Saturday, June 24, 2006
Bil'in..it's not Tel Aviv
Haaretz reports:
Anti-fence protest in Bil'in Palestinian demonstrators frustrated at the lack of international attention being directed towards the separation fence due to the World Cup soccer tournament staged a World Cup-themed protest in the West Bank village of Bil'in on Friday.
Protesters arrived decked out in World Cup garb while waving flags of countries whose teams are participating in the tournament.
Some background:
Bil'in is a village in the West Bank where a section of the separation wall has been built in the form of a barbed wire fence. A group of Israeli activists and local Bil'in-ers get together each Friday to demonstrate against it.
On the way to the demonstration:
Got on the right bus (sherut) but going to wrong way, arrived at the Central Bus Station an hour late.
4 people in the car, 3 of us hopped out to avoid a checkpoint, and we walked up a beaten path littered with cigarettes and plastic bottles. At the top of a hill, we were greeted (warmly I might add) by some local guys from Bil'in (in an Arabic-accented Hebrew) as they sat on an old car seat and communicated with someone else (our driver perhaps) via 2-way pagers. A 5 minute walk but I was scared, not sure of what though.
Then.. sitting for a few hours outside of a really nice house, 1st floor rented to ISM (International Solidarity Movement) where a bunch of kids tried (and succeeded) to sell us popcorn and chick peas. Inside, some posters of martyrs, photographs, children's drawings. Further inside (the bathroom) a number of handwritten signs concerning the importance of bathing regularly, doing one's dishes, and not clogging the toilet with toilet paper.
The demonstration:
Jewish Israelis, Palestinian Israelis, local Bil'in-ers (men and kids), a monk, a few Americans, Europeans (maybe), Asians
Some of the individuals
A flute playing Israeli woman (approx mid 50s)
An American know-it-all
Many of the young guys from Bil'in were wearing football uniforms of Argentina and Brazil and cradling a giant soccer ball (this part along with the chanting of "Argentine and Brazil" resembled a pre-game party)
For many of the activists (Palestinian and Israeli) it was routine.
On the way, I lagged behind. I recordered the procession.
At the site, a 5 or 10 minute walk from where we were, (a fence that cuts off a road and is intended to mark the location of the cement wall), soldiers waiting for us, media crews, demonstrators, kids. The soldiers looked like a combination of confused, annoyed, humored, and generally, too young.
Lots of lots of media, they looked almost as menacing as the soldiers with bulletproof vests and helmets. Many were wearing day-glo yellow with the word "Press", I took this to mean "don't shoot us, shoot them." Associated Press was there among others.
As the crowd approached the fence, a tank awaited, perched on top were a few soldiers, one of whom held an official looking 8 and 1/2 x 11 sheet paper against his chest. I thought about asking him what it said and why he was holding it out for us to see, though it's hard to read 12 point font from down below. It was also in Hebrew and I didn't think to bring my Hebrew-English dictionary with me.
A few photos ops were arranged. Once an Israeli Jeep crossed the fence, a young boy was propped on its hood hoisting a Palestinian flag. Photographers immediately gathered, the solider manning the jeep looked confused.
Once the tension rose (which resulted from sound bombs were thrown and one Palestinian guy arrested, but only after being dragged by 5 or so soldiers behind a truck and out of sight) a taxi appeared at the demonstration site with the driver shouting out some names, a bunch of the Palestinian-Israeli girls and a bunch of kids climbed in and left. Shortly after another taxi appeared, circling the area and then leaving.
I hid behind a rock for the last quarter, emerging periodically to follow around a 5 year old who kept a handful of stones behind his back. I grabbed him each time I saw his hands filled with stones and let him go only as he dropped them. It seemed as though the adults in the group were scolding the kids, the stones were too provocative for a non-violent protest. One (accidentally) hit the flute-playing Israeli who yelled back at the crowd.
The sound bombs were scary, the lesser noises (teargas canisters) were scarier, these were shot out as the crowd was heading back. I got a taste of it in the eyes and mouth, not tasty at all.
