signing off

I didn't realize that someone is actually reading this thing, so Kathleen, and everyone else, I apologize for not wrapping this thing up. Yes, I'm back in the free-world for a length of time yet-to-be-determined. I wanted to report back on Nablus and Sabastiya, two places definitely worth noting, but since I hate goodbyes, I'll just leave you with a picture of each.


A room of a palace in Sabastiya (Qasr Al Kayed aka: قصر الكايد -- It was restored by Riwaq)



Tuqan olive oil soap factory in Nablus

dreaming of a white Ramallah

When Palestinians want to let loose, they're going to do it full throttle. It snowed yesterday and though the whole city shut down, the shabab were out pelting innocent bystandards with snowballs and I think that by now, as a result of two intifadas, an entire population has accurate aim and a good arm genetically imprinted. I stayed home yesterday but today I ventured out and I didn't even get ten steps into the Manara until I was pelted from above. I screamed in a pretty girlie way which prompted some guy to get out and yell at the kids up above, but he only got pelted in return. It was chaos and I had to walk along hugging the edge of the storefronts to avoid being shot at. Now if they tried to get me from the street level, I'd be ready, but they really had an unfair advantage. I guess they finally deserve it.

So on my way home, I ran into Omar (one of several that I've met while here, but I believe this is my first mention of this one in particular). Since both he and I were in the middle of doing nothing at all, we took a walk around the outskirts of Ramallah and talked about bad American TV (Dr. Phil, Oprah and Inside Edition), Arab nationalism, foreign leftists in Palestine, and role of African Americans in US history. I never really spent a lot of time with Omar but I have to say that today was one of my favorite days here, walking around and taking it easy while the city was out pelting snowballs and making snowmen. Even the sulta was having a good time.


sulta = Palestinian authority

Kamal at Qalandia

Remember the old days when your mom would hear from a friend or a friend-of-a-friend that there's a nice single shab from so-and-so's family who's looking to meet a bint of good repute and after a proper introduction over tea and cookies, the nervous couple would go to a movie or something like that? Times are really changing.. I don't mean the fact the girls and boys now hang out at bars and clubs to scope each other out. I'm also not talking about all this cyber-dating that guys and gals are into lately. I'm talking about checkpoints. I mean, it makes perfect sense. If you're stuck waiting with a whole bunch of others and there's some cutie in line, why not make the best use of your time and "put the moves on" as they say.

So today I was at Qalandia, which not only houses one of the largest checkpoints in the West Bank, but also has the most reliable post office in the Ramallah area. Anyhow, I learned my lesson from the last time I needed to post a letter and so I didn't just pick the shortest line this time. A few weeks ago, I found myself stuck between two gates, unable to go one way toward Jerusalem or the other way back to Ramallah all while some 19-year-old soldier behind the gate controls was presumably having a good laugh safely tucked on the other side of all that bullet proof glass and hidden cameraworks. So this time, I went all the way to the end to the one and only terminal that leads to the post office. There were about 10 or so people waiting and no soldier in sight, nobody was crossing and some old lady with a cane and a village style embroidered dress had given up and was sitting on the floor right next to the metal turnstile. So I turn to some random guy and ask him how long everyone has been waiting. A half hour he says. I ask if anyone has gone though and he says no. I'd like to say that our conversation was as easy to understand as I'm relaying it right now, but in fact, a few times this guy tried to switch languages, presumably to communicate a little easier. He insists that he speaks Hebrew well but I tell him that my Hebrew is just like my Arabic so sorry, switching to the language that would surely get me a lot of stares isn't going to help. So as I understand it, he tells me to use another line and I explain that I need the post office. He continues to give me advice and assures me that I can get to the post office using one of the other terminals. Against my better judgment, I agree to get in another line. He tells me that he wants to give me his phone number so that when I cross the checkpoint I should tell the soldiers that there are a bunch of people waiting over here. Anyhow, I think this is what's going on, but I tell him that first of all, I'm sure the soldiers already know that there are people waiting here, and second, why exactly should I give his phone number to some soldier? I can't tell if it's his Arabic that I don't understand or his logic. Finally he says, ok, the phone number is for me. I laughed and got in line, but a minute later he comes to my line and tells me that the other one has started to move and again, insists that I should call him if I ever need any help or any friends. All I had to say was that this whole phone number incident is mish aadi and that was enough for him to get the hint (not the bint). So Kamal, thanks for your help at the hajiz but I'm an old fashioned kind of girl. If our mothers introduced us, maybe we could have had a future together, but contrary to what my Zionist, spamming, second-cousin-once-removed thinks, I see no maternal qualities in the State of Israel and its military machine, checkpoints included.

