I mean, of course we have these so called "freedoms" in the US, right. But even in that, we're not. Who is completely free anywhere? No one.
You say something against Israel, the government or a taking serious action to make change in a certain crowd or even in the internet or on your phone, and you're a terrorist, unpatriotic or a whiny liberal. WTF?
BUT this post isn't so much about the political commentary that can be had with words. This is about another kind of warfare put on to us. It's about food warfare. Every time I've gone out of the country, I notice it and every time it makes me so sick.
How come the US is the only country that continues to put poisons in our foods? I mean, of course people should do their best to stay away from processed foods, from sodas, from juices, etc that have transfat, high fructose corn syrup, aspartame, etc. Of course. But people won't always do that.
So you might say that they are getting what they deserve then.
Well how come I can eat a cookie, drink soda/juice, have some chips, etc in Palestine or Mexico or Brazil (because those are the places out of the country I've been) and not have to worry about any of the above? More importantly, how is it that some of these things are made in the same factories that ship all around the world and have different ingredients?
Just proves even more than the folks who are really in charge in the US don't want us to be healthy. They want for us (and I don't mean the elite, I mean the working class) to be sick and then not have health insurance and put more money into the pockets of the pharmaceutical companies.
Just makes me so mad and makes me wish that not only that folks read labels more carefully, but that they took more care as to what they put into their bodies in the US. Here, no one really worries about the foods they buy in the store. Aside from folks taking into too much sugar (natural kind) or cigarettes (which is a problem that is 3 times as bad here than it is in the US because EVERYONE --men and some women-- spokes at least 2 packs a day!), they don't have to worry about other poisons in their foods. Well that and they eat more nuts, olives/olive oil and probiotics than most Americans. It's the so called "Mediterranean" diet. And having a dinner like meal for lunch, rather than later in the evening.
Aside from the evils of the Israeli government towards Palestinians, things are pretty amazing here.
Too bad I have to go back to High fructose Trans fat land in 2 days.
Lucky for me I stay away from the bad crap. Except for too much caffeine... ;/ I drink way too much coffee. Eh well. What can ya do. I'm human.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Having a career and being a mother is haram?
In Palestine, like many other countries in the Mid-East and Africa (or even folks from those countries who are in the US), the role of the Mother is very important. She takes care of everything her child(ren) need. In Palestine, most people are married by at least 21 or 22. And they stay married 95% of the time. Divorce doesn't happen here much. Not because of being forced to stay though.
As my cousin Shyma explained, there are people in place to help mediate at every juncture of the marriage. She's one of those people. She's not a therapist or a lawyer. She's a nurse. But because she's the head staff nurse at 2 large clinics and a hospital (she shares her time between them), she has a lot of interaction with the women who come. She doesn't do the medical stuff with them and their children. She talks to them about their lives, their problems. How to best work things out. That's how many people work things out here. And it works.
She has many young mothers come through (pediatrics is her specialty, but she works with the mothers as well as people too) to help them deal with being a mother because so many of them just got married or have been married for a while and now have a baby to take care of and although they have the help of their families, they don't feel like they are up to being mothers. Sound familiar? Only here, someone will help you. You won't be left high and dry to just work it out. And people helping you actually care. I guess that's the difference between social work in the US and social work here. The people have BEEN directly affected by the issue and so they know what it's like. As opposed to so many Social Workie folks in the US who have no idea what its like and start to not care.
The problem though with this now is that my cousin is being there for all these women and working a lot. She's at home still, doing things, but with very limited she. She also has a 2 1/2 year old and 4 year old. She's there for them as much as she can be. But she also wants to do her job. Her kids are at my aunts house, their grandmothers, after school when she's done teaching so it's no problem and then my cousin picks them up. She'll hang out here and then go home. She says her husband use to never help out, but now he helps a little bit. It would be one thing if she wasn't working full time AND helping her father with his driving school, but she is. In the US, it's "Normal" behavior if you're working a lot for whatever reason and someone else has to watch your kids, you do what you have to do and spend some time with them. Here that's no acceptable. My aunt says it's a sin. It's a sin to have a demanding career and kids and have to sacrifice some time? Hm. Perhaps, but it's reality. She's trying to save up to build a house. That's going to take work. She's going to have to sacrifice some time. And besides, that's what grandma's are for, right? I'm sure if it was up to my cousin, she would have waited a little while longer to get married. She's 26. She's been married 4 years. They don't really do birth control here. Of course she could get some since she's a nurse, but like the Catholics, it's grow and prosper here.
And don't get me wrong. She loves her kids and her husband. She was in love with him before they got married, so it wasn't like a random forced marriage. They went to college together. He graduated 2 years before her, but they kept in touch. He went to her dad and asked to marry her and they said to wait until she graduated and they did. She was grateful that her father did that. She probably would have never finished school if she got married at 19. She probably would have had more children and not following her dreams.
She feels the stress though,as any young mother would, to have her children and her job. To not get burnt out from doing both full time and trying to make a house. Of course it's harder when her husband wont cook or clean. It makes it harder. But hell, that's not new. That's been the role play for a long time all over the place. Of course in the US, if the dad sticks around, it can possibly be more of a partnership.
I told her to talk with him. She has. He's better than he used to be, she says.
I told her that sometimes with men that come from this kind of thinking, you have to trick them into doing more. She agreed. It just is the way it is. What can she do?
She said that things were nice, all lovey before they got married and when they first got married and then after a bit of time, she saw that he was different than she though and he saw that she was different than she thought. Sounds familiar, but for different reasons. In the US, folks say it's because "people change" after marriage in terms of what they want and commitment and all that. Clearly folks aren't spending enough time with each other, living with each other, knowing each other BEFORE they get married. But in my cousins instance, it's more like he thought she'd be a submissive yes sir wife who would above all put her family before her career and do everything for him on hands and knees...or something along those lines. And she thought he was the perfect guy, who would do romantic gestures all the time and help her, not treat her like a servant and then be a more active father once the kids came. They both had a fantasy that wasn't very close to reality and after 4 years of marriage, they are learning that they're going to have to really work with each other and be a partnership...even if it still won't be equal, it's better than it use to be. Hopefully it'll continue to get better for her.
Why is it a bad thing to have your career and your family? Sometimes it's gonna be hard. Sometimes you're going to spend more time at work, than with your kids. Any young adult trying make a better life for their family is going to go through this. She's not rich. She has to work for what she needs to do. If she wants to send her kids to college. If she wants to build a house (folks don't really buy houses here... they buy a plot of land and build a house on it...it's waaaaaaay less expensive to do all of that than it will ever be to buy a house in the US...crazy huh?)
Just wanted to write about that a bit.
I'm getting distracted, so I'll leave it that that.
As my cousin Shyma explained, there are people in place to help mediate at every juncture of the marriage. She's one of those people. She's not a therapist or a lawyer. She's a nurse. But because she's the head staff nurse at 2 large clinics and a hospital (she shares her time between them), she has a lot of interaction with the women who come. She doesn't do the medical stuff with them and their children. She talks to them about their lives, their problems. How to best work things out. That's how many people work things out here. And it works.
She has many young mothers come through (pediatrics is her specialty, but she works with the mothers as well as people too) to help them deal with being a mother because so many of them just got married or have been married for a while and now have a baby to take care of and although they have the help of their families, they don't feel like they are up to being mothers. Sound familiar? Only here, someone will help you. You won't be left high and dry to just work it out. And people helping you actually care. I guess that's the difference between social work in the US and social work here. The people have BEEN directly affected by the issue and so they know what it's like. As opposed to so many Social Workie folks in the US who have no idea what its like and start to not care.
The problem though with this now is that my cousin is being there for all these women and working a lot. She's at home still, doing things, but with very limited she. She also has a 2 1/2 year old and 4 year old. She's there for them as much as she can be. But she also wants to do her job. Her kids are at my aunts house, their grandmothers, after school when she's done teaching so it's no problem and then my cousin picks them up. She'll hang out here and then go home. She says her husband use to never help out, but now he helps a little bit. It would be one thing if she wasn't working full time AND helping her father with his driving school, but she is. In the US, it's "Normal" behavior if you're working a lot for whatever reason and someone else has to watch your kids, you do what you have to do and spend some time with them. Here that's no acceptable. My aunt says it's a sin. It's a sin to have a demanding career and kids and have to sacrifice some time? Hm. Perhaps, but it's reality. She's trying to save up to build a house. That's going to take work. She's going to have to sacrifice some time. And besides, that's what grandma's are for, right? I'm sure if it was up to my cousin, she would have waited a little while longer to get married. She's 26. She's been married 4 years. They don't really do birth control here. Of course she could get some since she's a nurse, but like the Catholics, it's grow and prosper here.
And don't get me wrong. She loves her kids and her husband. She was in love with him before they got married, so it wasn't like a random forced marriage. They went to college together. He graduated 2 years before her, but they kept in touch. He went to her dad and asked to marry her and they said to wait until she graduated and they did. She was grateful that her father did that. She probably would have never finished school if she got married at 19. She probably would have had more children and not following her dreams.
She feels the stress though,as any young mother would, to have her children and her job. To not get burnt out from doing both full time and trying to make a house. Of course it's harder when her husband wont cook or clean. It makes it harder. But hell, that's not new. That's been the role play for a long time all over the place. Of course in the US, if the dad sticks around, it can possibly be more of a partnership.
I told her to talk with him. She has. He's better than he used to be, she says.
I told her that sometimes with men that come from this kind of thinking, you have to trick them into doing more. She agreed. It just is the way it is. What can she do?
She said that things were nice, all lovey before they got married and when they first got married and then after a bit of time, she saw that he was different than she though and he saw that she was different than she thought. Sounds familiar, but for different reasons. In the US, folks say it's because "people change" after marriage in terms of what they want and commitment and all that. Clearly folks aren't spending enough time with each other, living with each other, knowing each other BEFORE they get married. But in my cousins instance, it's more like he thought she'd be a submissive yes sir wife who would above all put her family before her career and do everything for him on hands and knees...or something along those lines. And she thought he was the perfect guy, who would do romantic gestures all the time and help her, not treat her like a servant and then be a more active father once the kids came. They both had a fantasy that wasn't very close to reality and after 4 years of marriage, they are learning that they're going to have to really work with each other and be a partnership...even if it still won't be equal, it's better than it use to be. Hopefully it'll continue to get better for her.
Why is it a bad thing to have your career and your family? Sometimes it's gonna be hard. Sometimes you're going to spend more time at work, than with your kids. Any young adult trying make a better life for their family is going to go through this. She's not rich. She has to work for what she needs to do. If she wants to send her kids to college. If she wants to build a house (folks don't really buy houses here... they buy a plot of land and build a house on it...it's waaaaaaay less expensive to do all of that than it will ever be to buy a house in the US...crazy huh?)
Just wanted to write about that a bit.
I'm getting distracted, so I'll leave it that that.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thurs Oct 23rd in Jerusalem and then some
Today I went to the Orthodox Russian Church of Mary Magdalene, to the birth place of the Virgin Mary and to her Tomb. I wanted to do more walking to other sites and churches, but today I was just too tired.
This morning I felt so tired but like I could handle it. And on the bus ride into Jerusalem, I started feeling a bit nauseated, but felt better when I got off the bus and starting walking and getting some fresh air. But I just dragged and dragged once I had to climb up hill and then down to get to the Churches. Definitely wasn't even a quarter of what I did Tues but I still felt it.
I guess I didn't get a good enough rest last night. I would have just left and went back to my Aunts casa, but I'm seeing Nihaya's mom today so I need to stay in the area.
So I'm in a cafe getting a snack so I don't fall over. Maybe I didn't eat enough this morning for all this walking. Then again I felt full. I think my body has had it's fill of white flour khubbuz. Maybe it's time for some wheat or whole grain if I can get it, but I doubt it. Maybe just no khubbuz at all. LAH KHUBBUZ!!!!
I'll use my hands instead.
That's what'll make you fat. All that damn bread. Ha! I say that as I eat a bit more with my hummus and tabouli! I'm glad I've been walking up and down so many hills and mounts.
5 more days until I'm back in NYC. I almost can't believe a month passed and I've seen all this stuff and there's still so much more to see. I wonder what else I can see before I go? Not sure where else I can go? I've got 70 Shekels left. That's like $20 or so. I can go to the party tonight for 40 Sheks. Fri not so much goes on because its sabbath. Sat I may go to my cousins. And sun and mon? I don't know. Going some where will cost more money. Maybe there's a show I can go to or just hang with my cousins or do more writing. I don't want to have to take money out of the bank since when I get back the first of the month is days away.
Gotta get back to reality now. Real life. Yay!
Maybe I'll just hang out with my cousins. I'm sure my Uncle also wants me to come back to Beit Rima for a day or 2 and that doesn't cost anything....except a bit of sanity...
I also wonder what I'll be thinking once I go back to the US. I wonder if the peace and connection to whatever higher power will last. It's not as if connections with God are severed across the world. I just live in a place where slowing down isn't always an option and in the bustle of living, you forget your peace. Get lost in your caffeine and don't know how to get back to connect.
I hope I can still stay connected. I hope to not get so lost in the shuffle that I lose the peace I've acquired over this month.
What's interesting though s that I haven't really been working on my self reflecting book. I've been writing in my other story. Doing these blogs. Writing emails to folks. But when writing about my life in the book I was working on, I sort of haven't felt compelled to write anything about it. Not sure why. Maybe I've done enough self reflecting in my blogs and in myself to feel sated on the need to do it. Who knows. All the writing I've done though is enough to add to the book for later anyway and to point it into the direction and the theme of what the book is about.
I also realized that I still didn't get too much more info on my dad. Maybe thats also something I can do this weekend. Grill my aunt and uncle on information on my dad. That'll inspire me to write. As hard as it will be to do, I'll do it.
I think it'll make the bond and connection to the peace I've gotten a bit of be stronger while I'm back in NY.