And finally,
At what our driver called the "after party" we sat with a group of locals and Israelis, drank tea brought out by the wife of one of the organizers, and answered standard questions posed by someone of Bil'in who said he was writing a book. The questions:
Name
Where are you from
Where do you work and/or what do you study
Why did you come to Bil'in today
Did your family agree with your ideas (or approve of your decision to come today)
I was able to answer the first 3 questions in Arabic, much to the amazement of some of the attendees and much to the laughter of Tal since my Arabic is very robot-like.
On our way out, more soundbombs, stone throwing, and this time, Israelis on the inside of the fence, so some of the party headed out, the International/Israeli presence seemed to be essential, there were some non-Arab bodies ready to follow any commotion. I didn't follow the commotion, I told the owners of the house that I was scared and thus, would rather stay.
And for more backgroud, here's a link to a blog by another American who was also in Bil'in (among other occupied places). His name is James and he seems like a nice guy.
Anti-fence protest in Bil'in Palestinian demonstrators frustrated at the lack of international attention being directed towards the separation fence due to the World Cup soccer tournament staged a World Cup-themed protest in the West Bank village of Bil'in on Friday.
Protesters arrived decked out in World Cup garb while waving flags of countries whose teams are participating in the tournament.
Some background:
Bil'in is a village in the West Bank where a section of the separation wall has been built in the form of a barbed wire fence. A group of Israeli activists and local Bil'in-ers get together each Friday to demonstrate against it.
On the way to the demonstration:
Got on the right bus (sherut) but going to wrong way, arrived at the Central Bus Station an hour late.
4 people in the car, 3 of us hopped out to avoid a checkpoint, and we walked up a beaten path littered with cigarettes and plastic bottles. At the top of a hill, we were greeted (warmly I might add) by some local guys from Bil'in (in an Arabic-accented Hebrew) as they sat on an old car seat and communicated with someone else (our driver perhaps) via 2-way pagers. A 5 minute walk but I was scared, not sure of what though.
Then.. sitting for a few hours outside of a really nice house, 1st floor rented to ISM (International Solidarity Movement) where a bunch of kids tried (and succeeded) to sell us popcorn and chick peas. Inside, some posters of martyrs, photographs, children's drawings. Further inside (the bathroom) a number of handwritten signs concerning the importance of bathing regularly, doing one's dishes, and not clogging the toilet with toilet paper.
The demonstration:
Jewish Israelis, Palestinian Israelis, local Bil'in-ers (men and kids), a monk, a few Americans, Europeans (maybe), Asians
Some of the individuals
A flute playing Israeli woman (approx mid 50s)
An American know-it-all
Many of the young guys from Bil'in were wearing football uniforms of Argentina and Brazil and cradling a giant soccer ball (this part along with the chanting of "Argentine and Brazil" resembled a pre-game party)
For many of the activists (Palestinian and Israeli) it was routine.
On the way, I lagged behind. I recordered the procession.
At the site, a 5 or 10 minute walk from where we were, (a fence that cuts off a road and is intended to mark the location of the cement wall), soldiers waiting for us, media crews, demonstrators, kids. The soldiers looked like a combination of confused, annoyed, humored, and generally, too young.
Lots of lots of media, they looked almost as menacing as the soldiers with bulletproof vests and helmets. Many were wearing day-glo yellow with the word "Press", I took this to mean "don't shoot us, shoot them." Associated Press was there among others.
As the crowd approached the fence, a tank awaited, perched on top were a few soldiers, one of whom held an official looking 8 and 1/2 x 11 sheet paper against his chest. I thought about asking him what it said and why he was holding it out for us to see, though it's hard to read 12 point font from down below. It was also in Hebrew and I didn't think to bring my Hebrew-English dictionary with me.
A few photos ops were arranged. Once an Israeli Jeep crossed the fence, a young boy was propped on its hood hoisting a Palestinian flag. Photographers immediately gathered, the solider manning the jeep looked confused.
