A friend of mine posted this same article on her blog so I'm doing the same.
I credit her with the title of this post.
http://www.kibush.co.il/show_file.asp?num=5299
David Shulman
Taayush
July 2, 2005
Ankle-deep in the pungent, turbid water of Silwan, we stand in the old, ruined aqueduct, hoes and pick-axes in our hands. It is 9:30 in the morning and already hot. We have come to clean the aqueduct and make it functional again; so we scrape away at its muddy bed, filling buckets with sandy clay and rocks to be emptied out on the hill below, where a new terrace is being built by our Palestinian friends. The task is Sisyphean; the Palestinian locals keep reassuring us that we will hit bottom after 15 centimetres or so, but as the day progresses the channel becomes deeper and deeper, with no bottom in sight. The water flows downhill from an ancient spring somewhere up-mountain—so we are told—a spring older than King David, who lived here in Silwan, older even than the Jebusites from whom he captured the city 3000 years ago. The Silwanis think the spring was here from the beginning of time.
In the old days, the aqueduct carried this clean spring-water in a carved stone channel just under the wall of heavy stones that lines the road; in this way water reached down into the village for drinking, washing, irrigation. At some point in the last years, the Jerusalem municipality blocked it at one end and built a large concrete cess-pool just below it. So now the water still emerging from the ancient spring mostly stands stagnant in the aqueduct, evaporating in the hot sun of the Jerusalem summer. The people of al-Bustan have long wanted to unblock the channel, to clean it and let water flow back toward their neighborhood; but they have been afraid to do this on their own, knowing very well that the police or the Border Guards would almost certainly intervene to prevent them. Only our presence here today, some 100 volunteers from Ta’ayush, Bat Shalom, Machsom Watch, and the Committee against House Demolitions, has given them the freedom to put their ready plans into operation.
We are here, however, not just for the water and the terrace but mainly because of the Municipality’s plans to demolish 88 houses in al-Bustan—in fact, to wipe out the neighborhood altogether, ostensibly in order to create an “archaeological park” in the heart of Silwan. In fact, the intention is very different and altogether transparent: al-Bustan will fall victim to the latest attempt to Judaize east Jerusalem, pursuant to the settlers’ stated goal and the government’s clear policy of making the lives of Palestinian Jerusalemites as miserable as possible. The sheer scale of the current attempt—some 1000 people will be rendered homeless—has sparked considerable protest as well as this collaborative venture between Israeli peace-groups and the local committee. We have come in the hope of drawing international attention to what Israel is planning, and thus of forcing the government to back down. We have come in solidarity with innocent victims. And we have come to work.
There is a lot of press, including a Korean TV journalist making a film about life in Israel-Palestine, a reporter from the Berliner Zeitung, and a Chinese crew; if they manage to get a few seconds on the evening news in China, possibly many millions will see this happy moment. Several video crews are filming continuously, and indeed the hillside looks, to my eyes, strikingly photogenic. There are teams of volunteers cleaning up the debris of decades—rusted spikes wrapped in barb-wire, blocks of concrete, huge broken branches, and moldy piles of tin and plastic; others are breaking up the caked top-layer of soil just down from the aqueduct, readying it for the grassy terrace it will soon become; some are filling buckets with rocks and earth and pouring them out on the hill below to build up the emerging terrace. The whole hillside is alive with color and movement; young men from the village, and some children, work side-by-side with the Israelis, and the site is changing rapidly, minute by minute, the long neglect over at last. Amnon, only recently recovered from a broken shoulder, is working heroically with his one uninjured arm, hoeing and raking and carrying buckets and branches and heavy stones.
I am not alone; three Sanskritists from our group at the Institute for Advanced Studies have joined me, along with R., my Tamilist friend and colleague from New Zealand; also P.—my closest friend in the world—is with us for the first time. Thirty years ago we were in the army together; an irrevocable bond. He is working—hard-- on the Sabbath; he rode the bus down to the village with the rest of us; he is an observant Jew. How does it feel, I ask him? “Like Shabbat Bereshit,” he says: the Torah reading about the creation of the world.