This morning I felt so tired but like I could handle it. And on the bus ride into Jerusalem, I started feeling a bit nauseated, but felt better when I got off the bus and starting walking and getting some fresh air. But I just dragged and dragged once I had to climb up hill and then down to get to the Churches. Definitely wasn't even a quarter of what I did Tues but I still felt it.
I guess I didn't get a good enough rest last night. I would have just left and went back to my Aunts casa, but I'm seeing Nihaya's mom today so I need to stay in the area.
So I'm in a cafe getting a snack so I don't fall over. Maybe I didn't eat enough this morning for all this walking. Then again I felt full. I think my body has had it's fill of white flour khubbuz. Maybe it's time for some wheat or whole grain if I can get it, but I doubt it. Maybe just no khubbuz at all. LAH KHUBBUZ!!!!
I'll use my hands instead.
That's what'll make you fat. All that damn bread. Ha! I say that as I eat a bit more with my hummus and tabouli! I'm glad I've been walking up and down so many hills and mounts.
5 more days until I'm back in NYC. I almost can't believe a month passed and I've seen all this stuff and there's still so much more to see. I wonder what else I can see before I go? Not sure where else I can go? I've got 70 Shekels left. That's like $20 or so. I can go to the party tonight for 40 Sheks. Fri not so much goes on because its sabbath. Sat I may go to my cousins. And sun and mon? I don't know. Going some where will cost more money. Maybe there's a show I can go to or just hang with my cousins or do more writing. I don't want to have to take money out of the bank since when I get back the first of the month is days away.
Gotta get back to reality now. Real life. Yay!
Maybe I'll just hang out with my cousins. I'm sure my Uncle also wants me to come back to Beit Rima for a day or 2 and that doesn't cost anything....except a bit of sanity...
I also wonder what I'll be thinking once I go back to the US. I wonder if the peace and connection to whatever higher power will last. It's not as if connections with God are severed across the world. I just live in a place where slowing down isn't always an option and in the bustle of living, you forget your peace. Get lost in your caffeine and don't know how to get back to connect.
I hope I can still stay connected. I hope to not get so lost in the shuffle that I lose the peace I've acquired over this month.
What's interesting though s that I haven't really been working on my self reflecting book. I've been writing in my other story. Doing these blogs. Writing emails to folks. But when writing about my life in the book I was working on, I sort of haven't felt compelled to write anything about it. Not sure why. Maybe I've done enough self reflecting in my blogs and in myself to feel sated on the need to do it. Who knows. All the writing I've done though is enough to add to the book for later anyway and to point it into the direction and the theme of what the book is about.
I also realized that I still didn't get too much more info on my dad. Maybe thats also something I can do this weekend. Grill my aunt and uncle on information on my dad. That'll inspire me to write. As hard as it will be to do, I'll do it.
I think it'll make the bond and connection to the peace I've gotten a bit of be stronger while I'm back in NY.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Jerusalem Day 3/Mt of Olives
I climbed a mountain on Tuesday! It's not like the way other mountains can be. Along it's slopes are churches, houses, schools, tombs, graves and lots and lots of Trees. Olive Trees.
After being exhausted from my trek around Jerusalem on Monday, I got up pretty late. I planned on getting up early again around 7:30am but didn't really get up until 10:30am or so. Was just so tired. And I didn't get to Jerusalem until about 1pm. That was a bad move. A lot of the stuff on the Mount is opened earlier in the day. Then closes for a few hours, then may or may not open again in the afternoon. So I have to go back on Thursday morning to see what I want to see during the morning hours.
I climbed the mount, feeling the joints and bones in my legs, my knees, my body, popping and bending in pain. BUT I went on. I felt that it was what I needed to do. Cab drivers asked if I wanted a ride up, but I knew I had to walk it. I'm glad I did.
I saw an amazing view of the Dome of the Rock, of the Churches and of the lands from on top of the Mount. The higher I got, the better the view and the more I saw. It was amazing. I took pictures every step of the way. It was a hard walk and at times I thought I couldn't go on, but I did. The walk is very steep so that you must bend over as you walk up the hill and bend back walking slowly as you come down.
Along the way, I saw the Tombs of the Prophets, The Jewish grave yard, the Church of the Ascension, The Church of All Nations, the Garden of Gethsemane, the Church of Dominus Flevit, the Church of Pater Noster, and passed along the Church Mary Magdalene which I have to visit later because it was closed when I got there. Yeah, I saw a lot. All of this is on the Mount of Olives, along the way up.
Each time I go some place new, I stop, say a prayer and look at the sites. It's amazing how large everything is. All the way up at the top, past the Pater Noster, the Church of Ascension sits. Yousef one of the men who stays by the door welcomes me to come anytime. The church is closed, but he let me in to the grounds to look at the garden and the outside. I'm a Palestinian and I'm Beit Rima. He must let me in, he says. He must welcome me. I feel good that it's finally good thing to be a Palestinian.
Down at the base of the mount is where the Church of All nations is and where the garden of Gethsemane lie. I look into the garden where the oldest Olive trees in the entire country are. They date farther than 2,000 years. The olives grow thick and green. They are uneaten. Unpicked. I look off down the path and image where Jesus and his apostles sat together their last night. I can almost see them, how they seem to me in my mind, different from the images I've seen. Jesus sitting, looking at them, talking, before his arrest.
The view and the day climbing up and down the mountain was amazing. Although I was completely exhausted and in pain by the end of the day, it was well worth it. Took me a while, but it was okay. I felt blessed to have been able to make the journey.
(Writing from that night)
Now I sit in a restaurant across from the bus station eating chicken and mushrooms and drinking the local Taybeh beer. It's a lot like bass, but plainer. I had a very long day of walking. I can hardly sit up. I forgot to eat today since the morning. So I had to get something.
There are so many different people to look at in here. A woman reading and marking papers. Looking very much like an American Librarian. Short brown hair. Plain black glasses. Plain black suit and gray and white shirt. Drinking Lipton. Very skinny. Could hide and never be noticed. Not ugly. Just nothing extraordinary.
An American couple is sitting off to the other corner. They are in their 60's. The wife is sipping red wine, while her husband is having a beer. Old tats lay across his forearms. Now gray hairs and glasses are what are more noticeable on his face. His was is very plain. Dim brown hair and eyes, hiding behind very big glasses. Their accents are very Minnesota. But they might even be Canadian. The man keeps looking at me and nodding hello. I smile and keep writing.
Sprinkled about are friends and couples, smoking argilla. The scent is sweet and intoxicating, even for those around that aren't smoking it. The waiters rather stand around with each other and be silly than bring you a menu or take your order, but the ambiance and vive is nice. Trees grow out and around in this half in door half outdoor place by the entrance of the Jerusalem hotel. Large trees on the outside grow leaves and veins long and strong enough to covre the roof so that as you look up, you see beautiful greens and browns stitched into the green metals of the roof. You feel almost like you're in a tropical place.
It's gotten cold. The sun is down. I see an older bohemian Italian couple that I'd seen up on the mount. They are with new friends, speaking Italian and smoking argilla. It reminds me of my last trip into the Yucatan with Dave when we hung out with a couple from Seattle that was staying at the same hotel. They were really sweet. Dave had been mean to me most of the time, which he apologized for later. It makes me think of how different it is exploring a new place with someone else and then exploring alone. Makes my journey even sweeter.
Now they play Um Kalthoom the great in the back round. Ya Habibi, she says. Its getting colder.
A wave of folks go out. It's empty.
A wave of folks come in. It's full again.
The guard cat walks about. A gray, black and white fellow with a skinny face. He watches. He walks. He waits. He comes near people, but won't let you touch him. The older American/Canadian couple sees him.
"We saw him this morning. He's their guard cat." the man says.
I smile and nod.
A black woman with long black hair smokes argilla and waits for her friends. One of them comes and sits and they talk. She's a very full figured woman in a white shirt with blue horizontal stripes. Her hair is in a short ponytail. She could afford to lose a little weight. She's all smiles. The other one comes. She's a petite Arab woman with long hair and a big smile. They hug for a long time and continuously kiss each other on the cheek. They are close friends.
A blond man comes and orders a coke. He knew the bartender. The bartender was a student at the college he teaches at. 3 European folks come in. They speak English to one another. They also know the young blond man as they are professors as well. They talk about a course on Hamas. They talk about a course on Palestinian studies. They also know the bartender.
The argilla fills the air. The Hooka refill boy walks around the tables to put more in the pipes. The coals are hot. They warm me as he passes by.
One of the professors walks to talk to the bartender. Another waiter there is also another student they know.
I sit back and smile as I drink my Taybeh. I feel sated again. Another day of time well spent. I could sit and people watch and write about them all day. Yes, time well spent. Can't beat time well spent.
Jerusalem Day 2 Part 2
We drove along the streets of Jerusalem, on our way to the central bus station. It's a small area where a lot of buses cram together to get folks to where they need to go across the country. We arrived and I pointed the Frenchmen into the direction they needed to into for the bus to the airport. I got off on the last stop after all and walked back down to the way I'd gone before.
I walked along to the Old City, entering by Jaffa Gate. There are no gates, you see. It's all stoned entrance and ground and walls, surrounding you. There are very few openings to the sky as you walk along the marketed stone streets in the Old City. It's once you get to the sites by the churches and such that you feel how bright the sun is and feel its warmth on your skin.
I decided Monday not to use a map or to go with a program. I just played it by ear. And it was the best thing I ever did. As I walked along, I remembered little streets and vendors that I had seen before. I remembered where my Aunt's brothers restaurant was, I remembered the little Ethiopian monastery I passed before. I remembered
I went up the same steps I had gone before to see the Ethiopian Monastery. I had seen a lot if before, but I had a feeling I missed some things. So I retraced my steps and found some new things. A path down to a basement, filled with water. It was a black cave, full of slipper slick rock. Water pooled down at the bottom. A guide far down below was telling some people that every church in Jerusalem had one. I don't remember hearing him say exactly why. I walked back up out of the small dark space and up into the light of one part of the church. I went and sat in another part of the church I hadn't been in before. The pulpit part was gated off, but benches lined the outside so that one could sit and pray. One of the monks sat by the gate, watching folks come and go. I sat there for a while in front of the gate and said a prayer. I really saw what was there. Felt what was there. Knew that I was supposed to be there.
The monk wore a long black tunic/coat like thing and a black hat. His black beard was full. His brown cheeks were round. His eyes were shiney and happy. His smile went all the way up to his eyes. It was genuine. Real. For some reason, the monk was moved by my presence. He sat up, paying attention now and said a little prayer with me. He couldn't sit next to me, but he was close. Was still all smiles. Maybe was surprised that a single young woman was coming around and not just taking pictures, but taking the time to really see and feel the places she visited in the holy land. Maybe.
Once I got up to leave, he smiled at me again. Full and peaceful. Made me give him a full smile. When I exited the door, I was surprised. I was next to the entrance of the Sepulchre. I hadn't realized that this was right next to it. I went back into the church that I had gone into before. But I felt like there were still more things I hadn't seen before. When you enter the churches massive doors, the first thing you see immediately in front of you is the stone they washes Jesus on after he was crucified. I looked around and saw that it wasn't as crowded as it had been the time I came before. I went and took more pictures of the stone. This time though, I went down on my knees and placed my hands on it. It was as if the cold stone's life sent shock waves through the rest of me. I closed my eyes and said a little prayer for guidance as I touched the stone. I touched my head and face and felt the need to weep. I let myself cry and really feel what was going on.
I stayed for a long time in the church this time. I really wanted to see all there was to see and really look at what I saw before with more than just my physical eyes. I was glad I did. My interal map lead me to see things I hadnt seen before. To experience as I hadn't before.
I walked about some more once I left the Holy Sepulchre. I walked in a few circles, trying to find an open space where coffee shops and food were. I had been walking for a long time and hadn't eaten since early in the morning AND my aunt ran out of coffee so I had filled up on tea hoping to get a hint of energy. I found a little spot called Geo's espresso cafe where all the men who worked there smiled at me, looking at me so hard they burned holes in my head, hoping I'd spark a conversation. I didn't. :) Would it have gotten me free coffee? Maybe. But a buck for a shot of good expresso isn't a bad deal, so I kept to myself. Besides, any time I looked them straight in the eyes, they'd look away. Every time. All over Palestine, the muslim men do that every time. The only time they hold eye contact is when I pass by in a car. No way of stopping to ask them what the hell they're looking at. In any event, I wasn't really in a talking mood anyway. I was in a watching mood. So I sat with my yummy espresso and people watched for 15mins to get back some energy. German and Russian touristas in bright orange and yellow hats passed me by. I took a moment to write an email, watched some more people walk by and kept it moving.
I hadn't realized before that Canaries line the shops and restaurant walls here in the closed stone walls of the Old City. To ensure natural gas leaks that folks can't smell don't poison them. The bird lives, everyone lives.
My Aunt Maha's brother Mahmoud remembered me from the 1st time I came to his restaurant. He's tall and olive complected. Looks a lot like some of my other uncles. He has name brand wire rimmed glasses over kind brown eyes. Thinning brown hair and a happy smile. He works had at his restaurant. Al Aelat. The food was goof the last time, so I came back, not wanting to buy over priced falafel thats been sitting in the sun. I learned my lesson in Jericho that 2 kinds of falafel will tear you a new one with a 2-day hole in your stomach. Falafel thats been sitting in the sun all day OR falafel that hasn't been cocked all the way through. Wasn't gonna chance it.
The place was semi-quiet or at least more quiet then the first time I went. 4 muslim women dressed very colorfully have coffee in the corner. A European couple with 2 small children speaking Hebrew and polish eat schnitzel and drink coffee. An Australian woman works out a way to buy a good hookah pipe using the resources of one of the cooks she talked to. They sat, smoked cigarettes, talking about argilla and the world.
As I finished the last of my shawarma, I feel sated. Not just on food, but on what I'd done with my time here. Time well spent is always satisfying.