Once the tension rose (which resulted from sound bombs were thrown and one Palestinian guy arrested, but only after being dragged by 5 or so soldiers behind a truck and out of sight) a taxi appeared at the demonstration site with the driver shouting out some names, a bunch of the Palestinian-Israeli girls and a bunch of kids climbed in and left. Shortly after another taxi appeared, circling the area and then leaving.
I hid behind a rock for the last quarter, emerging periodically to follow around a 5 year old who kept a handful of stones behind his back. I grabbed him each time I saw his hands filled with stones and let him go only as he dropped them. It seemed as though the adults in the group were scolding the kids, the stones were too provocative for a non-violent protest. One (accidentally) hit the flute-playing Israeli who yelled back at the crowd.
The sound bombs were scary, the lesser noises (teargas canisters) were scarier, these were shot out as the crowd was heading back. I got a taste of it in the eyes and mouth, not tasty at all.
And finally,
At what our driver called the "after party" we sat with a group of locals and Israelis, drank tea brought out by the wife of one of the organizers, and answered standard questions posed by someone of Bil'in who said he was writing a book. The questions:
Name
Where are you from
Where do you work and/or what do you study
Why did you come to Bil'in today
Did your family agree with your ideas (or approve of your decision to come today)
I was able to answer the first 3 questions in Arabic, much to the amazement of some of the attendees and much to the laughter of Tal since my Arabic is very robot-like.
On our way out, more soundbombs, stone throwing, and this time, Israelis on the inside of the fence, so some of the party headed out, the International/Israeli presence seemed to be essential, there were some non-Arab bodies ready to follow any commotion. I didn't follow the commotion, I told the owners of the house that I was scared and thus, would rather stay.
And for more backgroud, here's a link to a blog by another American who was also in Bil'in (among other occupied places). His name is James and he seems like a nice guy.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Whatdjasay?
Ah Maha.... her style, her attitude, her pronunciation... from the very first day we were wowed, and when we remembered that "wow" was the second to last letter of the alphabet, we were wowed again. While politically-personal agendas weren't on the syllabus, she embodied all of ours. For CIA girl, Maha was a witty Arab who might need her help one day, since wit and aggression go hand in hand in the eyes of the law. Maha also subverted all the stereotypes CIA girl had studied for her upcoming classified exam. This Arab showed some leg, and her necklines lowered at the same steady rate as my graded exams. But I was also intrigued by her. At first, it was her changing nail color that always matched her outfits. Later, it was the Lebanese music videos she brought for us to watch during the breaks. But by the third week, it was a few words she let slip.
---
Those few words, if only I understood what they meant... probably only some synonyms to clarify some of the words on our list of vocab. But those words most definitely were not in Arabic, nor English, nor a bunch of other languages. Were they in the language my parents used as a secret code? the language I stored in my arsenal in an attempt to decipher that code? the language of people who aren't the most likeable in the Arab world? Were those Semitic sounds emanating from Maha's mouth, in fact, Hebrew?
After that day, the day that Maha whispered those words into Tamar's ear, we progressed from "wow" (letter #27) to "yeah" (letter #28). Maha was a Palestinian, my enemy, as some might say. I was excited about this, but I wasn't sure why. Maybe this was my chance to learn something new about the conflict I think so much about. Or perhaps I thought she would have the latest Diana Haddad CDs. Or maybe I thought she could hook me up with some swell greetings or "what's ups" in the Acre dialect. Regardless, once I found out she was no ordinary Iraqi or Omani, the gossip began.
---
Those few words, if only I understood what they meant... probably only some synonyms to clarify some of the words on our list of vocab. But those words most definitely were not in Arabic, nor English, nor a bunch of other languages. Were they in the language my parents used as a secret code? the language I stored in my arsenal in an attempt to decipher that code? the language of people who aren't the most likeable in the Arab world? Were those Semitic sounds emanating from Maha's mouth, in fact, Hebrew?