From the start, the police are also with us, seeming, on the surface, rather benign—at first two blue jeeps, reinforced later by a detachment of Border Guards. They have promised that we would not be stopped on our way down into the village, and they do not appear to be unduly troubled by the notion of this work-day. It is not, after all, a demonstration. But around 11:00 a settler appears, dressed in his white Shabbat clothes, with conspicuous skull-cap and fringes and a well-fed belly. He looks scornfully at the Jews working beside Palestinian Arabs. He lives in a house seized from one of the Silwanis, overlooking this hillside. He stops for a word with the police commander. It is not allowed, he claims—and, as usual, the settler calls the shots—to pour earth to make a terrace, or to plant a tree, or to repair a stone wall, without specific permits. We are intending to do all of the above, but now the officer informs us, bowing to the settler’s mysterious authority, that we can go on working so long as we refrain from these clearly criminal acts. They will stay here to make sure we keep within bounds.
The man working beside me says to me in Arabic: “He—the settler—is living in my house. He took my house.” He is, of course, enraged. “All the problems,” he says, “come from them; only from them. They won’t let us live. They won’t let us breathe.” Another Silwani bursts out in a torrent of curses, and for a moment the rhythm of our hoes and buckets is rent by the pulsations of rage. The moment passes. We will wait a while before deciding about the tree.
Amiel has brought it, a huge mulberry, tut in Arabic and Hebrew; he and Ezra scoured the nurseries of Jerusalem looking for it, because this place was years ago known as “Tut Junction”, after a famous, ancient mulberry tree. That tree is gone, and we intend to replace it today, also to restore the street signs with the original names. Ezra, meanwhile, has been imprisoned by the army for visiting our friends in the south Hebron caves; tonight he will be brought before a Jerusalem court for an extension of his remand. They seem, this time, intent on punishing him. Nothing, truly nothing, threatens the army more than a man of peace.
From my position inside the aqueduct, I wonder out loud with P. at the hate that has risen up within me at the sight and sound of the arrogant settler. I can’t deny its existence. I can call up not even an iota of empathy, and I refuse to try to imagine his warped inner world. Hate, I say to P., is a part of us; like love. Better to acknowledge it. Is that why you are here? he asks me. Is that why you act? Of course, he agrees, this settler is hateful: look at his swagger, look at the stolen house, look at the hate coursing through him. Who, after all, would try to stop a man from planting a tree in his own garden? But is that a reason to act? No, I answer. I mostly seem to act from some other, obscure place. Maybe it is a need to be outside, away from my professor’s desk. Maybe it is a hunger for the intense connectedness of days like this, days of crossing the borders, one by one. Maybe it is love—for these people working beside me. Maybe, very likely, it is pure, uncontainable outrage at the immense injustice inflicted on them, day by day, and a refusal to let the Jews, or anyone else, perpetrate it without protest: being Jewish, so I thought, was mostly about just such a refusal. The prophets who lived here in Silwan, when David was king, sang mostly about that. If we had been alive in those days, I tell P., I would have been a ragged street urchin, mad with poetry, and you would have been one of those prophets. That is why you are here today.
Never before have I been so needed as a medic: there is a host of minor cuts and wounds which require cleaning and bandaging. I almost exhaust the medical supplies I brought with me; it is time to refresh my medic’s pouch. By now I am covered in mud and reeking of the stagnant water; will the stench ever leave my shoes, my jeans? I am also very thirsty, as the day wears on, an endless and relentless thirst no liquid can quench.
After lunch I climb with P. into the Roman antiquities farther up hill—a bath-house in the shadow of an overhanging cliff. Ta’ayush, P. says, reminds him of our days in the army; there is the same stark, unfamiliar eros of body and sun and smell, of the group living its life as a collective, of the simplicity of eating and working and using your hands. Yes, I say—suddenly memory cascades back to Shomron and basic training, I can smell it again—but there we were slaves, and here we are free.
They ask us to climb up into the cemetery above the road for a few photos, for the Arabic newspaper Al-Quds. Only men—women should not go into this space. We somewhat comically, artificially play at cleaning the grave-stones, mostly marked as children’s graves, for the sake of the picture. Why didn’t they photograph us working furiously downhill? Perhaps the sight of Israelis cleaning Muslim tombstones will have some power. Pictures over, we go back to work. A little later someone climbs the tall electricity pole and ties a newly painted signpost on it, in Arabic and English, another fruit of today’s labors: maqbarat al-atfal above, and below, an unconscious touch of poetry: “Children’s Symmetry.”