Glossary:
shab = young guy
bint = girl (and incidentally, also "daughter" and "queen")
mish aadi = not normal or not customary
hajiz = checkpoint (though Palestinians will also use an Arabized version of the Hebrew ... mahsoum)

More than KULSHI

Hello everyone, and Adwan in particular... Adwan. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of posting an excerpt of your e-mail on my blog. Although you are in Denmark, I think that the combination of your paternal Palestinian-ness and the fact that you're asking me to write about a Ramallah-moment constitutes a blog post. Your reference to Emily Jacir also means that I am obliged, as an artist and lover of her work, to make this public. So ok guys, please read below for Adwan's request and read further for the response. I wish I thought of taking a picture, to sweeten up this post but, oh well.. next time.

OK, I know that this is very stupid and unoriginal for me but I would like to ask you a favor before you leave (when is that by the way?). Would you, in best Emily Jacir style, go to the (one and only) Shawarma joint at Manara and order a chicken shawarma with not only kulshi (because by default that counter-intuitively does not give you all the good stuff they have to put in those sandwiches), but also ask for (and you have to be specific) thom, salada turkiye, sway filfil and the yellow stuff (important) they have in a plastic bottle whose name I can never remember (though they told me 100 times)? Feel free to choose yourself from traditional Shawarma roll or Baguette. If you haven't tried the baguette I can recommend it.... And then write me an e-mail about how is feels to eat it. I guess that will be as close I get to those shawarmas here in Copenhagen. It is by far not the same shawarmas you can buy here...

God, I miss those Shawarmas.

Alright, let me just be honest and tell you that I wasn't 100% on eating yet another shawarma sandwich. You, Adwan, were only here for three months this time, one could also argue that you're genetically predisposed to enjoying shawarma, but I'm approaching six so I'm not feeling all that nostalgic for shawarmas right now. Hamburgers, yes... apple pie, yes... shawarma, no. But for reasons which will remain secret, I thought I should consider it my patriotic duty to fulfill this simple request.

So I attended a chamber music concert this evening at the Friends Meeting House. It was about four or five kids playing cellos.. they were nervous, it was very sweet. I was with a girl I just met, totally randomly, in Jerusalem last weekend. So when I asked her if she wanted dinner, and she said that she just ate, I figured, well.. let me get this shawarma thing for Adwan over with so I can enjoy the rest of my two weeks in Ramallah. Unfortunately, since I wasn't anticipating this moment tonight, your e-mail wasn't fresh in my mind and the only things I could remember besides kulshi was the salada turkiye and the yellow stuff. So, I said kulshi twice and each time the guy pointed to something I said yes and repeated kulshi.. so much in fact, that he also asked me if I wanted Abed (the guy who takes the money and found the passport) with my sandwich (something I didn't quite understand, but Renad translated for me). Anyhow, I'll say first of all, thank you for introducing me to the baguette option. Great bread-to-meat proportion. Second, I think that yellow stuff was good, but I think I also took some stuff that you didn't ask me to add, which was this red hot pepper looking stuff and that stuff kinda took over the flavor of the whole sandwich. It burned my throat a little too. Still, even though I wasn't looking forward to yet another shawarma, it felt good. Not only did it satisfy my hunger but all that hot stuff warmed me up which is hard to do nowadays. I've been sleeping with a hot water bottle lately (which makes all the difference), but maybe I'll trade it in for a shawarma sandwich.