Mahmoud welcomed me anytime and gave me a discount. It was a really nice gesture not because of not charging me full (since it wasn't a very expensive meal) but because it made me feel welcomed as family, even though he was family through the marriage of his sister to my uncle. Once I left, I wasn't sure where else I would walk. I read a bit of my book in the restaurant.
I walked out and just kept on walking. I made it back to Jaffa gate and wondered if I should walk out to see some other things or if I should keep walking through the stoned streets. Jamelah called me and I talked to her for a little while as I watched people pass me by on the corner junction by the gate. The busy sounds, busy smells, busy people move fast. And the fruit and vegetable stands are colorful against the light of the market by Jaffa gate.
I decided to walk back through the other side of the stoned streets that I hadn't remembered walking, closer to the Via Dolorosa once it ends. I walked along looking at the market and the things people sold in them. Scarves, flags, wooden statues, plates, key chains, evil eyes and more. I wanted to get some of the plates, but I couldn't find a shop I found before that I liked. And I dind't want to settle for another shop, when I wanted the shop I found before. I knew I'd find it eventually, even if on another day.
I walked along and went by one of the stations of the Via Dolorso that I hadn't gone into before. These are the ones they say where Jesus fell the first time and then where Jesus saw his mother Mary. There are statues in the places where they believe he fell. A young palestinian man showed me where they were. He wanted me to buy something in the shop, but I had all the crucifixes and post cards I wanted and didn't want a stuffed camel.
I made my way back over by Jaffa Gate and decided to walk around to the other side of the Old city, through the outside to see what was there. I figured I'd bump into something. I was really interested in seeing if I could find the tomb of the Virgin Mary or Mary Magdalene. Those were on the Mt. of Olives and I was determined to find it. By the look of the map, it was around the corner down far on the right. But the map wasnt always right. I figured it wouldn't hurt for me to walk that way anyway, since I hadn't yet.
On my way out, I ran into the french man from the bus that morning.
"Oh hey." I said, as he bought a long oval piece of bread with seasame seeds on them.
"Hi. Salaam. Good to see you again." He replied with a smile.
"You're friend found his way ok on the bus?" I wanted to make sure they hadn't run into any more trouble.
"Yes. Shukran. He made it fine on the bus and should be on his flight now." He came around the bread buyer and we still seemed to be in the way.
"Thats good. I'm glad to hear it. Just gotta be very careful when it comes to these soldiers." I said to him. He smiled and nodded. He knew the drill, but maybe figured became he was a light skin man he would have flown under the radar. But they don't care. They can smell "Palestinian sympathizer" from miles away. "Oh by the way, whats your name?"
"Oh." He laughed, tapped his head and shook it. "Yes of course. It's Michele. What's yours?"
"Eman. Nice to meet you." I reached out to shake his hand. We were still in the way of the people passing by, even though I knew we weren't. I motioned us off to the side by a bunch of bushes close to the steps going up to the street.
"Do you want to go get a drink or something?" He asked suddenly. I wasn't sure what to say. I didn't know this guy and it was already a little after 3pm. The sun sets completely by 5:45pm and I didn't want to miss out on the light and on seeing whatever else I wanted to see.
"Um. Maybe another time. I'm trying to get around the Old City to see Mary's Tomb and whatever else and I want to be on the bus by sunset." I replied with a smile.
"Oh really? Um. Okay. Well, how do you like your trip so far? Are you visiting family?" I still wanted to have conversation, which was fine with me. He was a really nice guy and I like meeting new people. After all I didn't know what kind of drink he wanted so I couldn't knock him for trying to spend some time with a nice young woman who was friendly and had a brain.
"I've been loving it. Its been great. Today I just walked around the Old City again and wanted to try and see the other side before I have to leave next week. Its been amazing though and I've been visiting my family and staying in Ramallah." I replied.
"Oh nice. I've been staying in a hostel in the Old City. It's nice. I was on my way over since we leave tomorrow and are leaving very late in the night to get to the airport." I said motioning to the stoned walls to left. "Are you sure you don't want to get a drink?" He asked again. We were talking anyway and the most I felt like in the moment was water anyway.
"You know what, why not? We're talking anyway. But I just have a little bit of time, so that I can try and see some other things today." I said as we walked up the steps.
"No problem. Let's just go close to here." He said as we walked.
We ended up going right across the street from the Old City to this little place that had a few small store on the bottom and a restaurant on the top. I got water and he got a pepermint tea. See, wasn't that kind of drink. We talked about the politics of the country and what was going on with the Olive Trees. I told him about my family's trees. He told me about some people he tried to help with an organization that helps Palestinians with their trees. He told me of soldiers and settlers who were saying racial slurs to folks from other countries who came to help the Palestinians pick their Olives. We talked about how most of the french didn't like thier new President because he was good friends with Bush. He had been to Palestine about 11 years before and he said it was even harder then to get around.
Michele use to be a Social Worker in france and turned into a farmer. He said he loved the land. He talked about wanting to help Palestinians more, but knowing that sometimes it was a powerless fight. He asked me about religion, about women's rights, and about being american and palestinian. We talked for an hour before I realized what time it was. He bought my water, even though I protested. He said he invited me and it was just water. We exchanged emails. He walked me to the corner and gave me a hug and a kiss on each cheek. I told him to have a safe flight in the morning and to email me soon.
I walked along the outside of the stone walls and passed the Rockefeller museum. I didn't feel compelled to go in, so I kept walking. I also didn't feel compelled to give them 30NIS (about $8). I kept moving down and followed the stone walls until there didn't seem to be anymore. There was a sign that pointed to the Western Wall. It seemed like a bitch of a sketchy entrance so I kept walking around down hill in the same direction, but following traffic. Off in the distance were hills and trees and the tops of churches. This HAD to be the Mt. of Olives. I wasn't sure if it was, but I had a feeling it was. I kept moving down the hill until there was another entrance for the western wall farther down along the hill. I walked up the other hill and made it up by the other entrance there. Before I went into the other gate to see, I saw an old Muslim cemetery and decided to go in a see it. I paid my respects at the entrance, walking in slowly, in case there were some crazy guards here just like by the Dome and Al-Aqsa.
No one was guards were in sight so I walked in. An older white man stood high on one of the tombs, taking pictures of the mountain across the road. Off in the distance, you could see the churches more clearly. One church had gold tops to it, round and then a pointy top. Another had a biblical painting on the front by large steps going down. This was where I needed to visit next! I walked around the cemetery, taking pictures of tombstones and of the view. The man walked down and towards me. He knew very few words in English. At first I wasn't sure if he was speaking Russian or not, but then he said he was Polish. He wanted me to take some pictures of him with the back round of the Mt. of Olives. I did just that and he did the same for me. He spoke to me in Polish, but some how we managed to communicate just fine. He was a very nice man. His name was Strofsky. I was surprised he addressed himself by his last name, but it was fine.
He was really happy with the way I took pictures of him with the back round and all. It was a nice day to meet people.
By the time I was done at the cemetery, it was a little after 5. I went towards the Western Wall, but I saw there was a church and the site where Mary was born. I wanted to visit it, but it was closing. It was getting dark and too late to visit any more for the day. I had seen a lot that day anyway. So I noted where everything was and made my way back over to the bus. It was a long walk back to the station anyway and I preferred to do it with the little bit of light I had.
Besides I need to get rest if I was going to climb the Mt of Olives the next day!
I walked along to the Old City, entering by Jaffa Gate. There are no gates, you see. It's all stoned entrance and ground and walls, surrounding you. There are very few openings to the sky as you walk along the marketed stone streets in the Old City. It's once you get to the sites by the churches and such that you feel how bright the sun is and feel its warmth on your skin.
I decided Monday not to use a map or to go with a program. I just played it by ear. And it was the best thing I ever did. As I walked along, I remembered little streets and vendors that I had seen before. I remembered where my Aunt's brothers restaurant was, I remembered the little Ethiopian monastery I passed before. I remembered
I went up the same steps I had gone before to see the Ethiopian Monastery. I had seen a lot if before, but I had a feeling I missed some things. So I retraced my steps and found some new things. A path down to a basement, filled with water. It was a black cave, full of slipper slick rock. Water pooled down at the bottom. A guide far down below was telling some people that every church in Jerusalem had one. I don't remember hearing him say exactly why. I walked back up out of the small dark space and up into the light of one part of the church. I went and sat in another part of the church I hadn't been in before. The pulpit part was gated off, but benches lined the outside so that one could sit and pray. One of the monks sat by the gate, watching folks come and go. I sat there for a while in front of the gate and said a prayer. I really saw what was there. Felt what was there. Knew that I was supposed to be there.
The monk wore a long black tunic/coat like thing and a black hat. His black beard was full. His brown cheeks were round. His eyes were shiney and happy. His smile went all the way up to his eyes. It was genuine. Real. For some reason, the monk was moved by my presence. He sat up, paying attention now and said a little prayer with me. He couldn't sit next to me, but he was close. Was still all smiles. Maybe was surprised that a single young woman was coming around and not just taking pictures, but taking the time to really see and feel the places she visited in the holy land. Maybe.
Once I got up to leave, he smiled at me again. Full and peaceful. Made me give him a full smile. When I exited the door, I was surprised. I was next to the entrance of the Sepulchre. I hadn't realized that this was right next to it. I went back into the church that I had gone into before. But I felt like there were still more things I hadn't seen before. When you enter the churches massive doors, the first thing you see immediately in front of you is the stone they washes Jesus on after he was crucified. I looked around and saw that it wasn't as crowded as it had been the time I came before. I went and took more pictures of the stone. This time though, I went down on my knees and placed my hands on it. It was as if the cold stone's life sent shock waves through the rest of me. I closed my eyes and said a little prayer for guidance as I touched the stone. I touched my head and face and felt the need to weep. I let myself cry and really feel what was going on.
I stayed for a long time in the church this time. I really wanted to see all there was to see and really look at what I saw before with more than just my physical eyes. I was glad I did. My interal map lead me to see things I hadnt seen before. To experience as I hadn't before.
I walked about some more once I left the Holy Sepulchre. I walked in a few circles, trying to find an open space where coffee shops and food were. I had been walking for a long time and hadn't eaten since early in the morning AND my aunt ran out of coffee so I had filled up on tea hoping to get a hint of energy. I found a little spot called Geo's espresso cafe where all the men who worked there smiled at me, looking at me so hard they burned holes in my head, hoping I'd spark a conversation. I didn't. :) Would it have gotten me free coffee? Maybe. But a buck for a shot of good expresso isn't a bad deal, so I kept to myself. Besides, any time I looked them straight in the eyes, they'd look away. Every time. All over Palestine, the muslim men do that every time. The only time they hold eye contact is when I pass by in a car. No way of stopping to ask them what the hell they're looking at. In any event, I wasn't really in a talking mood anyway. I was in a watching mood. So I sat with my yummy espresso and people watched for 15mins to get back some energy. German and Russian touristas in bright orange and yellow hats passed me by. I took a moment to write an email, watched some more people walk by and kept it moving.
I hadn't realized before that Canaries line the shops and restaurant walls here in the closed stone walls of the Old City. To ensure natural gas leaks that folks can't smell don't poison them. The bird lives, everyone lives.
My Aunt Maha's brother Mahmoud remembered me from the 1st time I came to his restaurant. He's tall and olive complected. Looks a lot like some of my other uncles. He has name brand wire rimmed glasses over kind brown eyes. Thinning brown hair and a happy smile. He works had at his restaurant. Al Aelat. The food was goof the last time, so I came back, not wanting to buy over priced falafel thats been sitting in the sun. I learned my lesson in Jericho that 2 kinds of falafel will tear you a new one with a 2-day hole in your stomach. Falafel thats been sitting in the sun all day OR falafel that hasn't been cocked all the way through. Wasn't gonna chance it.
The place was semi-quiet or at least more quiet then the first time I went. 4 muslim women dressed very colorfully have coffee in the corner. A European couple with 2 small children speaking Hebrew and polish eat schnitzel and drink coffee. An Australian woman works out a way to buy a good hookah pipe using the resources of one of the cooks she talked to. They sat, smoked cigarettes, talking about argilla and the world.
As I finished the last of my shawarma, I feel sated. Not just on food, but on what I'd done with my time here. Time well spent is always satisfying.
Mahmoud welcomed me anytime and gave me a discount. It was a really nice gesture not because of not charging me full (since it wasn't a very expensive meal) but because it made me feel welcomed as family, even though he was family through the marriage of his sister to my uncle. Once I left, I wasn't sure where else I would walk. I read a bit of my book in the restaurant.
I walked out and just kept on walking. I made it back to Jaffa gate and wondered if I should walk out to see some other things or if I should keep walking through the stoned streets. Jamelah called me and I talked to her for a little while as I watched people pass me by on the corner junction by the gate. The busy sounds, busy smells, busy people move fast. And the fruit and vegetable stands are colorful against the light of the market by Jaffa gate.
I decided to walk back through the other side of the stoned streets that I hadn't remembered walking, closer to the Via Dolorosa once it ends. I walked along looking at the market and the things people sold in them. Scarves, flags, wooden statues, plates, key chains, evil eyes and more. I wanted to get some of the plates, but I couldn't find a shop I found before that I liked. And I dind't want to settle for another shop, when I wanted the shop I found before. I knew I'd find it eventually, even if on another day.
I walked along and went by one of the stations of the Via Dolorso that I hadn't gone into before. These are the ones they say where Jesus fell the first time and then where Jesus saw his mother Mary. There are statues in the places where they believe he fell. A young palestinian man showed me where they were. He wanted me to buy something in the shop, but I had all the crucifixes and post cards I wanted and didn't want a stuffed camel.
I made my way back over by Jaffa Gate and decided to walk around to the other side of the Old city, through the outside to see what was there. I figured I'd bump into something. I was really interested in seeing if I could find the tomb of the Virgin Mary or Mary Magdalene. Those were on the Mt. of Olives and I was determined to find it. By the look of the map, it was around the corner down far on the right. But the map wasnt always right. I figured it wouldn't hurt for me to walk that way anyway, since I hadn't yet.