By now it is 3:00, the day begins to wane. Time to wind down: and time for the tree, come what may. Amiel carries it into the newly hoed plot. It is a splendid specimen, and within minutes it stands embedded in the soil, lightly tied to an iron stake; wrapped around the stake, covered in plastic, is a huge enlargement of an aerial photograph of the village, with a bright circle tracing the boundaries of this neighborhood threatened with extinction.. We pour buckets of water over the base of the tree, and a cheer goes up: “Silwan! Silwan!” People clap and sing and shout. But now the police wake up, since we have at last broken the law. They march back and forth on the road, barking into their cell-phones. The Border Guards look restless, or agitated, as well, and for a few moments I wonder if at this final moment we will have to face a fracas, a police charge, or the arrest of some of our friends. In a way, I don’t much care. There is something about planting a tree that stands outside and beyond all other categories. It is always and ever auto-telic: its own intrinsic justification. I am glad we have planted this mulberry tree here, glad to have been part of it, glad also for the defiance. And now, as the policemen look on with anger, apparently hesitant to move, the Silwani spokesmen rise to speak through the loudspeaker to all of us who have worked here today.
“This is the day of Silwan,” says M., in Arabic, “a famous day, a day of peace. I thank you on behalf of the people of Silwan. You have come from all over, even from distant countries, to help us, who have been targeted by the Israeli authorities—one thousand men, women, and children from al-Bustan. I thank you for the sake of peace. Let all people know. In Silwan we are not free. We want our liberty, we want our livelihood, we want an end to our agony. Make sure that the Israeli government knows, and the Jerusalem municipality knows: we will never give up our homes. Make sure for the sake of peace, the peace we all want.”
Again the cries: “Silwan! Silwan!” Mixed in with them is another shout, almost a rhyme: “Salaam!” Now Khulood speaks for Ta’ayush in a swift, crystalline Arabic, every syllable a promise of human hope. “We are not afraid,” she says, “not afraid of the Border Guards or the Police or the soldiers, not afraid of anyone. We came here to stand beside you, and we will never abandon this struggle. Your struggle is ours.” Someone suddenly thrusts the loudspeaker at me, I try to escape it, try to push it back at Amnon, at anyone, but they insist and I can see there is no choice. They want someone to say something in Hebrew, and it will have to be me. I have no idea what to say, but I press the button and start, without thinking. “We had the honor, and the pleasure, of working here today as your guests. Thank you for inviting us. We loved this day, as we love and honor peace. We want you to know that we are with you and that we will never allow anyone to destroy your houses. We will come whenever you need us, whenever you invite us here, as your friends.”
I stop, the loudspeaker mercifully passes on to another, but one of the young Silwanis hurries over to me, takes my arm. “You don’t need an invitation,” he says to me, speaking of all of us, his eyes full of light. “Silwan is your home.”
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Next Installment of Life in the Middle-East
I’ve spent some time in Jerusalem lately and I have to say that I love that city. The Old City is so intriguing and magical with its small streets and shops. There is so much flavour to that city. And it’s really fascinating to think about all the people who may have walked the very paths I myself wander upon. Then there is West Jerusalem which has an amazing market called Machane Yehuda and sells pretty much everything and anything you could want. I’m definitely going to hit it up next week and get some delicious breads and halwa!
When I was in Jerusalem last week I encountered some interesting people. I walked halfway across the city to get to an Indian restaurant where I had a pretty good buffet lunch (nothing even close to the deliciousness of Spices of Punjab - to everyone who knows my love for that place!) and paid through the nose for it. Oh well – a month without curry is way too long! I was practically the only patron in the restaurant which meant the waiter stood next to my table and made conversation throughout my meal. I didn’t mind except that it was a little awkward when the conversation died and he just stood there watching me eat. When he found out I was living in Ramallah he gave me the name and phone number of his friend who I should “definitely call because they’ll help [me] out a lot.”
Having random people give me their phone number "just in case" happens quite regularly here. Even my bank teller, Mohammed, gave me his number - fortunately he was a good-looking guy and not an old married man. So as a matter of fact we went out for a beer!
But back to Jerusalem...Prior to heading over to West Jerusalem (the Jewish area), I bought an Arabic language book in East Jerusalem. Upon entering one shop in Machane Yehuda, the shopkeeper could hardly take her eyes off the glaring script that read “Lets Speak Arabic!” I think she was a little put off that I was wandering around the "Jewish area" of the city boasting a bright purple book that promoted learning Arabic. (The book I bought is really wonderful - I'm learning Arabic, slowly but surely!)