For all you newcomers to Ramallah, you too can have this experience. If you're on the Manara, go down Rukab Street (I know) and it's the first shawarma place on the left, right after the guy who sells Made-in-China backpacks and before the staircase that you'd take to get to Stars & Bucks. The shawarma really is great and the guys who work there are pretty cool too.

Glossary:
kulshi = everything
thom = garlic
salada turkiye = Turkish salad
filfil = pepper

helicopters, beatings, and curfew

I know what you're thinking.. you're thinking that there was some kind of incursion in Ramallah. Well, yes.. there was.... kind of. But it wasn't from the usual suspects this time. Today, it was from my own god-fearing president G.W. Bush. And while strangers are generally welcomed by Palestinians, Bush is no stranger to these parts. Palestinians may be welcoming but they're not suckers, so don't expect a warm welcome if you're.. well...

The word on the streets last night was to stay indoors and away from windows, and anyone on his rooftop risks being shot so plan your laundry load ahead of time. Certain streets, including mine, were allegedly closed. Al Manara was certainly closed, both to foot traffic and traffic traffic. So as all my close friends know, I'm not much of a risk-taker when it comes to snipers and police, so I tried to stay in bed this morning rather than go to the house a 5-minute walk away where I'm tutoring two girls for their TOEFL. Their mother, however, assured me that things were ok and so I went. I only found out later than many others also ventured out, but for the purpose of protesting George's visit. A bunch got beaten and arrested and released (including Omar and Hindi). Reem got them out posing as a translator for their "lawyer" who was a 20-year-old American guy with a self made haircut.

recurring dreams

I don't know what's wrong with me, but lately I've been dreaming about Palestinian floor tiles. Maybe something from a past life.. if I believed in that kinda thing. These are from a house in Birzeit.

now here's where it gets tricky

I know you've all come around here looking for stories, happy and sad, coming out of the not-quite-recognized country known by most of the locals around me -- but not by anyone working at any US Post Office and certainly not the CIA nor its Israeli counterpart -- as Palestine. Today, however, I spent part of the day in Jaffa aka Yafa aka Yafo. So where was I you may or may not wonder? Is my day in Jaffa/Yafa/Yafo worthy of a blog worthy of the title, Misadventures in Palestine? Well before I get into the answer, let me relay a conversation I had via text message with my roommate, Reem, awhile back. From the Ramallah-Jerusalem bus, I sent her a message telling her to finish my fresh-squeezed orange juice that I left in the fridge because I was going to be out of town for a few days. Fresh OJ is really best the first day. She responded with a question... Am I going out of the country? Actually, I didn't know how to respond, and if she was someone else, I would have thought it was certainly some kind of trick. My response.. it depends on how you define country. That day, I was going to Tel Aviv. She sent me an sms-style laugh, but no definition to clarifythe answer to her own question.

I experienced a similar contradiction that same weekend when I bought some olives at the Shuk HaCarmel in Tel Aviv and I asked the seller where they were from, he said, "from the country." Exactly where? He said, from Ramallah. Is Tel Aviv really in the same country as Ramallah? OK ok, hold it right there. Which country is everyone talking about?



So back to my day in.. let's just keep it simple.. in Yafa. As you have probably guessed, Yafa is on the other side of both the wall and the green line. Yeah, way way on the other side. So if there are so many Palestinians around there, I guess I was in Palestine right? To answer that question is to go further back in history than I'm really ready for right now, but just think what could have happened if things didn't turn out the way they did. I'll just say this, I got so caught up with all those Palestinian stuck behind one side of the wall, I forgot about all those Palestinians stuck on the other side. And while you may be thinking, well at least some Palestinians don't need to be locked in Gaza to have seaside property, think again. I saw some brand new construction taking place just a stones throw from some homes that look like they've been there for quite awhile, and some empty spaces that probably weren't always so empty. Don't think I'm saying anything that people don't already know, cause I saw a few tourist maps plastered around the neighborhood that were stamped with teeny tiny bulldozers. I guess if artists can't keep houses from being demolished, at least they can make maps.