On my way out, I ran into the french man from the bus that morning.
"Oh hey." I said, as he bought a long oval piece of bread with seasame seeds on them.
"Hi. Salaam. Good to see you again." He replied with a smile.
"You're friend found his way ok on the bus?" I wanted to make sure they hadn't run into any more trouble.
"Yes. Shukran. He made it fine on the bus and should be on his flight now." He came around the bread buyer and we still seemed to be in the way.
"Thats good. I'm glad to hear it. Just gotta be very careful when it comes to these soldiers." I said to him. He smiled and nodded. He knew the drill, but maybe figured became he was a light skin man he would have flown under the radar. But they don't care. They can smell "Palestinian sympathizer" from miles away. "Oh by the way, whats your name?"
"Oh." He laughed, tapped his head and shook it. "Yes of course. It's Michele. What's yours?"
"Eman. Nice to meet you." I reached out to shake his hand. We were still in the way of the people passing by, even though I knew we weren't. I motioned us off to the side by a bunch of bushes close to the steps going up to the street.
"Do you want to go get a drink or something?" He asked suddenly. I wasn't sure what to say. I didn't know this guy and it was already a little after 3pm. The sun sets completely by 5:45pm and I didn't want to miss out on the light and on seeing whatever else I wanted to see.
"Um. Maybe another time. I'm trying to get around the Old City to see Mary's Tomb and whatever else and I want to be on the bus by sunset." I replied with a smile.
"Oh really? Um. Okay. Well, how do you like your trip so far? Are you visiting family?" I still wanted to have conversation, which was fine with me. He was a really nice guy and I like meeting new people. After all I didn't know what kind of drink he wanted so I couldn't knock him for trying to spend some time with a nice young woman who was friendly and had a brain.
"I've been loving it. Its been great. Today I just walked around the Old City again and wanted to try and see the other side before I have to leave next week. Its been amazing though and I've been visiting my family and staying in Ramallah." I replied.
"Oh nice. I've been staying in a hostel in the Old City. It's nice. I was on my way over since we leave tomorrow and are leaving very late in the night to get to the airport." I said motioning to the stoned walls to left. "Are you sure you don't want to get a drink?" He asked again. We were talking anyway and the most I felt like in the moment was water anyway.
"You know what, why not? We're talking anyway. But I just have a little bit of time, so that I can try and see some other things today." I said as we walked up the steps.
"No problem. Let's just go close to here." He said as we walked.
We ended up going right across the street from the Old City to this little place that had a few small store on the bottom and a restaurant on the top. I got water and he got a pepermint tea. See, wasn't that kind of drink. We talked about the politics of the country and what was going on with the Olive Trees. I told him about my family's trees. He told me about some people he tried to help with an organization that helps Palestinians with their trees. He told me of soldiers and settlers who were saying racial slurs to folks from other countries who came to help the Palestinians pick their Olives. We talked about how most of the french didn't like thier new President because he was good friends with Bush. He had been to Palestine about 11 years before and he said it was even harder then to get around.
Michele use to be a Social Worker in france and turned into a farmer. He said he loved the land. He talked about wanting to help Palestinians more, but knowing that sometimes it was a powerless fight. He asked me about religion, about women's rights, and about being american and palestinian. We talked for an hour before I realized what time it was. He bought my water, even though I protested. He said he invited me and it was just water. We exchanged emails. He walked me to the corner and gave me a hug and a kiss on each cheek. I told him to have a safe flight in the morning and to email me soon.
I walked along the outside of the stone walls and passed the Rockefeller museum. I didn't feel compelled to go in, so I kept walking. I also didn't feel compelled to give them 30NIS (about $8). I kept moving down and followed the stone walls until there didn't seem to be anymore. There was a sign that pointed to the Western Wall. It seemed like a bitch of a sketchy entrance so I kept walking around down hill in the same direction, but following traffic. Off in the distance were hills and trees and the tops of churches. This HAD to be the Mt. of Olives. I wasn't sure if it was, but I had a feeling it was. I kept moving down the hill until there was another entrance for the western wall farther down along the hill. I walked up the other hill and made it up by the other entrance there. Before I went into the other gate to see, I saw an old Muslim cemetery and decided to go in a see it. I paid my respects at the entrance, walking in slowly, in case there were some crazy guards here just like by the Dome and Al-Aqsa.
No one was guards were in sight so I walked in. An older white man stood high on one of the tombs, taking pictures of the mountain across the road. Off in the distance, you could see the churches more clearly. One church had gold tops to it, round and then a pointy top. Another had a biblical painting on the front by large steps going down. This was where I needed to visit next! I walked around the cemetery, taking pictures of tombstones and of the view. The man walked down and towards me. He knew very few words in English. At first I wasn't sure if he was speaking Russian or not, but then he said he was Polish. He wanted me to take some pictures of him with the back round of the Mt. of Olives. I did just that and he did the same for me. He spoke to me in Polish, but some how we managed to communicate just fine. He was a very nice man. His name was Strofsky. I was surprised he addressed himself by his last name, but it was fine.
He was really happy with the way I took pictures of him with the back round and all. It was a nice day to meet people.
By the time I was done at the cemetery, it was a little after 5. I went towards the Western Wall, but I saw there was a church and the site where Mary was born. I wanted to visit it, but it was closing. It was getting dark and too late to visit any more for the day. I had seen a lot that day anyway. So I noted where everything was and made my way back over to the bus. It was a long walk back to the station anyway and I preferred to do it with the little bit of light I had.
Besides I need to get rest if I was going to climb the Mt of Olives the next day!
Monday, October 20, 2008
Jerusalem Day 2 Part1
I went back to Jerusalem today, walking along the cobbled streets alone. I walked along with new eyes today. Truly feeling and seeing the path that Jesus, Apostles, Prophets, and so many more walked along. I felt the city as if I'd never been there before. New eyes. New words. New soul.
Today I touched the stone upon which Jesus was washed after he was crucified. Touched it with a part of me that broke down in tears when my finger tips brushed along the cool marble-like slab of rock. I let my eyes float along the shades of off-white that danced along the stone.
I walked along the same road as before, seeing things I hadn't seen before.
But before that.....
I rode bus 18 from Ramallah to Jerusalem this morning. It was a warm day, with cool winds blowing strands of my curly damp hair in my face. I smiled as I walked along in the sun. Moving fast enough to look important. To look like I had somewhere to be. To look like I knew where I was going so that the cabbies wouldnt bother to ask me if I needed a ride. Whenever I walk the streets, everyone looks at me. I'm not sure what it is, but I get stared at. Is it that I'm not wearing high heeled sandals like the other women? Is it that I'm tall on my own? Is it that I walk with confidence? Is it that I look people directly in the eyes? Can they see the tat on my arm? What is it?
Has nothing to do with a hijab since there are plenty of Christian Arabs in Ramallah so that there are many women without scarves. It can't be how I dress, since I'm pretty modest and try not to show too much skin while I'm out. Am I that pretty to be looked at by all the men as I walk by? I know I'm attractive, but am I THAT attractive? I dunno. Maybe in Palestine I am.
I walked along this morning, feeling tired and kind of nauseated, but happy. Glad to have the day to myself. I walked along the usual path to the bus. The station is only a 10 min walk from my aunts house. It's a very calm ride until the Checkpoint. There's always a collected breath held as you go to the checkpoints. You never know whats going to happen.
When we got there, some of us had to change buses. So I got on the other bus going to Jerusalem. It was pretty full. Mostly mothers with small children. And 3 frenchmen in their 60's sitting in the back.
Once I sat down, one of them asked me if I spoke English.
"Yes, I do." I replied, not knowing what he'd ask me. His french accent was thick on his tongue. A honeyed thickness that rolled the words along his mouth. He wore thick glasses that hide the bigness of his brown eyes. His hair was all white, and wavy, with specks of black as it thinned on the top of his head. His small beard and mustache were more salt than pepper and brought out the charm in his smile. Wrinkles swallowed the youthful dimples of his face, but they peaked out in lined reminders along his thin face.
"Shukran. Good. My friend needs to get to the airport in a hurry. Do you know where we can catch the bus to take him?" He came to sit in the chair across the aisle from me. He looked me full in the face as I turned around completely to talk to him and his friends. One of his friends was short and round. Had round cheeks and big rimmed glasses that framed his face and white white hair. His other friend still had very black hair, with lines of gray here and there. His long angular face and nose screamed french from a mile away.
"Yeah. When we get to Jerusalem, there's the central bus station. Just get off and ask for the bus to airport. You'll see it when we get there." I pointed out the window, moving around my hands as many Arabs do when they talk. I've always talked with my hands, but now I do it more so since I've been here.
"You're sure? Is it the last stop on the bus or are there more? Is that where you are getting off?" He didn't want to get lost or get his friend lost.
"Yeah, I'm sure. It's really easy. You'll see the station when we get there. Just ask the bus drivers which bus is going to the airport when you get out. It's super easy. I'm not sure yet if I'm getting off there or at another stop, but I'll point it out to you when we're there." I replied. I smiled. I couldn't help but smile at the innocence of these frechmen. They were all so innocent seeming.
"Ok good. Skukran. Thank you. Thank you." He went back into the back of the bus with his friends and told them what I told him, in french.
We approached the actual check point. Traffic around the check point is always disgusting. The soldiers hold people up on purpose. To start trouble. To make fun. To pass the time. And when they do that, they cause serious traffic jams. And they do nothing to help the traffic. And neither do the police.
It was time to hold our breath again. A young female soldier with blue eye liner entered the bus. She held on to her M-16 like a security blanket. Our passports were out and ready. She already looked pissed. She stood at the front.
"Passports. Yallah!" They were all out already, clear to see, but she still acted as if she didn't see them. The looked at each of us. Eyes beaming. Belittling with just a glare. She was a small soldier. Barely 5'2. Small features. Plain straight brown hair. Plain brown eyes. Same green uniform as all the soldiers. The only personality to her was her blue eye liner, traced along the top and bottom of her eyes. She looked to the back to the 3 frenchmen.
"Passport!" She screeched. "Visa!? No?" Someone must have shook their head in the wrong direction. Someone must have misunderstood what she said. She stomped to the back of the bus. Most of the women with their children sat facing front. You did nothing when the soldiers started trouble. You did nothing. Because if you did something, you'd be in trouble too. No one wanted to be in trouble. Especially for a foriegner.
"Give them to me." She snatched their passports. You could tell by how she talked that her english wasn't very good. She struggled with the words. "Visa. Where?"
The frenchman that talked to me spoke, since he was the only one who knew english.
"We have Visas, but when we came here we asked them not to stamp our passports because it gives us trouble in other countries. Like for Egypt or something. They stamped a card and kept the card." He explained. Very simple. Very straightforward.
"What? Why not stamp?" She wasn't understanding what he said. He explained it, but she wasn't hearing it.
"Like I said, it's hard to travel to other Middle Eastern countries with a stamp from here. So I asked them to stamp the card, but they kept the card." He sounded scared and frustrated. The soilder turned to one of the bus company men who stood in front and called to him in Hebrew. He came and she talked to him in Hebrew. He then asked the frenchmen why they didn't have their passports stamped. He explained again and the man told the soldier. The soldier spoke to him again in Hebrew.
"Why didn't you keep the stamped card?" He asked the frenchmen.
"They took it after they signed it. I'm not sure why. But my friend here is leaving today and we are leaving tomorrow." He replied, gesturing at the 2 men at his side. The man told the solider. She sighed and grunted. She turned and looked at me. I think I peed a little.
"Visa!" I looked her directly in the eyes and opened the page on my passport to where they stamped the Visa. I told them not to stamp it, but they did anyway. What could I do? She looked at it, then back in my eyes. She looked disappointed that there was no fight to start with me. She turned and walked off the bus. Everyone made noises. The driver sped off. The frenchmen started talking.
"You can't be too wordy with the soldiers. They're looking for an excuse to start trouble. Just give them really simply answers. And next time you're on a bus, if they ask about your Visa, tell them yes, you have one and leave it at that." I turned and said to them. I had been itching to say something when the soldier was on the bus, but I knew better. I saved it just for them.
"Yes, you are right. Shukran. For next time." He said. His eyes and face still wrought with nerves.
Today I touched the stone upon which Jesus was washed after he was crucified. Touched it with a part of me that broke down in tears when my finger tips brushed along the cool marble-like slab of rock. I let my eyes float along the shades of off-white that danced along the stone.
I walked along the same road as before, seeing things I hadn't seen before.
But before that.....
I rode bus 18 from Ramallah to Jerusalem this morning. It was a warm day, with cool winds blowing strands of my curly damp hair in my face. I smiled as I walked along in the sun. Moving fast enough to look important. To look like I had somewhere to be. To look like I knew where I was going so that the cabbies wouldnt bother to ask me if I needed a ride. Whenever I walk the streets, everyone looks at me. I'm not sure what it is, but I get stared at. Is it that I'm not wearing high heeled sandals like the other women? Is it that I'm tall on my own? Is it that I walk with confidence? Is it that I look people directly in the eyes? Can they see the tat on my arm? What is it?
Has nothing to do with a hijab since there are plenty of Christian Arabs in Ramallah so that there are many women without scarves. It can't be how I dress, since I'm pretty modest and try not to show too much skin while I'm out. Am I that pretty to be looked at by all the men as I walk by? I know I'm attractive, but am I THAT attractive? I dunno. Maybe in Palestine I am.
I walked along this morning, feeling tired and kind of nauseated, but happy. Glad to have the day to myself. I walked along the usual path to the bus. The station is only a 10 min walk from my aunts house. It's a very calm ride until the Checkpoint. There's always a collected breath held as you go to the checkpoints. You never know whats going to happen.
When we got there, some of us had to change buses. So I got on the other bus going to Jerusalem. It was pretty full. Mostly mothers with small children. And 3 frenchmen in their 60's sitting in the back.
Once I sat down, one of them asked me if I spoke English.