On my way back to the Old City, I stopped to looking at an interesting mural and was approached by a young man asking if I understood what I was looking at. I summarized the little plaque next to the mural. He asked how I knew all that and I told him that I was really just reading the description. He then launched into a convoluted explanation of some additional meanings of the mural. I tried to make a polite exit at one point but he said “Wait I’m just getting started! What’s your name – tell me about yourself!” So I stayed a little bit longer and found out that this guy was John from Denmark and he had been in Israel for about four years. Finally I was able to make my leave after John gave me his email address to stay in touch. Do I have any intention of emailing John? Not really…Sorry, buddy. “A” for effort, though!
As I was walking towards Jaffa gate a man stopped me and asked me if I spoke English. When I replied that I did, he told me that he would be available to give me a tour to Hebron or Bethlehem or a few other neighbouring cities. I told him I would be working for the rest of the week. He asked where I worked, and when I told him it was in Ramallah, he simply said “Have a nice time” and walked away. It definitely made me laugh. Further on the same path I was pleasantly surprised when a young Hasidic Jew smiled at me – most of the young Jewish men I walk past in Jerusalem give me a rather spiteful look, and I make sure that I’m pretty covered up in Jerusalem since I’m more likely to be frequenting religious sites.
(On a side point - since I was admonished more than once in the replies to my last email to watch what I wear (including from my older brother saying he didn't really feel like flying across the world to avenge my honour), I have started wearing pants longer than my knees and shirts that cover my shoulders. Fortunately the weather has cooled off slightly, but to get to work from my *new* apartment I have to walk up a 70 degree-incline hill and then two gigantic sets of stairs which means I'm pretty hot and sweaty when I get to work, especially in jeans and a T-shirt...And interestingly enough it really doesn't matter what I'm wearing - people stare anyway. I could be wearing the least-flattering outfit and look like a disaster and I will still turn heads...welcome to being a foreigner in the middle-east apparently...)
Anyway, back in the Old City of Jerusalem, as I was walking around I encountered several large church groups including one that was carrying a giant wooden cross! It was pretty intense to witness such a display of…of I don’t even know what to call it, to be honest. A few minutes later I came across the filming of a movie. I have to say the acting looked pretty bad. I wanted to stay a bit longer and watch what was going on but the film crew was sort of pushing people out of the way.
When I found a public washroom I walked into the female section and saw a man in there. I backed out and checked the sign again. He called to me and said he knew it was a female washroom. So he left and when I came out of the stall I saw he was cleaning. I must have looked a little tired because as I was washing my hands he asked me if I was alright. Then he asked me if I was Arabic. I told him my mother was part-Lebanese. He said he could tell from my face that I was an Arab. Then he said I was “very nice”. I have had quite a few people tell me that I have an "Arabic face" - I guess I am back in my homeland haha.
I’ve been trying to do some more reading up on the situation here so that I don’t sound like a complete dunce when the conversation turns towards that subject, which it inevitably does. In my humble opinion, the way Israel was created was...well, to be blunt it's a little ridiculous. But due to my Jewish studies, I have to admit that I can still understand why it was created. Although in a way it's pointless to discuss the circumstances of Israel's creation because it was created and it exists today - that is a fact. What is most pressing is how to deal with the situation!
As I was reminded, there are always two sides to every story and so for the past few weeks I tried to see the situation from both perspectives: Israeli and Palestinian. But to be quite frank, the conflict here is entirely reminiscent of an apartheid. The fact that the majority of Palestinians are not allowed to go to Jerusalem merely because they are Palestinian is truly racist and discriminatory. I sincerely do not know another way to describe it. The worst part is that the Palestinians are essentially at the mercy of the Israelis in so many ways.
As an example: One of my best friends here received permission to go to Jerusalem for a few days and he is completely thrilled about it. He has not set foot in Jerusalem for 5 years. I have to say that I was almost as happy about it as him – just to witness his joy at being able to travel 27 km is a pretty inspiring thing! So we did a gig together on Sunday night, the first day he was allowed back. He was visibly nervous about going through Qalandia checkpoint since a bad day for an Israeli guard means any Palestinian can be denied entry. Fortunately my friend made it through and when I congratulated him on it he said "Congratulations - bullshit. This is my home." It honestly made me want to cry because it's true - you don't congratulate someone for returning to the city they used to live in.
When you go to Jerusalem by bus you aren't given a very good chance to check out the wall that encircles the city. You can see some of the (amazing) graffiti painted on the Ramallah side, but not the full effect. When my colleagues and I returned from Jerusalem after our gig, we were taken by one of the drivers of the Conservatory. In a car you are really given the full effect of the prison-like setting that the wall creates, especially at night. There are watchtowers set up with guns in small windows - fully adorned with the Israeli flag, I might add. The wall - a good 20 ft. high - is topped with another metre of barbed wire. There are soldiers and military units parked all over the place. Honestly it's a little...unsettling.