To be honest, I'm still not sure if I was in Palestine this afternoon. I'd really like to say yes, I was. But while I have no problem testing out my lousy Arabic in any mini-market in Ramallah, I feel a little weird doing the same exact thing in Yafa.

P.S. I've noticed that when Palestinians - the ones who allow me to butcher a Koranic language when asking for directions - talk about their comrades with the blue-ID cards, they generally refer to them as '48 Palestinians. Same goes for .. ahem.. Israel. So if we need a numeric answer to a tricky question, the answer is 48.

wrong numbers don't make friends

Hussein! In case you're reading this, this apology is a long time overdue. Tomorrow, in fact, it will be three months overdue according to the e-mail I sent to Karin on October 2nd. Look, when I saw Islam on the street and I took down your phone number, I somehow added an extra 7. And seven is (was) my lucky number. I guess my general paranoia made me think that the Hebrew-speaking Thai guy on the other lines was some big joke. Then my general dislike for phone calling got in the way and it basically took me this long (minus a week and a half) to realize my mistake. I really do hope we can hang out before I go...

Eid in Jenin

There's really a lot to report this holiday season. First off, last week was the Eid. Eid Al Adha to be specific and I got to spend one day of it in a village north of Jenin. Danielle and I visited a colleage of hers in his village, and of course, whenever you leave your house around here, you return with stories to tell.

First off, when we arrived we were greeted by everyone as per semi-usual: father, kids, brothers, mother -- the wives and sisters were in the next room, apparently laying low due to the presence of a not-quite-close-enough male family member. The unusual part was that they were sitting in what was slowly becoming a pretty dim room. I could just barely make out faces. By the time it got unequivocally dark, I was actually used to it and forgot about how weird it was to be sitting in the dark with a bunch of strangers, but then someone mentioned that the power was out, something that apparently happens quite frequently, and that they were hoping that any minute it would be restored. Meanwhile, the woman of the house (our host's mother) lit a small lamp of sorts and all began to make sense.

The sad stuff: The not-quite-close-enough family member was the husband of an absent sister. And the story that follows his family is as follows. He is one of those one-plus-something-million Palestinians living within Israel's semi-internationally accepted borders. He is from Umm Al Fahem and has Israeli citizenship and is pretty much free to travel anywhere except for those countries boycotting Israel (Syria, Lebanon, Iran.. maybe/probably more) and, due to one of many of Israel's laws that are designed to divide and conquer, Palestinian Authority areas. However, he said that since today was Eid, Israel relaxed that law in question and he was able to visit family on the other side of the Green Line. His wife, however, was not. She's not an Israeli citizen but rather a West Bank ID holder. Apparently, after some negotiation though the Israeli courts, she was permitted to live with her husband and kids in Israel despite her West Bank residency status, however, she can't go back and forth. So Eid Mubarak! She's stayed at home with a little one while dad took the other two kids to visit grandma and grandpa.

More sad stuff: It was kind of hard not to notice the photo-montaged poster that included a guy holding a pretty big gun, hung right up in the living room alongside more photos of the same guy, posing in your average family snapsot style settings. There was actually the same photo-montage in a sort of permanent light box display right outside the house's front gates. Unfortunately, it gets pretty easy to recognize a martyr poster and so it soon became apparent that this guy was the missing brother of our host. He was assassinated in his home by some Palestinians collaborating with Israeli intelligence. His wife went back to live her her parents along with their 25-day-old kid. According to our host, when collaborators don't have information to satisfy their bosses, they make up whatever will make them happy. My guess is that he also had the bad luck to belong to one of those many political parties that Israel just plain ol' won't tolerate, even if you are just a tile-worker, which he was. The symbol on the poster belonged to Islamic Jihad... and you thought Hamas was radical