"Yes, I do." I replied, not knowing what he'd ask me. His french accent was thick on his tongue. A honeyed thickness that rolled the words along his mouth. He wore thick glasses that hide the bigness of his brown eyes. His hair was all white, and wavy, with specks of black as it thinned on the top of his head. His small beard and mustache were more salt than pepper and brought out the charm in his smile. Wrinkles swallowed the youthful dimples of his face, but they peaked out in lined reminders along his thin face.
"Shukran. Good. My friend needs to get to the airport in a hurry. Do you know where we can catch the bus to take him?" He came to sit in the chair across the aisle from me. He looked me full in the face as I turned around completely to talk to him and his friends. One of his friends was short and round. Had round cheeks and big rimmed glasses that framed his face and white white hair. His other friend still had very black hair, with lines of gray here and there. His long angular face and nose screamed french from a mile away.
"Yeah. When we get to Jerusalem, there's the central bus station. Just get off and ask for the bus to airport. You'll see it when we get there." I pointed out the window, moving around my hands as many Arabs do when they talk. I've always talked with my hands, but now I do it more so since I've been here.
"You're sure? Is it the last stop on the bus or are there more? Is that where you are getting off?" He didn't want to get lost or get his friend lost.
"Yeah, I'm sure. It's really easy. You'll see the station when we get there. Just ask the bus drivers which bus is going to the airport when you get out. It's super easy. I'm not sure yet if I'm getting off there or at another stop, but I'll point it out to you when we're there." I replied. I smiled. I couldn't help but smile at the innocence of these frechmen. They were all so innocent seeming.
"Ok good. Skukran. Thank you. Thank you." He went back into the back of the bus with his friends and told them what I told him, in french.
We approached the actual check point. Traffic around the check point is always disgusting. The soldiers hold people up on purpose. To start trouble. To make fun. To pass the time. And when they do that, they cause serious traffic jams. And they do nothing to help the traffic. And neither do the police.
It was time to hold our breath again. A young female soldier with blue eye liner entered the bus. She held on to her M-16 like a security blanket. Our passports were out and ready. She already looked pissed. She stood at the front.
"Passports. Yallah!" They were all out already, clear to see, but she still acted as if she didn't see them. The looked at each of us. Eyes beaming. Belittling with just a glare. She was a small soldier. Barely 5'2. Small features. Plain straight brown hair. Plain brown eyes. Same green uniform as all the soldiers. The only personality to her was her blue eye liner, traced along the top and bottom of her eyes. She looked to the back to the 3 frenchmen.
"Passport!" She screeched. "Visa!? No?" Someone must have shook their head in the wrong direction. Someone must have misunderstood what she said. She stomped to the back of the bus. Most of the women with their children sat facing front. You did nothing when the soldiers started trouble. You did nothing. Because if you did something, you'd be in trouble too. No one wanted to be in trouble. Especially for a foriegner.
"Give them to me." She snatched their passports. You could tell by how she talked that her english wasn't very good. She struggled with the words. "Visa. Where?"
The frenchman that talked to me spoke, since he was the only one who knew english.
"We have Visas, but when we came here we asked them not to stamp our passports because it gives us trouble in other countries. Like for Egypt or something. They stamped a card and kept the card." He explained. Very simple. Very straightforward.
"What? Why not stamp?" She wasn't understanding what he said. He explained it, but she wasn't hearing it.
"Like I said, it's hard to travel to other Middle Eastern countries with a stamp from here. So I asked them to stamp the card, but they kept the card." He sounded scared and frustrated. The soilder turned to one of the bus company men who stood in front and called to him in Hebrew. He came and she talked to him in Hebrew. He then asked the frenchmen why they didn't have their passports stamped. He explained again and the man told the soldier. The soldier spoke to him again in Hebrew.
"Why didn't you keep the stamped card?" He asked the frenchmen.
"They took it after they signed it. I'm not sure why. But my friend here is leaving today and we are leaving tomorrow." He replied, gesturing at the 2 men at his side. The man told the solider. She sighed and grunted. She turned and looked at me. I think I peed a little.
"Visa!" I looked her directly in the eyes and opened the page on my passport to where they stamped the Visa. I told them not to stamp it, but they did anyway. What could I do? She looked at it, then back in my eyes. She looked disappointed that there was no fight to start with me. She turned and walked off the bus. Everyone made noises. The driver sped off. The frenchmen started talking.
"You can't be too wordy with the soldiers. They're looking for an excuse to start trouble. Just give them really simply answers. And next time you're on a bus, if they ask about your Visa, tell them yes, you have one and leave it at that." I turned and said to them. I had been itching to say something when the soldier was on the bus, but I knew better. I saved it just for them.
"Yes, you are right. Shukran. For next time." He said. His eyes and face still wrought with nerves.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
The Dead Sea
I finally got to go to the dead sea today. It was so damn beautiful.
The water is crazy crazy salty, but it's true. You float like nobodies business.
I had a fun time.
Ayman, one of the drivers who took me to the airport took me. We talked about his wife and kids, my life in NY, and how he grew up not being the typical Arab man in Palestine.
We drove along that morning, chatting it up.
On the way, we stopped so I could ride a camel or rather Jammal. I thought I was gonna fly off of the poor camel dude. AND they are a lot higher than you think!
Once I was done with the camel riding, it was off to the beach. We went down pretty far along the desert to one of the supposed better beaches. Better because there's a life guard who hollers at everyone every 10 mins about going out to far and/or about playing in the water too much.
Off in the distance, you can see Jordan like a hazy dream drawn on by some haphazard painter, not done adding all the details or colors. It's cool though because you know just over the water, folks are looking right back at you thinking the same thing.
The beach isn't like other beaches. Not only is the water incredibly salty (and believe me if you get this water in your mouth or eyes, you'll pee yourself... it's that strong), but there also isn't much sand. It's all rocks. So it's not very kind to your feet. I didn't read about that part! But it's nice. It's a strange set up. I'm sure farther down, where the spas are, there's a more comfortable setting, BUT it was nice. You find your rock up above and sit in the sun OR walk carefully down the hill to the water and float around OR sit on a rock in the water. Next time, I'll have booties. Its too slippery to wear your flip flops and walk up the rocks back to your stuff after you've been in the water. Aside from the slickness of the water, the salty makes it even slicker.
The water is also just so warm the first time you get in it. You know how some times even when it's really hot outside, water is still a bit cooler? This wasn't. This water was warm as soon as you get in. I got in only a few feet and floated about. Ayman and others tried to assure me that I'd be ok and not sink. That I'd float just fine. Tell that to someone who almost drowned as a child. Any water is dangerous water. Leave it to me to think I'll be the ONLY person in creation who ever died by drowning in the dead sea. Just wasn't gonna happen! I did ok though. No hyperventilation. No freaking out. Of course, when I stood up, the water was only up to the middle of my stomach, so there wasn't much to freak out about. Ayman got me out once farther floating and when I stood the water was to my chest. I almost had a heart attack. He's fine and all, but I don't do that with anyone in the water. Dave has been the ONLY person I trusted completely in the water like that. And he'll probably always be the only one I trust like that in the water.
Next, there's the magic mud. A 10 minute walk to another part of the beach will bring you closer to the magic mud. The first time, I walked and floated along to get there to the mud. Ayman was already there and I met him after getting my flip flops. Walking all that way with nothing on your feet is nearly impossible. Just too painful.
We got all muddied up with a bunch of other folks. There were these 2 young women who were helping each other out and these 3 Indian guys who kept trying to talk to them and get their number. Maybe it was their cheesy pick up lines. Maybe it was there leopard speedos. Either way, the girls laughed and ignored them and got all muddied up. Ayman and I laughed so hard and just kepting mudding ourselves. Once we were done, we went back to the side of the beach we were on before and rinsed off. I tried floating again, but I was still nervous. I floated for about 5-10 mins and that was good enough for me.
The next time, Ayman went back all the way over to the mud and brought back a crazy amount. That was when we REALLY got muddied up. It was great. It gets so hard, like concrete so fast in the heat of the sun. But you feel it doing something to your skin. Like making it tight, then loose. It also doesn't smell like anything. I thought it would at least smell like minerals or salt or dirt. There's no smell at all. Just this very dark gray mud. When it dries on completely, it's a lighter gray. But then, the salty ocean water isn't enough to wash it off. You'll need to go to the startling hard fresh water showers above.
We stayed all day and after tried to go to Jericho to ride the cable cars to the Mountain above the Old City, but they were working on the cars for maintenance. So we came back to Ramallah. It was fine though because after trecking out to the beach, floating around in salty water, covering myself in mud TWICE, and sitting in the sun, I was tired :) A night of rest was what I needed before I went out the next day.
In all seriousness though, I was in a lot of pain and tired. I'm not supposed to get too much sun anyway so that left me tired. But those rocks on my butt and on my feet were terrible. AND all the up and down of the uneven rocks by the beach took a toll on my knees. Of course if someone is of stellar health, it won't bother them too much.
Either way, it was a beautiful day. The weather, the water and the mud! So no complaints here.
The water is crazy crazy salty, but it's true. You float like nobodies business.
I had a fun time.
Ayman, one of the drivers who took me to the airport took me. We talked about his wife and kids, my life in NY, and how he grew up not being the typical Arab man in Palestine.
We drove along that morning, chatting it up.
On the way, we stopped so I could ride a camel or rather Jammal. I thought I was gonna fly off of the poor camel dude. AND they are a lot higher than you think!
Once I was done with the camel riding, it was off to the beach. We went down pretty far along the desert to one of the supposed better beaches. Better because there's a life guard who hollers at everyone every 10 mins about going out to far and/or about playing in the water too much.
Off in the distance, you can see Jordan like a hazy dream drawn on by some haphazard painter, not done adding all the details or colors. It's cool though because you know just over the water, folks are looking right back at you thinking the same thing.
The beach isn't like other beaches. Not only is the water incredibly salty (and believe me if you get this water in your mouth or eyes, you'll pee yourself... it's that strong), but there also isn't much sand. It's all rocks. So it's not very kind to your feet. I didn't read about that part! But it's nice. It's a strange set up. I'm sure farther down, where the spas are, there's a more comfortable setting, BUT it was nice. You find your rock up above and sit in the sun OR walk carefully down the hill to the water and float around OR sit on a rock in the water. Next time, I'll have booties. Its too slippery to wear your flip flops and walk up the rocks back to your stuff after you've been in the water. Aside from the slickness of the water, the salty makes it even slicker.
The water is also just so warm the first time you get in it. You know how some times even when it's really hot outside, water is still a bit cooler? This wasn't. This water was warm as soon as you get in. I got in only a few feet and floated about. Ayman and others tried to assure me that I'd be ok and not sink. That I'd float just fine. Tell that to someone who almost drowned as a child. Any water is dangerous water. Leave it to me to think I'll be the ONLY person in creation who ever died by drowning in the dead sea. Just wasn't gonna happen! I did ok though. No hyperventilation. No freaking out. Of course, when I stood up, the water was only up to the middle of my stomach, so there wasn't much to freak out about. Ayman got me out once farther floating and when I stood the water was to my chest. I almost had a heart attack. He's fine and all, but I don't do that with anyone in the water. Dave has been the ONLY person I trusted completely in the water like that. And he'll probably always be the only one I trust like that in the water.
Next, there's the magic mud. A 10 minute walk to another part of the beach will bring you closer to the magic mud. The first time, I walked and floated along to get there to the mud. Ayman was already there and I met him after getting my flip flops. Walking all that way with nothing on your feet is nearly impossible. Just too painful.
We got all muddied up with a bunch of other folks. There were these 2 young women who were helping each other out and these 3 Indian guys who kept trying to talk to them and get their number. Maybe it was their cheesy pick up lines. Maybe it was there leopard speedos. Either way, the girls laughed and ignored them and got all muddied up. Ayman and I laughed so hard and just kepting mudding ourselves. Once we were done, we went back to the side of the beach we were on before and rinsed off. I tried floating again, but I was still nervous. I floated for about 5-10 mins and that was good enough for me.
The next time, Ayman went back all the way over to the mud and brought back a crazy amount. That was when we REALLY got muddied up. It was great. It gets so hard, like concrete so fast in the heat of the sun. But you feel it doing something to your skin. Like making it tight, then loose. It also doesn't smell like anything. I thought it would at least smell like minerals or salt or dirt. There's no smell at all. Just this very dark gray mud. When it dries on completely, it's a lighter gray. But then, the salty ocean water isn't enough to wash it off. You'll need to go to the startling hard fresh water showers above.
We stayed all day and after tried to go to Jericho to ride the cable cars to the Mountain above the Old City, but they were working on the cars for maintenance. So we came back to Ramallah. It was fine though because after trecking out to the beach, floating around in salty water, covering myself in mud TWICE, and sitting in the sun, I was tired :) A night of rest was what I needed before I went out the next day.
In all seriousness though, I was in a lot of pain and tired. I'm not supposed to get too much sun anyway so that left me tired. But those rocks on my butt and on my feet were terrible. AND all the up and down of the uneven rocks by the beach took a toll on my knees. Of course if someone is of stellar health, it won't bother them too much.
Either way, it was a beautiful day. The weather, the water and the mud! So no complaints here.
Oct 16th: Getting luggage at the airport!
I wrote on the way there to pass the time as we drove from Ramallah to the airport in Tel Aviv for my luggage that Aerosvit "misplaced". AND apparently, the stuff was there Oct 6th, but the number they gave out was wrong AND no one called me because they knew I was in the West Bank. Stupid Bastards. They are getting a crazy shunful letter from me when I get home!
Anyway, here it goes:
We;ve been driving for 30 mins now. In a mini van taxi. With Aymann and Mohammad. Who are taking me to the airport to get my luggage. Tomorrow will be my 2nd week here. I got here 13 days ago. A few days without my stuff is one thing, but 13 days makes me want to knock someone out.
I couldn't call again!