After that day, the day that Maha whispered those words into Tamar's ear, we progressed from "wow" (letter #27) to "yeah" (letter #28). Maha was a Palestinian, my enemy, as some might say. I was excited about this, but I wasn't sure why. Maybe this was my chance to learn something new about the conflict I think so much about. Or perhaps I thought she would have the latest Diana Haddad CDs. Or maybe I thought she could hook me up with some swell greetings or "what's ups" in the Acre dialect. Regardless, once I found out she was no ordinary Iraqi or Omani, the gossip began.
Friday, March 17, 2006
The "United States of America" is a mudafa OR Arabic class is no place for flag-waving.
First off, a mudafa is a type of noun that could go on forever. A group of nouns becomes a mudafa when they pile on top of each other. A cow is just a noun, but the owner of the cow is a mudafa. Same goes for the house of the owner of the cow. This is all fine and good, you say, but what about when it comes to entities much more precious that livestock? Here's another example: a group of states is a noun, but a group of states that are united is a mudafa. A group of states that are united that belong to America is also a mudafa. Well, that's enough! CIA girl decided that no Egyptian, linguist or not, is going to tell her what the grand ol' US of A is or isn't. She insisted that the United States of America is a proper noun, plain and simple, and don't you dare call her elementary school history teacher a liar, thank you very much.
At first I was amused but as the minutes dragged on, I decided that CIA-girl's point would be best proved with the singing of the National Anthem, I mean let's get straight to the issue, after all, Arabic can wait.
At first I was amused but as the minutes dragged on, I decided that CIA-girl's point would be best proved with the singing of the National Anthem, I mean let's get straight to the issue, after all, Arabic can wait.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Even the shway-shway* student can make friends at La Shish.
***shway-shway= so so (but at least I'm trying)
One day, my roommate decided it was time for me to leave the house and give Al-Kitaab (our textbook) a rest. As an incentive, she took me to eat at "La Shish" in Dearborn, the home to the largest concentration of Arabs outside of the Middle East. I figured if we sat near the kitchen, I could probably glean a few words in preparation for my quiz the next day.
As the words "halib" and "khalas"* flew out the pick-up window, I thumbed through my dictionary and parroted the words out loud. I soon noticed ears perk and eyes shift. Someone must have caught on to my scheme, because the waiter began refilling our water glasses, showering us with loaves, and making the rounds around our table at an unrivaled pace. Each time this gentle fellow set down more pitas, he lingered just a few seconds longer than before. Finally, as I was about to refuse the final bread basket, a young mysterious green-eyed waiter emerged from behind the potted palms to ask me if I spoke Arabic.
* translation "halib" means "milk" and "khalas" means "enough" although actually, I couldn't catch any words outside the pick-up window aside from "habibi" meaning, "my darling"
One day, my roommate decided it was time for me to leave the house and give Al-Kitaab (our textbook) a rest. As an incentive, she took me to eat at "La Shish" in Dearborn, the home to the largest concentration of Arabs outside of the Middle East. I figured if we sat near the kitchen, I could probably glean a few words in preparation for my quiz the next day.
As the words "halib" and "khalas"* flew out the pick-up window, I thumbed through my dictionary and parroted the words out loud. I soon noticed ears perk and eyes shift. Someone must have caught on to my scheme, because the waiter began refilling our water glasses, showering us with loaves, and making the rounds around our table at an unrivaled pace. Each time this gentle fellow set down more pitas, he lingered just a few seconds longer than before. Finally, as I was about to refuse the final bread basket, a young mysterious green-eyed waiter emerged from behind the potted palms to ask me if I spoke Arabic.
* translation "halib" means "milk" and "khalas" means "enough" although actually, I couldn't catch any words outside the pick-up window aside from "habibi" meaning, "my darling"
Monday, March 06, 2006
Introducing the Cast of Characters
CIA girl was one of those millions of warm blooded, God fearing Americans whose life took a sharp right after September 11th (of the year 2001... to be specific) . And while she recognized that all that was good and pure in this infallible country of ours was now in danger, she wanted to make a difference, you know, she thought she could help out. And so since, according to her figures, only 1 percent of Arabs (living both in the U.S. and abroad) were terrorists, she figured there was a critical mass of them, 99 percent to be exact, who could use her help.