Anyhow, there's more. One brother was there with his kids while his wife was locked away in prison, and then there's our host, who - when he's not visiting his extended family in Jenin - he's living in one of those liminal spaces between the wall and the Green Line. Two different kinds of IDs living in the same house means he pretty much has to stick to that liminal space unless he doesn't mind splitting with his wife.. and don't think the landlord doesn't know that. Depending on where they are, hard to define spaces fetch a pretty penny (or agora).

Meanwhile, Danielle and I were the center of attention. Talking all night in our mix of Arabic and English really did a lot for my vocabulary, but after a bunch of sweets that kept on coming, and what I calculated to be six hours of non-stop politics (and what Danielle thought was more like eight) I had an amazing headache. That night, we slept on the floor of their living room, and a few days later, I realized that I got to know this family in the same way you get to know characters in a movie. Each one has his story, which you get to know pretty intimately, but in the end, you're just watching them from the audience. For a reason I can't put my finger on, I feel guilty about this method of getting to know someone. Witnessing suffering as cultural exchange? Nonetheless everyone seemed thrilled to have us around, we were left feeling guilty that we didn't stay longer, Danielle's friend took care of our cab fare back to Ramallah, and I got a phone call just yesterday with a second invitation.

Again, sorry that there's not much humor to share today. It's these kinds of situations coupled with food poisoning, a crashed hard drive, the flu, a broken camera, a 1000 shekel fine (which I'll mention in the next post), an ultra-zionist spammer (which I may also mention, unless I can bring myself to forget it), and the accompanying nightmares are just a few of those pesky things that have been getting in the way of a good time these days. I think I might be back in the US pretty soon.

Eid Mubarak

Today was the day before Eid Al-Adha and all of Ramallah was out. How did I spend my evening? Reem and I checked out the Chinese restaurant on Rukab Street (yes... everything seems to be on Rukab Street) and then we headed home to fight, first with an LCD projector and then with a shifty laptop, in order to watch a movie that Said (the one who talks too fast, not the other one.. both are shway majnoon though) picked out in lieu of The Godfather. You might think that if The Godfather is out, you'd get Goodfellas or Scarface, but no, Said, never having been to the US and not as seasoned as many Western movie-goers, picked out Miami Vice. So I spent night before Eid eating Chinese food while listening to Dabke music, and watching bad American cinema while eating boycotted Israeli potato chips.

shway majnoon = a little crazy

ajnabiyye

For some reason I feel like the guy who found that American passport and I have an unshakable bond. We had the life of this old guy in our hands.. him more than me really... Anyhow, everywhere I go, I seem to have to pass by that shawarma place on Rukab Street and wave or make chit chat when sometimes, I'd rather it be a silent bond. So yesterday I'm walking home at night and I'm on the opposite site of the street of the shawarma place and I hear someone shout out, ajnabiyye... but before I could get a look, I heard some guy scold the other and say tafham arabi. I think it was the shawarma guy looking out for me, that really made my night.

glossary
ajnabiyye = foreigner (female)
tafham arabi = she understands Arabic

what's the point?

This question is one that comes up quite often. It feels like everyone around here is just running around making themselves crazy putting band-aids on what really needs some serious medical attention. So I guess I should just admit that I'm not really here to "help" and I'm still thinking about the best way to answer that question. If anyone in my position has figured out the answer, I'd really welcome your comments. Til then, you should know that I'm here for purely selfish reasons. I love being in Palestine.. ok not miye bil miye, but in general... I really do. Perhaps I'll count the ways in future posts since the absurd mix of positive energy, pessimism, suspicion, and general fun makes it hard to put it all down.