I'm not the kind of person that can sit and wait and wait AND WAIT when I can do something to fix the problem. Why wait for these assholes to decide to answer the phone. My patience is even shorter because I am sick. Runny nose. Sore throat. Head ache. Body ache. Just yucky sick.
And I coulodn't sit around another day calling.
Aymann's laugh is short and high like starting a car. Eh eh eh eh eh eh eh......
A laugh that makes you not believe it. But it's his laugh.
"Why don't you speak Arabic?" He asked.
I laugh. It's the millionth time I've heard this question.
"My father didn't really teach me. He spoke to me in Arabic and let me answer in English." I paused as I looked in Aymann's blue green eyes, to think of what else to say. "I know a lot of words though."
"Oh, like what?" He asks.
"Like, Shu and Leish and Magnoon and all the greetings. Phrases like Shu Hatha and a bunch of others like that. And some vocabulary words. I say 'Shu' all the time to my cousins and they laugh. And I know the alphabet and can read words and write them. But I don't always know what I'm reading." He nods and laughs. "Yeah, it doesn't do me much good at this point. But I'm getting there." He nods and laughs again.
We pass the check point and it looks so different on the Israeli side. The roads, the trees, even the bus stops. All nicer. All cleaner. All different. Reminds me of what they do in NY between the people of color communities and the white communities. Global gentrification. But this is different. Colonized, kicked out, invaded. Then made to be put in prision.
How would you like it if someone told you you could only go from West 4th to 59th street and could visit 125 every other friday when they felt like it? Thats the West banker life.....
Thats as much as I got written at the time. After a while, we were all talking more. Then got to the check point at the airport, where we were all taken out of the car, searched, questioned, searched again, questioned again and let go into the airport. I suppose I have to go through this again when I leave. Aymann says to give them one word answers to get under their skin. After all, they ask one word questions. Why not? I don't want to start a problem. I follow his advice though because it's the advice of everyone. Short and to the point. Don't run your mouth. Never run your mouth. They take it as "guilty" actions. Stupid.
Anyway, here it goes:
We;ve been driving for 30 mins now. In a mini van taxi. With Aymann and Mohammad. Who are taking me to the airport to get my luggage. Tomorrow will be my 2nd week here. I got here 13 days ago. A few days without my stuff is one thing, but 13 days makes me want to knock someone out.
I couldn't call again!
I'm not the kind of person that can sit and wait and wait AND WAIT when I can do something to fix the problem. Why wait for these assholes to decide to answer the phone. My patience is even shorter because I am sick. Runny nose. Sore throat. Head ache. Body ache. Just yucky sick.
And I coulodn't sit around another day calling.
Aymann's laugh is short and high like starting a car. Eh eh eh eh eh eh eh......
A laugh that makes you not believe it. But it's his laugh.
"Why don't you speak Arabic?" He asked.
I laugh. It's the millionth time I've heard this question.
"My father didn't really teach me. He spoke to me in Arabic and let me answer in English." I paused as I looked in Aymann's blue green eyes, to think of what else to say. "I know a lot of words though."
"Oh, like what?" He asks.
"Like, Shu and Leish and Magnoon and all the greetings. Phrases like Shu Hatha and a bunch of others like that. And some vocabulary words. I say 'Shu' all the time to my cousins and they laugh. And I know the alphabet and can read words and write them. But I don't always know what I'm reading." He nods and laughs. "Yeah, it doesn't do me much good at this point. But I'm getting there." He nods and laughs again.
We pass the check point and it looks so different on the Israeli side. The roads, the trees, even the bus stops. All nicer. All cleaner. All different. Reminds me of what they do in NY between the people of color communities and the white communities. Global gentrification. But this is different. Colonized, kicked out, invaded. Then made to be put in prision.
How would you like it if someone told you you could only go from West 4th to 59th street and could visit 125 every other friday when they felt like it? Thats the West banker life.....
Thats as much as I got written at the time. After a while, we were all talking more. Then got to the check point at the airport, where we were all taken out of the car, searched, questioned, searched again, questioned again and let go into the airport. I suppose I have to go through this again when I leave. Aymann says to give them one word answers to get under their skin. After all, they ask one word questions. Why not? I don't want to start a problem. I follow his advice though because it's the advice of everyone. Short and to the point. Don't run your mouth. Never run your mouth. They take it as "guilty" actions. Stupid.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Jerusalem Day1 Part 2
There was so much to write about the first time and I was too tired to write it all down. So here is the rest of my first day in Jerusalem. I hope to have my second trip this coming week.
So yes, we met Marwan, who gave us an impromptu tour. We met him by the front, where the stone is that they washed Jesus on after he was crucified. People gathered around, touching the stone with their hands, their faces, their clothes, their crosses to bless themselves and cleanse their souls. People prayed around it as if it were their last hope. Young children, elderly women, all crouched by the stone just to get a chance to touch it. To perhaps get close to the skin of Jesus.
After we walked around the stone, we made our way around the corner and down the steps to where Helena, Constantine's Mothers, put the old columns from the church that was there before together. This was also the place where she found half of the cross that they used to crucify Jesus.
We walked into an even lower level of the church where there was a statue of Helena high above on the wall, above the actual spot where she found part of the cross. The cross is now in Rome. We made our way all the way back upstairs, to the very top where all these gold crosses and candle holders and pictures are. In between these things is where they Jesus spent another one of his last moments. People lined up far along the wall to be able to kiss this part of the shrine.
We made our way back downstairs and around the corner to the tomb where Jesus was buried and resurrected. Hundreds of people gathered here all lined up to be able to go inside with candles and touch the insides of the tomb and see where Jesus laid. An amazing amount of candles were around the tomb. All the while Marwan, tells me to watch my step, to look this way and that, about the history of Jesus and even of Mohammad simply because I speak English and young Americans are supposed to be stupid. I take no offense though. I keep nodding and smiling, listening with great attention. Waiting to hear something I don't know. But alas. A miracle has a occurred. I'm not a stupid American. He's shocked at what I know about Islam and Christianity. He smiles and taps his cane.
"Eman, you are a good woman. It was very nice to meet you." He smiles again, his head slanting to the side so that he can hear better. Sun spots, freckle the side of the his face. Gray hairs twirl out of his ears. The distant memory of a once handsome man is hidden under wrinkles and giant balls of dead skin. He holds on to my arm as we walk.
"Thank you for showing us all of this. It's really beautiful. It was really great to meet you as well," I replied as I look back to my Aunt Maha who is all giggles. She holds 20 shekels for him, waiting to run out of the church as fast as we can. We can't even remember how we got this tour in the first place. My aunt walks around the last column to give him the money and holds onto my arm to leave. He salutes us.
"Asalam......" he begins as he walks into the crowd and gets lost in the massive wave of German tourists. I turn and look up at the ceiling. I knew something was up there and could feel it. I held my breath and exhaled into a smile. A giant picture of their version of Jesus is on the circular ceiling with apostles all around the outer part of the circle. I try to get the whole scene into focus on my camera. But the whole moment is so dizzying, so amazing. I snapped a few pictures, trying to get as much as I can. My aunt calls my name. She's very ready to leave.
We turned to leave the Church, passing the tomb, passing the stone and heading for the front door. Greek nuns lined up by the stone, waiting to touch it. One looked at me as if she knows me. Our eyes lock. I walked towards the door. Her brown eyebrows arched up in surprise. Maybe I looked like someone she use to know. My Aunt touches my arm. I looked away towards the door and didn't have the courage to look back again at the Nun as we went outside.
We made our way down the cobbled street back towards Al Aqsa a.k.a. The Dome of the Rock. I figured we were going to the non-muslim section, but she refused to take me there. To her, to the family, I'm a muslim. No matter what I practice or how I look. If your father is a muslim, then so are you. I suppose I shouldn't take kindly either to folks who are trying to tell me what I am and am not. And I don't. We hit up several other spots on the way.
In Part 1 I went into it, I don't know if I need to again.
It's nothing new to have folks around you telling you that you aren't enough of X. Being here has shown me that within the community itself, some folks do just step in line, so that they make sure they are enough (or SEEM to be enough) of whatever it is folks are down with. I can't knock on folks for that. Who wants to be isolated and picked on? At the same time though, don't, in your quest for fitting in, try to isolate others who rather be themselves and keep it moving. What does it do for a person to make someone else feel bad about themselves anyway? Does it give someone who is already powerless more power? Perhaps. Or maybe just being out of the poking eyes of those who judge for a moment to put the attention on someone who doesn't seem to be with in the crowd, seems appealing. Who knows?
I know I'm vague, but I'm gonna leave it at that.
Anyway, my aunt got me this hideous (even though she called it beautiful) make-shift hijab and skirt. It was in a package and at first I thought she was buying a day dress for the house. A white cotton fabric with pink flowers all over it. Ick! But hey, if she wanted it for her, then beautiful! Thats fine with me.
We walked about some more on some of the smaller streets and looked at the deals and at the tourists. The streets go from wide cobbled streets to very narrow and uneven and at a slant. Steps start and end, slopes for carts appear, and every now and then a stone is has been made slick with time and has no grip. But along the way, I see people from everywhere. Hear tongues that I hear daily in NY. German, Greek, Spanish, Italian, Brazilian, English, Japanese. I knew that there were a lot of people who came to see Jerusalem, but I was amazed to see just how many folks from all those countries and probably more, came.
As we went along another winding road, she stops to check out a new pursue and I notice a coins accompanied by stones and jewels. I take a look see. Beautiful necklaces and earrings like a friend of mine in NY makes with old Palestinian coins with writing in Arabic. The shop keeper was a nice old man who wanted to show me everything he had. I wondered if he got anyone in the store that day. He seemed over excited, waiting and ready for me to buy anything and everything I could afford. Of course I saw several things that peaked my interest, but I kept it simple. It's not like I'm a baller anyway. A necklace and earrings for me and my sister.
My aunt got her purse. A very simple, economical, can pack everything and then some that she needs in it, kind of bag. She came in the store to meet me and thought the necklace was nice, but plain. They like bright colors here, I've noticed. Shiny fake diamonds for little girls with bright pink feather hair things and bracelets. It's cute on them. But I don't think thats really my stilo. She put the white and pink flowered outfit in a bag and we kept walking.
(on a side note once I finally got my luggage, my cousin Shyma, said I had too many dark clothes and that I needed color. I said I had as much color as I wanted and see, dark blue, dark purple, dark red. Those are colors. She laughed and said that wasn't colorful enough. I pointed behind her at a burnt orange skirt I have and she said, thats only ONE thing that isn't dark here. She laughed and got pulled away by her little son. I shrugged. I'm not a bright pink kind of girl. Sorry)
We walked about some more, passing shops that had more blue evil eyes than I have ever seen together in my life. We buy several for key chains and keep it moving. There are young men sitting around outside of shops, listening in on conversations, waiting to pull folks in to get them into the stores. To see anything, everything. Just to buy something. I suppose once October is over, it's slow. I suppose maybe they are bored. Who knows.
By now my feet are screaming. My feet just don't like these weird sized European sneakers. A 41 just isn't the same as the 10's I wear. Just aint working. And it didn't. My the end of the day, my pink toes had blisters on them from all the walking. Maybe it's also because they were new and I'd only worn them once before. Maybe. Hey, my feet get hot. I like my flip flops in this weather. But Jerusalem calls for sneakers.
On another funny side note though, ALLLLL the women wear high heeled sandals all the time. Maybe thats another reason I get looked at. I don't ever wear high heeled sandals. It would never occur to me to wear those kinds of shoes on cobbled streets. You know, I might wear a small heel if I wanted to be fancy, BUT REALLY? Seriously? High heeled sandals all the time. The women are short is what it is. I'm not abnormally tall or anything, but I'm taller than everyone else I've met. Except for one cousin, who was built pretty sturdy all around and super nice. She was my height and wearing flats. Everyone else though is very small. You were right, Nihaya. It's these African genes of mine that have me much bigger. But then again, I do have female cousins who are tall. Not many, but a few. Maybe it's because many of the men are tall. My dad was around 6ft.
We walked along. People watched. Shop watched. Rested my Aunts high heel sandaled feet. We then came across the Via Dolorosa, which is where Jesus walked and carried his cross to be crucified. By the beginning of the walk, a German film crew films a host. Not sure what show it was for, but he crouched down, putting his hands flat on the ground, to touch the stones Jesus may have placed his feet upon. Tourists huddled close to one another near the crew. They looked on along the road as a tour guide spoke, lifting his hands in the air, putting on a fantastic show of his knowledge. As if everyone in the group had never heard the story before. But their eyes were wide, opened with wonder and excitement at the story he told. I couldn't hear clear enough to hear what language he spoke, but I was dazzled a bit by his energy in telling them of Jesus' last hours.
We walked along the Via Dolorosa. The street arched up, stones higher in some places, stones slicked down in others. We were both tired from being in the sun all day. I wished we had bought another bottle of water before the walk. Bells ring in Jerusalem every 15 mins or so. I can't ever tell which direction they come from, but they're a constant reminder than we are in a Holy place.
We walked up the road slowly. I touched the stones along the walls. There are Armenian, German, Greek hostels scattered about. Shop keepers with cheese boards made of Olive tree oak. Little boys running around each other. Two old Russian couples walking slowly because the women decided to wear very high heels that day. A young mother with a cute little boy is walking next to us. She has short dirty blond hair. She wore a black hijab and a purple outfit. My aunt talks with the boy, then to his mother. She tells the woman about them not wanting to let me into the Muslim part of the mosque. The woman looks at me and rolls her eyes, as if to say, no kidding. I wore loose pants, a loose shirt. Showed no skin. Had a scarf ready to put on. But still. But still. I thought my aunt asked for the non-Muslim entrance, but she asked for an alternate entrance. We went around another corner and she handed me the white and pink flowered thing in the package.
"For you to wear." She points to a clear alley next to the corner we're turning down and motions for me to go put this on. At first I think it's a dress in the package, BUT it's a down to the bottoms of my feet skirt and a hijab with a hole for your head sewn in. I wish I could have gotten a picture of me wearing it, just to burn it later. I looked like a damn fool.