Anyway - those are some of the thoughts that have been going through my head as of late.
November 11th is the anniversary of Yassar Arafat's and as such there was a huge parade and some demonstrations that happened in Ramallah. The city was PACKED with people from all over the country. As interesting as it would have been to stay and experience the fervour, I had to teach in Nablus so I missed out on all the action. Included in the attached pictures is one from the parade. The others are the Dome of the Rock, Abu Qash (I think), me with an olive tree, and the last one is the city of Nablus.
Inshallah everyone is doing well! I miss you all and urge you to reply - even if you think I might not want to hear from you, think again!! I want to know about all the little things going on back home. As normal as it feels to be living here and working as a teacher, I like to be reminded of all the interesting things from Canada.
I still miss Canadian beer (someone have a Keith's Red in my honour, please), pizza, Indian food, CFL/NFL (big congrats to the Roughriders for snagging the top spot in the West!), traffic laws, Cold FX, and the crisp air of Canadian fall.
When I was in Jerusalem last week I encountered some interesting people. I walked halfway across the city to get to an Indian restaurant where I had a pretty good buffet lunch (nothing even close to the deliciousness of Spices of Punjab - to everyone who knows my love for that place!) and paid through the nose for it. Oh well – a month without curry is way too long! I was practically the only patron in the restaurant which meant the waiter stood next to my table and made conversation throughout my meal. I didn’t mind except that it was a little awkward when the conversation died and he just stood there watching me eat. When he found out I was living in Ramallah he gave me the name and phone number of his friend who I should “definitely call because they’ll help [me] out a lot.”
Having random people give me their phone number "just in case" happens quite regularly here. Even my bank teller, Mohammed, gave me his number - fortunately he was a good-looking guy and not an old married man. So as a matter of fact we went out for a beer!
But back to Jerusalem...Prior to heading over to West Jerusalem (the Jewish area), I bought an Arabic language book in East Jerusalem. Upon entering one shop in Machane Yehuda, the shopkeeper could hardly take her eyes off the glaring script that read “Lets Speak Arabic!” I think she was a little put off that I was wandering around the "Jewish area" of the city boasting a bright purple book that promoted learning Arabic. (The book I bought is really wonderful - I'm learning Arabic, slowly but surely!)
On my way back to the Old City, I stopped to looking at an interesting mural and was approached by a young man asking if I understood what I was looking at. I summarized the little plaque next to the mural. He asked how I knew all that and I told him that I was really just reading the description. He then launched into a convoluted explanation of some additional meanings of the mural. I tried to make a polite exit at one point but he said “Wait I’m just getting started! What’s your name – tell me about yourself!” So I stayed a little bit longer and found out that this guy was John from Denmark and he had been in Israel for about four years. Finally I was able to make my leave after John gave me his email address to stay in touch. Do I have any intention of emailing John? Not really…Sorry, buddy. “A” for effort, though!
As I was walking towards Jaffa gate a man stopped me and asked me if I spoke English. When I replied that I did, he told me that he would be available to give me a tour to Hebron or Bethlehem or a few other neighbouring cities. I told him I would be working for the rest of the week. He asked where I worked, and when I told him it was in Ramallah, he simply said “Have a nice time” and walked away. It definitely made me laugh. Further on the same path I was pleasantly surprised when a young Hasidic Jew smiled at me – most of the young Jewish men I walk past in Jerusalem give me a rather spiteful look, and I make sure that I’m pretty covered up in Jerusalem since I’m more likely to be frequenting religious sites.
(On a side point - since I was admonished more than once in the replies to my last email to watch what I wear (including from my older brother saying he didn't really feel like flying across the world to avenge my honour), I have started wearing pants longer than my knees and shirts that cover my shoulders. Fortunately the weather has cooled off slightly, but to get to work from my *new* apartment I have to walk up a 70 degree-incline hill and then two gigantic sets of stairs which means I'm pretty hot and sweaty when I get to work, especially in jeans and a T-shirt...And interestingly enough it really doesn't matter what I'm wearing - people stare anyway. I could be wearing the least-flattering outfit and look like a disaster and I will still turn heads...welcome to being a foreigner in the middle-east apparently...)