And not to be too touchy feely, but I'd like to end today's post with a few photos of some kiddies that I've met while I've been here.

glossary: miye bil miye = one hundred percent


A bit of a mural at Dheisheh. I accompanied Danielle there yesterday to help finish what Rosi -- who I kinda sorta know through my Arabic class -- started via Shiraa . Hi there Rosi.. incase you're reading this...




Amani and Hidayya (and a little one who I don't know) with the fancy audio recorder post-interview with Umm Walid in her family's "home" in Jalazone. Umm Walid spoke about life in Beit Nabala before '48.. part of an ongoing project whereby kids interview their elders about life way back when. Hopefully I'll get it together soon and post some excerpts.

Oh and before I go... just a few tidbits for the future.

I may be counted in the Palestinian Authority's census.
I met the grandmother of one of my 11th grade troublemakers on a bus.
If I don't say so myself, I'm getting good at making musaqqaʿa. I can't wait to make it for my American buddies back home.

when something is so wrong, it's hard to know where to begin

It's not just me, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone around here who thinks that Palestinians are going to get anything out of this Annapolis farce. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm opposed to "peace" ... I mean really. But when Israel takes it upon itself to deploy even more of its soldiers into the West Bank and close Palestinian cities because of -- in their words-- anticipated opposition to the peace conference, well, that should make you raise an eyebrow at the very least. So now that there's a peace summit a few continents away, thousands of Palestinians are finding themselves late for work. Doesn't it seem like an odd move to piss people off right around a peace conference? Meanwhile, Gaza residents are still getting killed off one by one, and those that remain get a few more days of electricity.. but that's a separate issue... And to forget about the "facts on the ground," as human rights violations tend to be called these days, the layers of how wrong this is is pretty obvious on a quasi-international level too... not that the UN has done anything good lately anyhow.

Anyhow, apologies for this post, I know you've come to expect notes from the everyday.. after all there's no shortage of political diatribes out there on this here interweb network. But since I'm home with a cold I don't have any actual experience to report today. Yesterday, however, I saw a wonderful yet painful documentary called 33 Days by Mai Masri at Al Kasabah.

the earthquake that shook Ramallah

Ramallah has been on edge lately due to the rumored coming of an earthquake. There were two last week (or maybe the week before), one of whick shook me in my bed just after midnight. So yesterday I headed over to work (the high school in Al-Tire where I'm teaching creative writing) and everyone is hanging around outside. One of my students runs up to me and jumping up and down, he tells me that an earthquake is coming. Is this kid putting me on? Can you really predict an earthquake? But the whole school is outside including the teachers, so I began to doubt everything I may or may not have learned in public school and I figure, I guess you can... My doubting sensibilities may be the cause for my eventual downfall, if I haven't already fallen, but that's another story. At least I learned a new word .. zilzal. So classes are eventually cancelled, and actually, this is the second cancellation out of the last four for this particular class. Number one was for the alleged "Independence Day" and the second was for the alleged zilzal. The latest rumor to accompany the rumored earthquake is that the whole ordeal was started by pay-by-minute Paltel & Jawwal, the Palestinian phone and cellphone companies. Nothing like an earthquake to get you reach out and touch someone.

In other news, Monday I recorded an interview with Said's mother about her life in Beit Nabala before 1948. Wednesday I took a nice walk up a mountain with a group of kids from Jalazone. And today I slept in cause I'm coming down with a cold. Till next time, I'll leave you with a song courtesy of Said's mom.

why am I still surprised?