Then there were the others...
The unblinking, big-bosomed blonde was hard to get to know. For one, she was always late.
Danny was an undergraduate in political science, and I could only guess that since Arabic-speaking nations were occupying a sizeable chunk of the political arena these days, he was learning his "aleph bas" to get a piece of it.
Aisha was an Indian by way of England who learned how to read Quranic Arabic as a child, but never learned what those elegantly written words actually meant. So since she was halfway there, she thought 10 credits should fill in the gap.
Sarla was the poster child for the overworked and overeducated. A young girl of twenty-something, she already had Espanol under her belt and was on to Al-Arabi. She needed both languages for her dissertation in order to get the full picture of those transient Moroccans (women in particular) who migrate between Marrakech and Madrid.
Tamar was a Tel-Avivi suffering from a self-imposed exile in the Midwest United States. After evading the Israeli army, she left the Fertile Crescent for a stint in the Big Apple and then a few back and forths led her to forth to a PhD program in Comp. Lit. to study the great literary works of her people, and while she's at it, the great literary works of the those other people. After all, what's an Israeli without a Palestinian? And vice versa.
Jon, Jimmy, and Johnny each had a story too. Jon was a mustachioed med student. Jimmy was fond of felafel and fuul, and Johnny was undecided between pursing the path toward precious posts at the CIA or FBI, but he had some other prospects too.
That leads to me... as the daughter of an Israeli and former Cairene, I had quite a few reasons to be in this class, but how to fit them all together was beyond me. Besides wishing to decipher the lyrics of Umm Kulthum, the Egyptian diva who sung to swooning Arab crowds from the 1930s on, and died the year I was born, I also wanted to be able to order hummus at Kabab Palace using correct pronunciation, and watch Elia Suleiman's films without the hassle of the subtitle menu on my DVD player. Mostly, I was looking to answer the "vice versa" of the Israeli-Palestinian question.
Then there were the others...
The unblinking, big-bosomed blonde was hard to get to know. For one, she was always late.
Danny was an undergraduate in political science, and I could only guess that since Arabic-speaking nations were occupying a sizeable chunk of the political arena these days, he was learning his "aleph bas" to get a piece of it.
Aisha was an Indian by way of England who learned how to read Quranic Arabic as a child, but never learned what those elegantly written words actually meant. So since she was halfway there, she thought 10 credits should fill in the gap.
Sarla was the poster child for the overworked and overeducated. A young girl of twenty-something, she already had Espanol under her belt and was on to Al-Arabi. She needed both languages for her dissertation in order to get the full picture of those transient Moroccans (women in particular) who migrate between Marrakech and Madrid.
Tamar was a Tel-Avivi suffering from a self-imposed exile in the Midwest United States. After evading the Israeli army, she left the Fertile Crescent for a stint in the Big Apple and then a few back and forths led her to forth to a PhD program in Comp. Lit. to study the great literary works of her people, and while she's at it, the great literary works of the those other people. After all, what's an Israeli without a Palestinian? And vice versa.
Jon, Jimmy, and Johnny each had a story too. Jon was a mustachioed med student. Jimmy was fond of felafel and fuul, and Johnny was undecided between pursing the path toward precious posts at the CIA or FBI, but he had some other prospects too.
That leads to me... as the daughter of an Israeli and former Cairene, I had quite a few reasons to be in this class, but how to fit them all together was beyond me. Besides wishing to decipher the lyrics of Umm Kulthum, the Egyptian diva who sung to swooning Arab crowds from the 1930s on, and died the year I was born, I also wanted to be able to order hummus at Kabab Palace using correct pronunciation, and watch Elia Suleiman's films without the hassle of the subtitle menu on my DVD player. Mostly, I was looking to answer the "vice versa" of the Israeli-Palestinian question.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Welcome to Scenes from an (elementary modern standard) Arabic Class (level 101-102)
I think I may start using my blog to post drafts of my up and coming comic book. Here goes page 1.
