced. Before they knew what hit them, he started barking “Who is your father?” The kids were so scared they didn’t have a chance to lie. Knowing all of their fathers, he began his lecture. The kids at once began to deny ever having seen me before. The tubby one had the nerve to cluck his tongue at me, as if I was the one who should have been ashamed for lying. Later another chubby kid approached and I had to stop for a second and wonder if Tubby #1 wasn’t in fact telling the truth. After staring him down for a few seconds, I saw him buckle and all doubt was erased. The skinny pervy aggressor was not so quick to give up the fight. He asked “When? When did I ever talk to her?” I saw my opportunity and I cracked open my very own can of whoop ass. In my best “child-you-better-wipe-that-smirk-off-your face” voice I yelled in Arabic “Every day! Right there” while pointing up to the road. That is when they collectively crapped their pants.
Now that the boys knew (or thought) that I understood Arabic, it was time for them to bust out their best Gregory Hines...and so the tap dancing began. My teacher pointed to the kid in the middle and asked “Is he the really bad one?” The middle one was the least guilty of the three. He had always hung back—just giggling at the antics of the other two. I looked at this kid with his twisted buck teeth and skittish wide eyes and felt so bad for the wee honey. I said “no,” pointing to the skinny one. “...he’s the one who tried to grab my crotch.” My teacher turned on him. He said sternly that I had originally wanted to go to the police, but I realized that they were probably from good families. I would never want to involve the Israelis in a community matter, so instead I asked my teacher to intervene on my behalf. He told them that I was a kind woman and that if they were lucky, I might bestow a smile on them to show that all was forgiven. All three promised never to even glance at me. The pervy one promptly said in English “I sorry”. The chubby one followed suit by putting his hand to his heart and saying “Thank you.” Sweet little Bucky just nodded his terrified little bobblehead. Of the three, Bucky needed a hug...and fewer loser friends. I did my best to maintain a classic mommy-esque stink eye, but I really wanted to let them off the hook. What’s done is done. It’s just amazing how these kids went from belligerent hooligans to the vulnerable little boys that they really are.
By now, their parents have probably heard that something had happened. People came out of the neighboring shops to see what was going on, and a few cars had driven past. I told my teacher that I would only want to contact their parents’ if they did it again. I think that getting the bejeezus scared out of them was enough to clip their wings a bit. More importantly, I think that the fact that their behavior was policed by someone in their own community is invaluable. No doubt children are always testing the limits of acceptable behavior. I can’t help but believe that they also crave the security that comes from having those boundaries reaffirmed. In a society that is unable to have its own security apparatus and is generally held hostage by the Israeli military, it is important for children to see that community networks are functioning and benevolent. Community policing demonstrates that society has not collapsed and gives these children a much needed sense of security. Authority is still evident...adults are still in control...children can still be children.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
How Do You Say "Goddess Among Horny Boys" in Arabic?
So, with the fresh memory of a van full of avenge-lust men driving off after a smack-talking Israeli woman, I felt a little uncomfortable walking to and from school on Tuesday. This angst was further exacerbated after being told that my shoes look like “settler shoes” and my pants look like standard Israeli army issue. Great. On my return trip home, I found that perhaps my discomfort wasn’t completely unfounded. My usual route is a 25 minute walk along a busy two lane highway. As I was walking back to the house, a white van jumped the curb and drove up halfway onto the sidewalk a few yards in front of me. There are parallel parking spaces further up the road, so this was a peculiar place for the van to pull off the road. As I watched this new development unfold, I just wondered if there wasn’t a big fat bullseye painted on me.
In order to continue on my way, I needed to squeeze past the sliding passenger door of the van. My heart started to race as I approached. The windows were dark so it was difficult to assess how many people were in the van, but I was able to make out the outlines of at least three heads. Then, I tried to see if anything was reflected in the side-view mirror. If someone was going to jump out they would probably be watching me as I approached. I slowed my gait and reached into my bag to pull out the scissors that I use to cut up flashcards. If I was going to be grabbed, you better believe that someone was going to get stabbed in the neck for their troubles.
I walked flush along the wall as I approached the van. Slowly the passenger window started to roll down. I tightened my grip on the scissors and quickly scooted past the sliding door. Just then the guy in the passenger seat tried to say something. I’m not sure why, but my adrenaline plummeted. I just stopped next to the passenger door and asked in English: “Uh...What?” Again the passenger tried to say something, but instead of a making a sound, his mouth just moved. Now I peered into the van. There were three guys and it appeared that none of them could speak. One was laying on the backseat, bent over laughing. I just stood there, asking again in English “What?” and no doubt freaking them out. These characters were so HIGH they could barely open their eyes, let alone speak. I briefly flirted with the idea of doing my best psychedelic clown impersonation, but I decided to let the party people be. Poor little lambs. I give them credit for at least being able to get the van up on the sidewalk before they succumbed to their bong hit TKO. Keep truckin’ little dancin’ bears...keep truckin’.
It turns out that men in their twenties are not the ones I need to be concerned about. Their little brothers are far more threatening. There is something fundamentally wrong with a society when teenage boys grab at a foreigner’s crotch for kicks. You can’t blame the Occupation for this. The Israelis aren’t the reason that teenage boys are sexually repressed. This is simply about lack of respect for women. Nor can you pull the culture card by claiming that Western women are immodest and therefore are more titillating than a covered Muslim woman. That argument is nothing but bullshit. Jerusalem has attracted tourists and pilgrims from other lands from time immemorial. There is nothing particularly erotic about a tall dark-haired woman in loose fitting corduroys. I should know. I’ve worn these corduroys for years. Never before have I set the world off its axis by wearing these hippy dippy togs.