I know that life here is made up of a whole lotta unfair shit... the stuff that war crime tribunals are made of...so why do I still get surprised when I hear yet another story? Today I was sitting in a sheesy coffee shop with a friend, reading a story she wrote about her chronic encounters with guys, young and old, who can't seem to avoid Israeli prisons no matter how much of an upstanding (non)citizen they try to be. In fact, it seems like the more upstanding one is, the more likely it is he'll get a knock at the door one evening. So as I'm reading her story, I see Mohammed, the roommate of a friend of mine come in. I said hey... thought you were going to Spain? I don't know the details but Mohammed was invited by some organization over there to give a speaking tour about the effects of the Wall. Turns out I was right, he should have been in Spain, but the Israelis wouldn't let him out of the "country"... or rather... over the bridge that connects the West Bank with Jordan. We all know that West Bankers aren't allowed to use the airport in Tel Aviv, so they use the next one a border-line away in Jordan. Or maybe not. He told me very matter-of-factly that he's required to have a meeting with an Israeli intelligence officer before he can leave, but when he showed up to his appointment, they just made him wait a couple hours before they said, come back later. Yeah. That's how it goes.

Closure: it's not only Israeli policy

Palestinians will impose closure on their own every now and then. Today Birzeit University closed. When I arrived all ready to pay my overdue library fines, I found a confused swarm of students around the closed front gate. I saw a long(ish)-lost acquaintance of mine named Ahmad (not the one who got his window smashed... another one) and he gave me the low-down. Apparently, some students affiliated with PFLP (Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine - a communist, secular party) gave some speeches on Saturday which offended some Fatah folks. Something happened, not quite sure what... but today students were pulling others out of classes and well... apparently it got bad. I heard beatings from one and stabbings from another but honestly, I have no idea who to believe. Meanwhile, I called my professor to confirm that class was indeed cancelled. It was. Then as I watched some guys jump the fence here and there, I talked a little politics with Ahmad (who's incidentally a Hamas supporter) and a friend of his, both of whom were upset over their wasted taxi-fare. Basically, the whole thing is sadly absurd. Ahmad's prediction is that all the shabab will be sharing hummus in the cafeteria tomorrow morning... provided the university re-opens... wataniya wahadi, I think is he how it put it. When I asked whether the culprits in this (the Fatah folks) would be expelled, he said "of course not" as did a new colleague of mine who teaches Arabic at a local high school here. Apparently, Fatah has, or can get, its fingers in anything and everything around here, including private predominantly-Christian universities, so unless someone dies, all will be forgiven, or rather, ignored.

wataniya wahadi = one nation

quick catch-up

Don't worry guys, it's all cool. So just a quick update:

Thursday was "Independence Day" in Palestine. Yes... you heard me, I don't get it either. I think the guy who smashed the window of Ahmad's SUV that evening might have also been upset over the premature celebrating.

It's starting to get cold here in Ramallah and the inside of our house is colder than outside, I'm scared for winter. And a shower that resembles a drooling camel isn't helping. Can I miss my American conveniences and be anti-America at the same time? I could really use a long American shower.

I met a guy who works at a shawarma place on Rukab St. who found an American passport on the street and asked me what should be done, like I'd know right? You'd think returning it to the US Consulate would be the best thing to do, but it's tough when you have to cross one of the largest checkpoints in the West Bank to get to there... something that's impossible without your passport... especially if you're Arab, which this guy was. So no thanks to the consulate, but rather to Ramallah's small-town-ness, though e-mails and word-of-mouth, we found the guy. It took 2 days.

I almost forgot

Ramallah, I hear, is the least occupied of all the occupied territories. So if all you do is shop around town and don't talk to anyone, it might be possible to forget what's going on. Last night, however, the series of reminders began. Coming back from visiting my Arabic professor with the rest of my classmates, we got stuck at Zataara for about 1/2 an hour. A fight broke out in the traffic complete with some scary punches, a big stick, and tens of people jumping out of their cars trying to break it up. Meanwhile, our driver (a relative of our teacher) is anwering his cellphone "ya habibi.... mabsut" all while people are close to being thrown on the hood of the Ford Transit. After the crowd disperses, he turns to me and asks me if I understood what just happened. He explains, they're fighting because of the Occupation. One car cut off the other in an attempt to be that much closer to the clogged up checkpoint... the soldiers at the checkpoint are the cause of the mess yet these poor guys are fighting each other.