Once upon a time there was a twenty-nine-year old girl, a woman really, who yearned for the time when she was just a little baby. Though she always acted young and immature for her age, at this point in her life, just weeks before her thirtieth birthday, she wanted to regress back in time to when she was a language-less ball of fat who spoke only goobely-guk, whose mind was just ripe for the taking-over by the Romantics, the Indo-Europeans, or the Semites. But now she was all grown up (for the most part) and the mother of all languages, English, won the battle for her mind and tongue. It beat out all those other languages that surrounded that little tot during her formative years. It defeated Spanish, the language of her pre-school buddies and her city's mayor. It defeated Hebrew, her father's first language and her mother's third (or fourth). Whatever her mother's first language was, still unknown to her, it beat that too. It beat out French, Polish, and Yiddish, all languages that appeared in her home in one way or another during her formative and malleable years. Though despite the English victory decades earlier, this girl's mind still had a small arsenal of what remained hidden, a few leftover shells lay scattered in the folds. And though this small stockpile lay in wait, and was enough to begin a mini revolution of sorts, she ignored it all and went looking for more.
Once upon a time there was a twenty-nine-year old girl, a woman really, who yearned for the time when she was just a little baby. Though she always acted young and immature for her age, at this point in her life, just weeks before her thirtieth birthday, she wanted to regress back in time to when she was a language-less ball of fat who spoke only goobely-guk, whose mind was just ripe for the taking-over by the Romantics, the Indo-Europeans, or the Semites. But now she was all grown up (for the most part) and the mother of all languages, English, won the battle for her mind and tongue. It beat out all those other languages that surrounded that little tot during her formative years. It defeated Spanish, the language of her pre-school buddies and her city's mayor. It defeated Hebrew, her father's first language and her mother's third (or fourth). Whatever her mother's first language was, still unknown to her, it beat that too. It beat out French, Polish, and Yiddish, all languages that appeared in her home in one way or another during her formative and malleable years. Though despite the English victory decades earlier, this girl's mind still had a small arsenal of what remained hidden, a few leftover shells lay scattered in the folds. And though this small stockpile lay in wait, and was enough to begin a mini revolution of sorts, she ignored it all and went looking for more.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
High Noon
I just finished watching High Noon (at 7pm), a stong moral lesson is embedded in that classic, but I prefer fight scenes.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Ticket to Jerusalem
Hello all after a long hiatus. I have now joined the internet revolution and have access at home, which will give me lots more time for blogging and "surfing". Thanks to Francie, I also now have a TV/VCR/DVD combo. With all these new toys, I won't be leaving the house for awhile, but I'd appreciate it if someone could come by every so often to take my pulse.
Today I watched after waiting months for its arrival in our legendary library, "Ticket to Jerusalem" by Rashid Masharawi. And now I'm kicking myself for being such a film snob, low production values but great story! It's about a guy who's unemployed but has a 35mm film projector that he carts around the West Bank showing films to kids, crossing checkpoints to do it and battling all sorts of obstacles. I suspect that in the filming, that the actor actually waited in line at checkpoints only to stay in character in order to argue with Israeli soldiers on film. I don't think I've ever seen a film that puts fiction out into the streets. Very ambitious but loosely written and edited. More on that later...
Today I watched after waiting months for its arrival in our legendary library, "Ticket to Jerusalem" by Rashid Masharawi. And now I'm kicking myself for being such a film snob, low production values but great story! It's about a guy who's unemployed but has a 35mm film projector that he carts around the West Bank showing films to kids, crossing checkpoints to do it and battling all sorts of obstacles. I suspect that in the filming, that the actor actually waited in line at checkpoints only to stay in character in order to argue with Israeli soldiers on film. I don't think I've ever seen a film that puts fiction out into the streets. Very ambitious but loosely written and edited. More on that later...
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