What this place needs is some sexual communication counseling STAT. The boys that are off running around in the streets have no means of discussing or expressing their sexual curiosity. Do they ever sit down with their fathers and discuss their urges and feelings. Or their mothers for that matter? Is it just through James Bond films and internet porn that they learn about sex? I am by no means Jenna Jameson, so I’m going to suggest that these kids are making quite an associational leap from porn star to me. Nevertheless, it was enough of a connection for them to want to grab at my crotch as I jumped into the road to avoid their advance.
What really sucks is that I have to walk past them everyday, and I doubt that they’ve gotten it all out of their system. When they came at me, I barked out a stern “Ayeb! Shu Hadda?” followed by a badass “Fuck Off!” followed again by a well poised middle finger as I called them “Little Assholes”. To round off the whole exchange, I made an attempt to ask “Don’t you have a mother?” which I believe I translated as: “Have you...I don’t have my mother with me!?” Ahhhh, touché! That’ll teach ‘em! I’ll have to practice a few solid zingers, and unleash them next time in consort with a sharp kick to the balls or box to the ears. Then it won’t matter if I mess up the translation. The problem is I’m not always good with thinking on my feet in Arabic. And when I say “I’m not always good”, I mean “not good at all”. Kind of like how when I was looking for the rest room at school and I thought I had asked the cleaning woman if the downstairs bathroom was OK to use. (it had previously been out of order) In actuality I had asked her “Is the weather good?” She just nodded, “Yes...yes...” As it turned out the downstairs bathroom was OK and the weather was good. Win-win. In any case, I think I might have to try walking on the other side of the highway until I learn to be more formidable than a pack of horny thirteen year old boys.
In order to continue on my way, I needed to squeeze past the sliding passenger door of the van. My heart started to race as I approached. The windows were dark so it was difficult to assess how many people were in the van, but I was able to make out the outlines of at least three heads. Then, I tried to see if anything was reflected in the side-view mirror. If someone was going to jump out they would probably be watching me as I approached. I slowed my gait and reached into my bag to pull out the scissors that I use to cut up flashcards. If I was going to be grabbed, you better believe that someone was going to get stabbed in the neck for their troubles.
I walked flush along the wall as I approached the van. Slowly the passenger window started to roll down. I tightened my grip on the scissors and quickly scooted past the sliding door. Just then the guy in the passenger seat tried to say something. I’m not sure why, but my adrenaline plummeted. I just stopped next to the passenger door and asked in English: “Uh...What?” Again the passenger tried to say something, but instead of a making a sound, his mouth just moved. Now I peered into the van. There were three guys and it appeared that none of them could speak. One was laying on the backseat, bent over laughing. I just stood there, asking again in English “What?” and no doubt freaking them out. These characters were so HIGH they could barely open their eyes, let alone speak. I briefly flirted with the idea of doing my best psychedelic clown impersonation, but I decided to let the party people be. Poor little lambs. I give them credit for at least being able to get the van up on the sidewalk before they succumbed to their bong hit TKO. Keep truckin’ little dancin’ bears...keep truckin’.
It turns out that men in their twenties are not the ones I need to be concerned about. Their little brothers are far more threatening. There is something fundamentally wrong with a society when teenage boys grab at a foreigner’s crotch for kicks. You can’t blame the Occupation for this. The Israelis aren’t the reason that teenage boys are sexually repressed. This is simply about lack of respect for women. Nor can you pull the culture card by claiming that Western women are immodest and therefore are more titillating than a covered Muslim woman. That argument is nothing but bullshit. Jerusalem has attracted tourists and pilgrims from other lands from time immemorial. There is nothing particularly erotic about a tall dark-haired woman in loose fitting corduroys. I should know. I’ve worn these corduroys for years. Never before have I set the world off its axis by wearing these hippy dippy togs.
What this place needs is some sexual communication counseling STAT. The boys that are off running around in the streets have no means of discussing or expressing their sexual curiosity. Do they ever sit down with their fathers and discuss their urges and feelings. Or their mothers for that matter? Is it just through James Bond films and internet porn that they learn about sex? I am by no means Jenna Jameson, so I’m going to suggest that these kids are making quite an associational leap from porn star to me. Nevertheless, it was enough of a connection for them to want to grab at my crotch as I jumped into the road to avoid their advance.
What really sucks is that I have to walk past them everyday, and I doubt that they’ve gotten it all out of their system. When they came at me, I barked out a stern “Ayeb! Shu Hadda?” followed by a badass “Fuck Off!” followed again by a well poised middle finger as I called them “Little Assholes”. To round off the whole exchange, I made an attempt to ask “Don’t you have a mother?” which I believe I translated as: “Have you...I don’t have my mother with me!?” Ahhhh, touché! That’ll teach ‘em! I’ll have to practice a few solid zingers, and unleash them next time in consort with a sharp kick to the balls or box to the ears. Then it won’t matter if I mess up the translation. The problem is I’m not always good with thinking on my feet in Arabic. And when I say “I’m not always good”, I mean “not good at all”. Kind of like how when I was looking for the rest room at school and I thought I had asked the cleaning woman if the downstairs bathroom was OK to use. (it had previously been out of order) In actuality I had asked her “Is the weather good?” She just nodded, “Yes...yes...” As it turned out the downstairs bathroom was OK and the weather was good. Win-win. In any case, I think I might have to try walking on the other side of the highway until I learn to be more formidable than a pack of horny thirteen year old boys.
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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