Then today, I went to Jalazone and met some friends-of-a-friend and learned that everyone has multiple relatives in prison. I spoke (sort of) to a woman whose son is in one now and a man who served 7 years of a 20-something year sentence during the first Intifada. I also learned that two days ago, the Israelis entered the camp at 1:30 in the morning and took six more guys. And lastly, I met another woman who fled her village of Beit Nabala in 1948. And all this is being talked about over tea and cake....

overwhelmed

I know you come to expect good time when you come to read this blog, so I apologize for the seriousness of the last entry... but these things tend to come up quite a bit around here. So I won't give you too much to digest today.. I'll just leave you with a bit of something to listen to as I tried to teach a bunch of eager kids how to record field sounds around Jalazone today.

Memorial to Adnan Khalil

I wrote this letter to the editor of The Miami Herald last night in response to the article headlined: Two clerks killed in Pompano Beach store.

Jaweed Kaleem’s article from October 25, “Two clerks killed in Pompano Beach store,” reports a truly horrific event. I cannot even bring myself to imagine that I, or anyone I am close to, could ever die such an unexpected and violent death, and yet I knew Adnan Khalil, one of the victims of this double homicide. Though I grew up in South Florida, and I am currently visiting his country of origin, I never met Mr. Khalil face to face. Less than two weeks ago I wrote a letter on his behalf to the Consulate General of Jerusalem and the U.S. State Department through my volunteer work with the Right to Enter Campaign, a grassroots campaign based in the Palestinian city of Ramallah. Mr. Khalil is an American citizen of Palestinian descent. He was born in Palestine and his wife and three children currently live in a village near the West Bank city of Tulkarem. Mr. Khalil’s wife, Manal, is not an American citizen and so when they married close to ten years ago, Mr. Khalil applied for a residency permit under a family unification program in order to live legally in the country of his birth. Since 1998, Mr. Khalil had been living intermittently in the West Bank on Israeli tourist visas. His residency application had been pending at the mercy of Israeli authorities, who are the ones who determine who can or cannot live in the West Bank. The West Bank, however, is not Israel. It is a small territory roughly the size of Delaware, which is becoming a series of enclaves where Palestinians live in between the spaces occupied by soldiers and settlers-masked-as-civilians who are living here in violation of the Fourth Geneva Convention with Israel’s military, legislative and financial support. I wrote the letter on behalf of Mr. Khalil requesting that the United States intervene with the Israeli authorities on humanitarian grounds to allow him to enter the West Bank to live with his wife and three children. Not only was he unable to exercise his rights that most of us take for granted – to live with one’s family in one’s birthplace – but during the past several years, Mr. Khalil’s life had become even more heartbreaking. He had been unable to fulfill his duty as husband to his wife who had been diagnosed with atrophy of the cerebellum and had become disabled to the point of full paralysis. Nor has he been able to be a present father to his three children who have been witnessing their mother’s health rapidly deteriorate over the past few years.

On October 21st, Mr. Khalil informed the Campaign that things were taking a turn for the better. The U.S. State Department contacted him and, without making any promises, they offered to intervene. We will never know whether Mr. Khalil would have ever been able to join his family in life, and now we are shifting our efforts to repatriate his remains so he may join them in death. Mr. Khalil never should have been in the Port Five Star Food Mart in Pompano Beach the morning of October 24th, he should have been at home with his family in Palestine. His death, and the death of Sabri Khaleq, whose story I don’t know, is unacceptable on so many levels. Unfortunately, I do not only feel like I know Mr. Khalil solely because of the letter I wrote for him. During the two short months that I have been living in Ramallah, I have met many people whose lives share the tragic traces of Mr. Khalil’s. I feel like I know him because I know many others like him. His story is the sad ending of one that Israeli authorities controlled from the beginning. I hope that we can understand the complexity of the lives of those who appear ever so briefly in the daily news, and take action when we see injustice occur.