Anyway, back in the Old City of Jerusalem, as I was walking around I encountered several large church groups including one that was carrying a giant wooden cross! It was pretty intense to witness such a display of…of I don’t even know what to call it, to be honest. A few minutes later I came across the filming of a movie. I have to say the acting looked pretty bad. I wanted to stay a bit longer and watch what was going on but the film crew was sort of pushing people out of the way.
When I found a public washroom I walked into the female section and saw a man in there. I backed out and checked the sign again. He called to me and said he knew it was a female washroom. So he left and when I came out of the stall I saw he was cleaning. I must have looked a little tired because as I was washing my hands he asked me if I was alright. Then he asked me if I was Arabic. I told him my mother was part-Lebanese. He said he could tell from my face that I was an Arab. Then he said I was “very nice”. I have had quite a few people tell me that I have an "Arabic face" - I guess I am back in my homeland haha.
I’ve been trying to do some more reading up on the situation here so that I don’t sound like a complete dunce when the conversation turns towards that subject, which it inevitably does. In my humble opinion, the way Israel was created was...well, to be blunt it's a little ridiculous. But due to my Jewish studies, I have to admit that I can still understand why it was created. Although in a way it's pointless to discuss the circumstances of Israel's creation because it was created and it exists today - that is a fact. What is most pressing is how to deal with the situation!
As I was reminded, there are always two sides to every story and so for the past few weeks I tried to see the situation from both perspectives: Israeli and Palestinian. But to be quite frank, the conflict here is entirely reminiscent of an apartheid. The fact that the majority of Palestinians are not allowed to go to Jerusalem merely because they are Palestinian is truly racist and discriminatory. I sincerely do not know another way to describe it. The worst part is that the Palestinians are essentially at the mercy of the Israelis in so many ways.
As an example: One of my best friends here received permission to go to Jerusalem for a few days and he is completely thrilled about it. He has not set foot in Jerusalem for 5 years. I have to say that I was almost as happy about it as him – just to witness his joy at being able to travel 27 km is a pretty inspiring thing! So we did a gig together on Sunday night, the first day he was allowed back. He was visibly nervous about going through Qalandia checkpoint since a bad day for an Israeli guard means any Palestinian can be denied entry. Fortunately my friend made it through and when I congratulated him on it he said "Congratulations - bullshit. This is my home." It honestly made me want to cry because it's true - you don't congratulate someone for returning to the city they used to live in.
When you go to Jerusalem by bus you aren't given a very good chance to check out the wall that encircles the city. You can see some of the (amazing) graffiti painted on the Ramallah side, but not the full effect. When my colleagues and I returned from Jerusalem after our gig, we were taken by one of the drivers of the Conservatory. In a car you are really given the full effect of the prison-like setting that the wall creates, especially at night. There are watchtowers set up with guns in small windows - fully adorned with the Israeli flag, I might add. The wall - a good 20 ft. high - is topped with another metre of barbed wire. There are soldiers and military units parked all over the place. Honestly it's a little...unsettling.
Anyway - those are some of the thoughts that have been going through my head as of late.
November 11th is the anniversary of Yassar Arafat's and as such there was a huge parade and some demonstrations that happened in Ramallah. The city was PACKED with people from all over the country. As interesting as it would have been to stay and experience the fervour, I had to teach in Nablus so I missed out on all the action. Included in the attached pictures is one from the parade. The others are the Dome of the Rock, Abu Qash (I think), me with an olive tree, and the last one is the city of Nablus.
Inshallah everyone is doing well! I miss you all and urge you to reply - even if you think I might not want to hear from you, think again!! I want to know about all the little things going on back home. As normal as it feels to be living here and working as a teacher, I like to be reminded of all the interesting things from Canada.
I still miss Canadian beer (someone have a Keith's Red in my honour, please), pizza, Indian food, CFL/NFL (big congrats to the Roughriders for snagging the top spot in the West!), traffic laws, Cold FX, and the crisp air of Canadian fall.
Life in Ramallah
This is the original mass email I sent out when I first moved to Ramallah in October, 2009:
So for those of you who do not know, I moved to Ramallah, Palestine on October 4th to teach music at the Edward Said National Conservatory of Music. I've been here for 2.5 weeks and I have to say that I really love being here. I'm teaching Viola and Violin to students in Ramallah and Nablus, and this month I'm doing a bit of teaching in Jerusalem as well.