Once everything was on, my aunt smiled.
"Beautiful." She smiled harder.
I frowned harder. "I look Magnoon. Like a fool." I try to adjust the scarf. The opening for the head is too big for my face. Whose head is this fat for an opening so big? The top of my hair keeps showing. Hopefully they won't hold it against me.
We walk a little more nervous to the guards. They sit at the table, M-16's at their sides. I swallow hard and smile, trying to be convincing. My aunt speaks fast arabic to the soldier. She tells him I'm american and that my arabic isn't very good, but that I am a muslim and I do know the qu'ran. He asked for my passport and likes that my name is Arabic. But if you saw me, you wouldn't believe this get-up either.
"Can you recite anything from the Qu'ran?" He looks at my passport, looks at me and hands it back to me. I look up at his green eyes and smile a nervous smile.
"Bismillah Raham eh Raheem?" I tried not to have a nervous lilt to the end of my voice. I had to be confidence. "Bismillah he Ramham eh Raheem." He looked at me. I looked at him.
My aunt chimes in in the back round in Arabic. She says again that my arabic isn't good. My father was a good muslim but didn't teach me very good arabic, but I'm a good muslim too. I just want to see the mosque.
"Ok." He said and let us pass. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. She takes my arm. We both say Shurkan and keep it moving. The next guard inside says the greeting. We say it back and keep walking. He does a double take of me in my outfit, but says nothing.
We smile at each other as we walk down the tree lined road. She takes my camera out of the plastic bag she put it in and says to take pictures. I smile and say of course. I love my Aunt Maha. She's great!
I was fine with going through the non-muslim entrance of course. But she looked at it as disrespectful that they'd deny me so she wanted even more to get me in that way. I don't think God minded. Through all the rough times and temper tantrums, we've stayed on good terms.
We walked along the beautiful land. There were trees and green green grass across the lands before the Dome. Of in the distance, Non-muslims came in to see the sights. We walked across the lands and looked up at the Dome's massive form. She said a little prayer. I took pictures.
Tourist walked up along the steps. They looked at the dome, at me, at the dome, back at me. I adjusted the dumb scarf and took more pictures. The sun beat down hard on us as the day continued on. We walked down the steps and I snapped along. British teenagers look at me and giggle together. I'm tempted to flip them off, BUT then I realize that its not worth disrespecting such a holy place. I let it go and swallow my desire to bring the hood to Jerusalem.
We walk towards the Mosque and almost get in when one of the guards sitting outside stops us.
My aunt explains I'm muslim and I can go in and that we have the right.
"What's her name?" He asks in Arabic.
"Eman." She replies and tries to walk into the women's entrance with me to the mosque, which is below the male entrance.
"Where's your passport?" He turns to me and says in english.
I fish it out and hand it to him. He nods.
"A Rimawi. Very good. Just had to check." He said as he handed me back my passport.
He apologizes to my aunt and says that he just has to make sure since I'm clearly dressed in something that I hadn't been wearing long. I guess our 007 stint wasn't that good. Eh well. It got us that far.
We walked into the mosque and it was plainer than I was expecting. There aren't too many women in there. We took our shoes off and walked on the soft carpet. The air was cool and relaxing. It was so quiet. I could have napped there and felt completely safe. I felt at ease in this place. Books older than America line the wall. All Qu'rans. All religious. A few of the young girls walking in there looked at me. I stood out in height, in pink colors. My aunt and I sat down on the carpet for a while and rested. I sent an email from my crackberry to Dave as I sat on the floor of about parts of my day. I flexed my socked feet and toes into the carpet and took a breath in the cool air. I was so glad for my secret agent Aunt.
We walked back out in the sun to leave. Tourists mulled about. Guards hung out in the corner, watching. We left out of the non-muslim entrance near the Wailing Wall. I didn't get to see the wall. The guards looked us over a little. We walked up along the road, back to the cobbled streets and the shops. It was like a different world for a moment. All these stoned walls and streets all around us and then this opened aired beautiful quiet place with the Dome and the Mosque and the streets and the grass. Then back to the stones. Was very surreal. As we made our way up the road I asked my aunt if I could take off the scarf and skirt set since I was so hot. As we walked, I shed the scarf and skirt and fanned myself with them. She laughed, saying the guards were looking. Oops. Oh well. The next time I go back, I'll skip the hassle and 21 questions and go through the non-muslim entrance. I know who I am. I don't need to pass the 1 drop test for them or anyone else. I know who I am. And God knows who I am too. Thats more than enough for me.
We walked along the road, up up up, back through the stones. It's so crowded everywhere you walk. Along this road, there's not enough space for all these people, but we manage. My aunt doesn't want to lose me. I'm capable of finding my way, but they worry. Family always worries. I'm a woman, in Palestine, with "western" clothes, who doesn't speak good enough arabic for their standards. They worry.
We walked along the road and saw more shops. I passed by a shop that sold all kinds of beautiful plates with all kinds of designs. I wanted to buy some plates but worried about them being broken in my luggage. I plan on going back to the shop though.
We made our way back near the front entrance of the Old City and climbed the steep hill to exit. I would have sacrificed my tiredness to see more, but my aunt needed to rest and a person just CAN'T see all of Jerusalem in one day. It's just too much walking.
I'd like to go back this coming week. I hope I can.
We walked to the bus station. I was chaotic and loud. We were too tired to care. We got on a bus to Ramallah and quietly road along. I tried not to doze off. My aunt fell in and out of sleep. I watched the roads and streets, committing them to memory for later. It was almost 3pm as the sun sleepily rocked lower in the sky. The sun is completely set here by around 5:45-6pm. I think it's Octobers sun, but maybe it's all the time. It rises so early here too.
We sat, resting our bodies as we road back to the house.
My first day in Jerusalem was amazing.
She asked me, "Are you happy?"
I smiled and said, "Yes, I was very very happy."
Thats all I needed to say.
So yes, we met Marwan, who gave us an impromptu tour. We met him by the front, where the stone is that they washed Jesus on after he was crucified. People gathered around, touching the stone with their hands, their faces, their clothes, their crosses to bless themselves and cleanse their souls. People prayed around it as if it were their last hope. Young children, elderly women, all crouched by the stone just to get a chance to touch it. To perhaps get close to the skin of Jesus.
After we walked around the stone, we made our way around the corner and down the steps to where Helena, Constantine's Mothers, put the old columns from the church that was there before together. This was also the place where she found half of the cross that they used to crucify Jesus.
We walked into an even lower level of the church where there was a statue of Helena high above on the wall, above the actual spot where she found part of the cross. The cross is now in Rome. We made our way all the way back upstairs, to the very top where all these gold crosses and candle holders and pictures are. In between these things is where they Jesus spent another one of his last moments. People lined up far along the wall to be able to kiss this part of the shrine.
We made our way back downstairs and around the corner to the tomb where Jesus was buried and resurrected. Hundreds of people gathered here all lined up to be able to go inside with candles and touch the insides of the tomb and see where Jesus laid. An amazing amount of candles were around the tomb. All the while Marwan, tells me to watch my step, to look this way and that, about the history of Jesus and even of Mohammad simply because I speak English and young Americans are supposed to be stupid. I take no offense though. I keep nodding and smiling, listening with great attention. Waiting to hear something I don't know. But alas. A miracle has a occurred. I'm not a stupid American. He's shocked at what I know about Islam and Christianity. He smiles and taps his cane.
"Eman, you are a good woman. It was very nice to meet you." He smiles again, his head slanting to the side so that he can hear better. Sun spots, freckle the side of the his face. Gray hairs twirl out of his ears. The distant memory of a once handsome man is hidden under wrinkles and giant balls of dead skin. He holds on to my arm as we walk.
"Thank you for showing us all of this. It's really beautiful. It was really great to meet you as well," I replied as I look back to my Aunt Maha who is all giggles. She holds 20 shekels for him, waiting to run out of the church as fast as we can. We can't even remember how we got this tour in the first place. My aunt walks around the last column to give him the money and holds onto my arm to leave. He salutes us.
"Asalam......" he begins as he walks into the crowd and gets lost in the massive wave of German tourists. I turn and look up at the ceiling. I knew something was up there and could feel it. I held my breath and exhaled into a smile. A giant picture of their version of Jesus is on the circular ceiling with apostles all around the outer part of the circle. I try to get the whole scene into focus on my camera. But the whole moment is so dizzying, so amazing. I snapped a few pictures, trying to get as much as I can. My aunt calls my name. She's very ready to leave.
We turned to leave the Church, passing the tomb, passing the stone and heading for the front door. Greek nuns lined up by the stone, waiting to touch it. One looked at me as if she knows me. Our eyes lock. I walked towards the door. Her brown eyebrows arched up in surprise. Maybe I looked like someone she use to know. My Aunt touches my arm. I looked away towards the door and didn't have the courage to look back again at the Nun as we went outside.
We made our way down the cobbled street back towards Al Aqsa a.k.a. The Dome of the Rock. I figured we were going to the non-muslim section, but she refused to take me there. To her, to the family, I'm a muslim. No matter what I practice or how I look. If your father is a muslim, then so are you. I suppose I shouldn't take kindly either to folks who are trying to tell me what I am and am not. And I don't. We hit up several other spots on the way.
In Part 1 I went into it, I don't know if I need to again.
It's nothing new to have folks around you telling you that you aren't enough of X. Being here has shown me that within the community itself, some folks do just step in line, so that they make sure they are enough (or SEEM to be enough) of whatever it is folks are down with. I can't knock on folks for that. Who wants to be isolated and picked on? At the same time though, don't, in your quest for fitting in, try to isolate others who rather be themselves and keep it moving. What does it do for a person to make someone else feel bad about themselves anyway? Does it give someone who is already powerless more power? Perhaps. Or maybe just being out of the poking eyes of those who judge for a moment to put the attention on someone who doesn't seem to be with in the crowd, seems appealing. Who knows?
I know I'm vague, but I'm gonna leave it at that.
Anyway, my aunt got me this hideous (even though she called it beautiful) make-shift hijab and skirt. It was in a package and at first I thought she was buying a day dress for the house. A white cotton fabric with pink flowers all over it. Ick! But hey, if she wanted it for her, then beautiful! Thats fine with me.
We walked about some more on some of the smaller streets and looked at the deals and at the tourists. The streets go from wide cobbled streets to very narrow and uneven and at a slant. Steps start and end, slopes for carts appear, and every now and then a stone is has been made slick with time and has no grip. But along the way, I see people from everywhere. Hear tongues that I hear daily in NY. German, Greek, Spanish, Italian, Brazilian, English, Japanese. I knew that there were a lot of people who came to see Jerusalem, but I was amazed to see just how many folks from all those countries and probably more, came.
As we went along another winding road, she stops to check out a new pursue and I notice a coins accompanied by stones and jewels. I take a look see. Beautiful necklaces and earrings like a friend of mine in NY makes with old Palestinian coins with writing in Arabic. The shop keeper was a nice old man who wanted to show me everything he had. I wondered if he got anyone in the store that day. He seemed over excited, waiting and ready for me to buy anything and everything I could afford. Of course I saw several things that peaked my interest, but I kept it simple. It's not like I'm a baller anyway. A necklace and earrings for me and my sister.
My aunt got her purse. A very simple, economical, can pack everything and then some that she needs in it, kind of bag. She came in the store to meet me and thought the necklace was nice, but plain. They like bright colors here, I've noticed. Shiny fake diamonds for little girls with bright pink feather hair things and bracelets. It's cute on them. But I don't think thats really my stilo. She put the white and pink flowered outfit in a bag and we kept walking.
(on a side note once I finally got my luggage, my cousin Shyma, said I had too many dark clothes and that I needed color. I said I had as much color as I wanted and see, dark blue, dark purple, dark red. Those are colors. She laughed and said that wasn't colorful enough. I pointed behind her at a burnt orange skirt I have and she said, thats only ONE thing that isn't dark here. She laughed and got pulled away by her little son. I shrugged. I'm not a bright pink kind of girl. Sorry)
We walked about some more, passing shops that had more blue evil eyes than I have ever seen together in my life. We buy several for key chains and keep it moving. There are young men sitting around outside of shops, listening in on conversations, waiting to pull folks in to get them into the stores. To see anything, everything. Just to buy something. I suppose once October is over, it's slow. I suppose maybe they are bored. Who knows.
By now my feet are screaming. My feet just don't like these weird sized European sneakers. A 41 just isn't the same as the 10's I wear. Just aint working. And it didn't. My the end of the day, my pink toes had blisters on them from all the walking. Maybe it's also because they were new and I'd only worn them once before. Maybe. Hey, my feet get hot. I like my flip flops in this weather. But Jerusalem calls for sneakers.
On another funny side note though, ALLLLL the women wear high heeled sandals all the time. Maybe thats another reason I get looked at. I don't ever wear high heeled sandals. It would never occur to me to wear those kinds of shoes on cobbled streets. You know, I might wear a small heel if I wanted to be fancy, BUT REALLY? Seriously? High heeled sandals all the time. The women are short is what it is. I'm not abnormally tall or anything, but I'm taller than everyone else I've met. Except for one cousin, who was built pretty sturdy all around and super nice. She was my height and wearing flats. Everyone else though is very small. You were right, Nihaya. It's these African genes of mine that have me much bigger. But then again, I do have female cousins who are tall. Not many, but a few. Maybe it's because many of the men are tall. My dad was around 6ft.
We walked along. People watched. Shop watched. Rested my Aunts high heel sandaled feet. We then came across the Via Dolorosa, which is where Jesus walked and carried his cross to be crucified. By the beginning of the walk, a German film crew films a host. Not sure what show it was for, but he crouched down, putting his hands flat on the ground, to touch the stones Jesus may have placed his feet upon. Tourists huddled close to one another near the crew. They looked on along the road as a tour guide spoke, lifting his hands in the air, putting on a fantastic show of his knowledge. As if everyone in the group had never heard the story before. But their eyes were wide, opened with wonder and excitement at the story he told. I couldn't hear clear enough to hear what language he spoke, but I was dazzled a bit by his energy in telling them of Jesus' last hours.