I was definitely nervous to come here, no lies there! My biggest concern was getting through passport control in Tel Aviv. After all, I was supposed to tell them I was volunteering in Jerusalem, as opposed to working in Ramallah. Unfortunately my charm did not win over the passport guard and I was told to wait in a small room for interrogating. A lady came and asked me all kinds of questions: what I was doing, where I was staying, what my father’s name is, where my parents were born, what my religion was, what my parent’s religion was (she thought I might be Jewish), do I know anyone in Israel, how long will I be staying, will I be working with the Palestinians, why am I working in East Jerusalem (the Arabic area of the city).
It was a little nerve-wracking but I guess I did a good-enough job because they let me into the country! Unfortunately they ended up stamping my passport. I was hoping they would just give me my visa stamp on a separate piece of paper (well, they did that too, actually) because then I could have a clean passport to visit other Arabic countries. As it is now, if I want to go to Lebanon or Syria (or Iran or Saudi Arabia I guess) I will have to get a second passport since those Arabic countries do not recognize Israel and won't let you in if there is proof you have been there.
So Ramallah is a beautiful city. The streets are narrow and full of shops. It actually reminds me of Africa, and Italy too, come to think of it – the multitude of random stores selling colourful items, supermarkets on every corner, garbage piling up in alleyways, no traffic laws. Practically every five steps you take you come across a falafel stand or a juice store or a cart selling kahk (basically these giant sesame-topped bagels).
These past few weeks have been incredibly hot! The days get up to around 35 degrees and the nights cool down to maybe 29 degrees. I continue to wear what I would usually wear in Canada: shorts and tanktops, while everyone else is generally much more covered up. In fact I have never ever seen another pair of bare legs in the entire time I have been here. As such I provoke stares from just about everyone I cross pathes with when I walk to work. Generally this doesn't bother me. I either smile at people or look straight ahead and ignore the looks. Honestly it's just way too hot! Thankfully it has started to cool down over the last few days.
Some of my experiences in the city so far include: shopping at the insane fruit market where I was given nearly everything for free (!), playing my ipod for a random taxi driver who was so excited he had to call his friend right then and there to tell him about it, practically OD-ing on Knafeh (Middle-Eastern sweet consisting of sweet cheese topped with cornmeal and syrup), enjoying a concert of traditional Arabic music and being endlessly fascinated with what I was hearing, hearing a girl in a hijab say "It's so hot, why can't I wear that?" in reference to my shorts and my response to her "You can!", hitching a ride with a gravel truck driver one Friday when I was late getting to work, going out to the Conservatory branch at Bir Zeit where we sang songs under the stars and ate pomegranates, joining an impromptu street hockey game while waiting for a taxi home, singing along with my ipod to a bunch of guys watching me walk by, spending a few hours walking around the Old City in Jerusalem and praying at the Western Wall, seeing my students improve in only a few weeks, and (possibly the best thing I've done here so far) spending a day in the countryside harvesting olives with an entire Palestinian family - this was such a special experience for me, to get in touch with the "real" Palestine, not the garbage you see on the news, but the generous, funny, and kind people who work this land and who do not deserve having it taken out of their grasp more and more.
The garbage situation here is quite bothersome to me. There is no real system for garbage disposal except to occasionally throw things in the bin where it is taken to be burned somewhere. The streets are littered with garbage and the fields are full of plastic bottles - it's really quite heartbreaking! Unfortunately, getting a recycling plant into Palestine is incredibly difficult since transporting large machinery from Israel is a big problem.
The truth is that Palestine is an occupied country. They are surrounded by another territory that is entirely hostile to them. Many residents of Ramallah are not allowed to travel to Jerusalem, only 6 km away. Many of these same residents grew up in Jerusalem and had their homes taken from them by the Israelis. *sigh* As much as I would have preferred to avoid the political situation here, it's near-to impossible and the more I try to avoid it, the more I feel a bit idiotic. Because honestly, the situation is ridiculous - that so many people have had their land taken from them and are under such restrictions! Of course I don't have the answer to this problem but I sure hope that one day it gets figured out...
Anyway, that's sort of my preliminary thoughts on being here over the last 2.5 weeks.
The weather has finally cooled off - believe it or not, I truly miss the changing seasons! I also miss my family and friends, pizza, Canadian beer, East Indian/Vietnamese/Thai food, and organic nut butters.
So for those of you who do not know, I moved to Ramallah, Palestine on October 4th to teach music at the Edward Said National Conservatory of Music. I've been here for 2.5 weeks and I have to say that I really love being here. I'm teaching Viola and Violin to students in Ramallah and Nablus, and this month I'm doing a bit of teaching in Jerusalem as well.
I was definitely nervous to come here, no lies there! My biggest concern was getting through passport control in Tel Aviv. After all, I was supposed to tell them I was volunteering in Jerusalem, as opposed to working in Ramallah. Unfortunately my charm did not win over the passport guard and I was told to wait in a small room for interrogating. A lady came and asked me all kinds of questions: what I was doing, where I was staying, what my father’s name is, where my parents were born, what my religion was, what my parent’s religion was (she thought I might be Jewish), do I know anyone in Israel, how long will I be staying, will I be working with the Palestinians, why am I working in East Jerusalem (the Arabic area of the city).
It was a little nerve-wracking but I guess I did a good-enough job because they let me into the country! Unfortunately they ended up stamping my passport. I was hoping they would just give me my visa stamp on a separate piece of paper (well, they did that too, actually) because then I could have a clean passport to visit other Arabic countries. As it is now, if I want to go to Lebanon or Syria (or Iran or Saudi Arabia I guess) I will have to get a second passport since those Arabic countries do not recognize Israel and won't let you in if there is proof you have been there.
So Ramallah is a beautiful city. The streets are narrow and full of shops. It actually reminds me of Africa, and Italy too, come to think of it – the multitude of random stores selling colourful items, supermarkets on every corner, garbage piling up in alleyways, no traffic laws. Practically every five steps you take you come across a falafel stand or a juice store or a cart selling kahk (basically these giant sesame-topped bagels).
These past few weeks have been incredibly hot! The days get up to around 35 degrees and the nights cool down to maybe 29 degrees. I continue to wear what I would usually wear in Canada: shorts and tanktops, while everyone else is generally much more covered up. In fact I have never ever seen another pair of bare legs in the entire time I have been here. As such I provoke stares from just about everyone I cross pathes with when I walk to work. Generally this doesn't bother me. I either smile at people or look straight ahead and ignore the looks. Honestly it's just way too hot! Thankfully it has started to cool down over the last few days.
Some of my experiences in the city so far include: shopping at the insane fruit market where I was given nearly everything for free (!), playing my ipod for a random taxi driver who was so excited he had to call his friend right then and there to tell him about it, practically OD-ing on Knafeh (Middle-Eastern sweet consisting of sweet cheese topped with cornmeal and syrup), enjoying a concert of traditional Arabic music and being endlessly fascinated with what I was hearing, hearing a girl in a hijab say "It's so hot, why can't I wear that?" in reference to my shorts and my response to her "You can!", hitching a ride with a gravel truck driver one Friday when I was late getting to work, going out to the Conservatory branch at Bir Zeit where we sang songs under the stars and ate pomegranates, joining an impromptu street hockey game while waiting for a taxi home, singing along with my ipod to a bunch of guys watching me walk by, spending a few hours walking around the Old City in Jerusalem and praying at the Western Wall, seeing my students improve in only a few weeks, and (possibly the best thing I've done here so far) spending a day in the countryside harvesting olives with an entire Palestinian family - this was such a special experience for me, to get in touch with the "real" Palestine, not the garbage you see on the news, but the generous, funny, and kind people who work this land and who do not deserve having it taken out of their grasp more and more.
The garbage situation here is quite bothersome to me. There is no real system for garbage disposal except to occasionally throw things in the bin where it is taken to be burned somewhere. The streets are littered with garbage and the fields are full of plastic bottles - it's really quite heartbreaking! Unfortunately, getting a recycling plant into Palestine is incredibly difficult since transporting large machinery from Israel is a big problem.
The truth is that Palestine is an occupied country. They are surrounded by another territory that is entirely hostile to them. Many residents of Ramallah are not allowed to travel to Jerusalem, only 6 km away. Many of these same residents grew up in Jerusalem and had their homes taken from them by the Israelis. *sigh* As much as I would have preferred to avoid the political situation here, it's near-to impossible and the more I try to avoid it, the more I feel a bit idiotic. Because honestly, the situation is ridiculous - that so many people have had their land taken from them and are under such restrictions! Of course I don't have the answer to this problem but I sure hope that one day it gets figured out...
Anyway, that's sort of my preliminary thoughts on being here over the last 2.5 weeks.
The weather has finally cooled off - believe it or not, I truly miss the changing seasons! I also miss my family and friends, pizza, Canadian beer, East Indian/Vietnamese/Thai food, and organic nut butters.
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