We walked along the Via Dolorosa. The street arched up, stones higher in some places, stones slicked down in others. We were both tired from being in the sun all day. I wished we had bought another bottle of water before the walk. Bells ring in Jerusalem every 15 mins or so. I can't ever tell which direction they come from, but they're a constant reminder than we are in a Holy place.
We walked up the road slowly. I touched the stones along the walls. There are Armenian, German, Greek hostels scattered about. Shop keepers with cheese boards made of Olive tree oak. Little boys running around each other. Two old Russian couples walking slowly because the women decided to wear very high heels that day. A young mother with a cute little boy is walking next to us. She has short dirty blond hair. She wore a black hijab and a purple outfit. My aunt talks with the boy, then to his mother. She tells the woman about them not wanting to let me into the Muslim part of the mosque. The woman looks at me and rolls her eyes, as if to say, no kidding. I wore loose pants, a loose shirt. Showed no skin. Had a scarf ready to put on. But still. But still. I thought my aunt asked for the non-Muslim entrance, but she asked for an alternate entrance. We went around another corner and she handed me the white and pink flowered thing in the package.
"For you to wear." She points to a clear alley next to the corner we're turning down and motions for me to go put this on. At first I think it's a dress in the package, BUT it's a down to the bottoms of my feet skirt and a hijab with a hole for your head sewn in. I wish I could have gotten a picture of me wearing it, just to burn it later. I looked like a damn fool.
Once everything was on, my aunt smiled.
"Beautiful." She smiled harder.
I frowned harder. "I look Magnoon. Like a fool." I try to adjust the scarf. The opening for the head is too big for my face. Whose head is this fat for an opening so big? The top of my hair keeps showing. Hopefully they won't hold it against me.
We walk a little more nervous to the guards. They sit at the table, M-16's at their sides. I swallow hard and smile, trying to be convincing. My aunt speaks fast arabic to the soldier. She tells him I'm american and that my arabic isn't very good, but that I am a muslim and I do know the qu'ran. He asked for my passport and likes that my name is Arabic. But if you saw me, you wouldn't believe this get-up either.
"Can you recite anything from the Qu'ran?" He looks at my passport, looks at me and hands it back to me. I look up at his green eyes and smile a nervous smile.
"Bismillah Raham eh Raheem?" I tried not to have a nervous lilt to the end of my voice. I had to be confidence. "Bismillah he Ramham eh Raheem." He looked at me. I looked at him.
My aunt chimes in in the back round in Arabic. She says again that my arabic isn't good. My father was a good muslim but didn't teach me very good arabic, but I'm a good muslim too. I just want to see the mosque.
"Ok." He said and let us pass. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. She takes my arm. We both say Shurkan and keep it moving. The next guard inside says the greeting. We say it back and keep walking. He does a double take of me in my outfit, but says nothing.
We smile at each other as we walk down the tree lined road. She takes my camera out of the plastic bag she put it in and says to take pictures. I smile and say of course. I love my Aunt Maha. She's great!
I was fine with going through the non-muslim entrance of course. But she looked at it as disrespectful that they'd deny me so she wanted even more to get me in that way. I don't think God minded. Through all the rough times and temper tantrums, we've stayed on good terms.
We walked along the beautiful land. There were trees and green green grass across the lands before the Dome. Of in the distance, Non-muslims came in to see the sights. We walked across the lands and looked up at the Dome's massive form. She said a little prayer. I took pictures.
Tourist walked up along the steps. They looked at the dome, at me, at the dome, back at me. I adjusted the dumb scarf and took more pictures. The sun beat down hard on us as the day continued on. We walked down the steps and I snapped along. British teenagers look at me and giggle together. I'm tempted to flip them off, BUT then I realize that its not worth disrespecting such a holy place. I let it go and swallow my desire to bring the hood to Jerusalem.
We walk towards the Mosque and almost get in when one of the guards sitting outside stops us.
My aunt explains I'm muslim and I can go in and that we have the right.
"What's her name?" He asks in Arabic.
"Eman." She replies and tries to walk into the women's entrance with me to the mosque, which is below the male entrance.
"Where's your passport?" He turns to me and says in english.
I fish it out and hand it to him. He nods.
"A Rimawi. Very good. Just had to check." He said as he handed me back my passport.
He apologizes to my aunt and says that he just has to make sure since I'm clearly dressed in something that I hadn't been wearing long. I guess our 007 stint wasn't that good. Eh well. It got us that far.
We walked into the mosque and it was plainer than I was expecting. There aren't too many women in there. We took our shoes off and walked on the soft carpet. The air was cool and relaxing. It was so quiet. I could have napped there and felt completely safe. I felt at ease in this place. Books older than America line the wall. All Qu'rans. All religious. A few of the young girls walking in there looked at me. I stood out in height, in pink colors. My aunt and I sat down on the carpet for a while and rested. I sent an email from my crackberry to Dave as I sat on the floor of about parts of my day. I flexed my socked feet and toes into the carpet and took a breath in the cool air. I was so glad for my secret agent Aunt.
We walked back out in the sun to leave. Tourists mulled about. Guards hung out in the corner, watching. We left out of the non-muslim entrance near the Wailing Wall. I didn't get to see the wall. The guards looked us over a little. We walked up along the road, back to the cobbled streets and the shops. It was like a different world for a moment. All these stoned walls and streets all around us and then this opened aired beautiful quiet place with the Dome and the Mosque and the streets and the grass. Then back to the stones. Was very surreal. As we made our way up the road I asked my aunt if I could take off the scarf and skirt set since I was so hot. As we walked, I shed the scarf and skirt and fanned myself with them. She laughed, saying the guards were looking. Oops. Oh well. The next time I go back, I'll skip the hassle and 21 questions and go through the non-muslim entrance. I know who I am. I don't need to pass the 1 drop test for them or anyone else. I know who I am. And God knows who I am too. Thats more than enough for me.
We walked along the road, up up up, back through the stones. It's so crowded everywhere you walk. Along this road, there's not enough space for all these people, but we manage. My aunt doesn't want to lose me. I'm capable of finding my way, but they worry. Family always worries. I'm a woman, in Palestine, with "western" clothes, who doesn't speak good enough arabic for their standards. They worry.
We walked along the road and saw more shops. I passed by a shop that sold all kinds of beautiful plates with all kinds of designs. I wanted to buy some plates but worried about them being broken in my luggage. I plan on going back to the shop though.
We made our way back near the front entrance of the Old City and climbed the steep hill to exit. I would have sacrificed my tiredness to see more, but my aunt needed to rest and a person just CAN'T see all of Jerusalem in one day. It's just too much walking.
I'd like to go back this coming week. I hope I can.
We walked to the bus station. I was chaotic and loud. We were too tired to care. We got on a bus to Ramallah and quietly road along. I tried not to doze off. My aunt fell in and out of sleep. I watched the roads and streets, committing them to memory for later. It was almost 3pm as the sun sleepily rocked lower in the sky. The sun is completely set here by around 5:45-6pm. I think it's Octobers sun, but maybe it's all the time. It rises so early here too.
We sat, resting our bodies as we road back to the house.
My first day in Jerusalem was amazing.
She asked me, "Are you happy?"
I smiled and said, "Yes, I was very very happy."
Thats all I needed to say.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Jerusalem Day 1 Part 1
Today I finally made it to Jerusalem and although it is going to be the first of many trips along these cobble stoned streets, it's definitely going to be the most memorable. Not only because of the sites and sounds and smells, but also because my Aunt Maha showed me around and we had a lot of fun together.
We walked along the old streets with our first stop being Al Aqsa, or so we thought. I read about them having 2 different entrances for people. One for Muslims and one for Haramiis (non-muslims). Because my father was a Muslim, the family considers me a Muslim too. Byproxiy, of course I am. Im a muslim, a christian, a spiritualist, a buddist, a hindu, a connected being to the universe at large. But they didn't think so.I forgot that pants and the like are a no no. Of course IF I HAD MY FRIGGIN LUGGAGE I would have worn a long skirt and lose shirt and not the same old pants I've been washing and wearing.
In any event, my make shift hijab wasn't working for them. And my non-ability to recite the quran on que in arabic had them turn me away from entering the muslim part. BUT MY aunt didn't give up. Hours later, we pulled a 007 and she found a skirt and hijab set, got it, put it on me and we entered from another side. I recited as much as I could and it was more believable with a flowery garb on this time. She refused to bring me through the non-muslim entrance. WHo are they to tell me how muslim I am? Or whats haram or not? Thats up to God, not these bored dudes who sit around telling folks ye or ney on whether they can enter.
In any event, The guy didn't want to really believe it when we were in there and going by the mosque, BUT having a arabic name helped. Thanks Dad!
But I'll write the inside later.
After we were turned away the firs time, we walked around and found these Orthodox Greek Church. There were some beautiful pieces of art in this place and the folks who came through, came with priests and 6 foot tall crosses that they kneeled before as they said a prayer in the church.It was an amazing scene. Hopefully I'll be able to upload all those pictures soon so that everyone can see the rest.
After that, we made our way down the street to her brothers restaurant Al-Aeata for some Shawarma and coffee. Can you say yummy in arabic? I can't, but it's was Tayaab (good)! So there ya go!
We made out way down and bumped into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where the items of Jesus's last hours are. The stone he was beaten on, the stone that the cross was in, the piece that had the crack from the earth quake, the stone that they washed him on, and the tomb where he was buried and resurrected. When we got to the Church it was already around 12 so it was packed with tourists. We met an older man, Marwan, who gave us an impromptu tour, which was nice because I didn't know about some of the things he told us about and there were no signs of what things were. You're just supposed to know. He smelled sweet like old school pepermints and a hint of sweet Brandy. For a muslim in Jerusalem, thats really taboo, but who knows what Brandy smells like unless they've had it.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Some of the news in Palestine Today
I've been reading through the news and here's some of the stuff I found. It's all in english so folks can read it. I found things on the financial things going on, fighting between jews and arabs, martyrdom, and more. All this in one day of news. Heavy on my heart.
| Israeli settlers cut olive tress in West Bank | | ||
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 A number of houses in Acre have been torched in the riots |
Hundreds of Israeli police officers have been deployed to the northern city of Acre after four days of violence between Arabs and Jews.
Overnight Jewish and Arab demonstrators threw stones at each other, before being dispersed by the security forces.
On Sunday the normally busy Old City was reported to be almost empty.
More than 50 people have been arrested since Wednesday when an Israeli-Arab man was assaulted for driving his car during the Jewish Yom Kippur holy day.Just married and determined to die
Umm Anas was at the centre of a highly-staged event, but she was far from a cipher
There is a ceasefire in Gaza, but the BBC has found evidence of militant groups preparing for a return to violence. One group, Islamic Jihad, is training female suicide bombers.
Middle East correspondent Paul Wood went to meet a Palestinian woman who volunteered.
| Palestinian PM Fayyad: ‘We Are at a Crossroads’ ‘Two-state Solution Teetering under Weight of Half Million Settlers’ |
 October 13, 2008 - Palestinian National Authority (PNA) Prime Minister Salam Fayyad told a group of prominent American Palestinians in Washington on Sunday night that “we are at a crossroads" that could either lead to either "a bumpy road to peace" or the other way as "the two-state solution is teetering under the weight of 170 (illegal Jewish colonial) settlements and almost half a million settlers. And the time for a two-state solution is running out," Claude Salhani of the Middle East Times reported. |
| International support to PA may be decreased due to global crisis |
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After decades of occupation the Palestinian economy relies heavily on aid for projects in infrastructure, including schools and security, but the Ministry of Planning said this week that funding outside parties may not top the priorities of donor countries who are themselves in trouble. |
Ramallah / PNN – The Ramallah government headed by Prime Minister Salam Fayyad is expressing concerns over the global financial crisis beyond price increases and a poor exchange rate.| Threat to Islamic heritage of Jerusalem reaches critical juncture |
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Dr. Hassan Khater, Secretary General of the Islamic – Christian Front for the Defense of Jerusalem, says a particularly dangerous period has been entered. |
Jerusalem / PNN - Incurring into Al Aqsa Mosque during a Jewish holiday was a dangerous attempt to link the Israeli agenda to the Muslim holy site. During the Yom Kippur holiday, as threats were levied against the Mosque, throngs of Jewish worshippers descended. Just days later a synagogue opened meters away from Al Aqsa.Things my father never told me A.K.A. Ramallah living A.K.A. A Palestinian wedding 1
It's 11:30am.(downtown at night)
I wander about, walking from near the Municipal building by my Aunts house, to downtown near the circle and the lion in the center of the street. Right in front of me is a place called Stars & Bucks and it makes me laugh every time I see it.
Women and men mull about as a mans voice echoes through the stone streets from the Mosque a few block away. It's time to hear the call to prayer. There aren't many children in sight since they are still in school. Shop keepers yell out for potential buyers.
"Khamsa Shekel! Araba Shekel!"
They hold candy, koosa, hummus. They hold dreams, wishes, and far off desires.
My father never told me that Palestinian weddings are layered like cakes or onions or mountainous landscape, winding and lasting and going until the morning comes. The bride and groom wind down their new road together, a step at a time to be placed on a seat before the rest of us. Only women and children are allowed to be near the bride and groom for all this time, unless much later, when pictures and posing are introduced and every family member must bring a bit of gold, 4 kisses and a smile to the new bride and her groom.
My father never told me of the traditional wear women dress in. The colorful hijabs, the layers of gold upon their chests, their arms, their hands, their heads. Colors of bright blues and greens and yellows and reds. These women with their darkened eye lashes and red lips, thick white foundation on their cheeks and a twist of their hips. The dance they dance with their arms and hips hits beats to drums in the music. We watch, we clap, we laugh, we dance. So goes it at a Palestinian wedding.
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