...hold a bunny

So. Finally. I have collected some of my pictures here for you to see. Enjoy. And don't forget to read my most recent blogs, too! 

Part of Khalil (Hebron) from up high.

We love visiting roofs. This one is from the building that we broadcast a radio show from.

This is what I see when I step outside. That is a new mosque in the distance.

This is where I live. Behind that shrubbery.

Demonstrations in the street on Nakbah Day (The day Israel received statehood)

Demonstrations at night

Tim with extended family/neighbors/groupies. We must allot 10 minutes extra before we can pass and get to our home.

This is our cousin. He is the lucky kid who lives on this beautiful land.

We were invited over one day to see the land, which ended with being fed, served coffee and tea and long conversations in the living-room with the Matriarch of the family, who is the sweetest old woman. She told us we were her own sons and interviewed us to make sure we had blankets and beds.

This is our brother Wesam.
We love him a lot.

Then the uncles learned we were over and when they came over, another long conversation began. We were quickly invited back for a big meal on Friday, their Holy Day.

On Friday we were stuffed with Chicken and Rice and Cauliflower and Tea and Coffee and Fun and Children and Family and Beauty. After a full, full meal and much chilling, we were taken to the familys' orchard-farm in the next town over, Halhul. Pictures below. Best day in Palestine so far.

Arab beauty.

More Arab beauty.

I think Bunnies are the cutest things on the planet. That man's gut is not.

The kids love using the iPhone. Next to me is Abedasalam, a 21 year old deaf Arab.
Communicating with him was amazing.
We translated English-to ASL-to Arab Sign-to Arabic and back.

View from our cousins' place.

We got to their orchard-farm at the perfect time.

Overlooking Israel in the distance

Tim loves farms.

The sun shines on Occupier and Occupied.

Ab Munthir

Berry-pickin'. I don't know how that tree isn't falling over.

Speaking of, this is the oldest tree in the world.
Ibrahim is said to have rested under it.

Tim in front of the only church in Khalil

the Countryside.

And so begins the Camel-movie! Scroll through and enjoy.

...kick the cat

Yeah, that's a trashcan

A cat died last night, I think. Moving from under one open window to another and then ever quieter into the distance the howl traveled. It was as if the temperature dropped for a moment. I imagined what terrible event could be happening to make the cat utter such horror, but quickly set it out of my mind. Yesterday morning as I walked to work a stray half-dog-half-wolf sprinted up and across the street to a safer, abandoned patch of land where he could feast on some long forgotten food or carcass. Two days ago something scuttled almost under my feet to avoid being preyed upon. I spun around to see a lizard the size of my hand perched in the shade, his twenty or twenty-four claws clenched unsuccessfully on the tile floor ready to run, his eyes locked on me, his predator. I moved away to let him escape and watched him leave the frictionless tile and scale a wall. He gave me one last look before disappearing.

PETA would not be happy here. In the states we find kittens cute and name everything that moves; here, one finds a snake, puts it in a bottle and shakes it to be entertained. Horses and mules look sad as they bear weight everyday, suffer kicks and heat and urban air, and compete with traffic for space on the hard tar.

Half-goat half-alien?

It is a lot to swallow, sometimes, but what my ethnocentricity finds unbearable, is more than made up in interpersonal relationships. Perhaps we, in the States, are the ones with the odd perception of animals. Either way, no matter where I am there is always a kind face welcoming me to Palestine. From young school children to aged men on their stoop, no social inhibition or fear of awkwardness stops these people from shouting AHlan wasaHlan! You are welcome! We wave and say Shukrahn (Thank you) or AHlanbik, the traditional response. Often people stop us and we converse until the limits of our fluency.

Weird Animals

A day ago I was approached by two school boys with wide, genuine smiles. Well, let me digress for a moment: I mentioned the unbelievability of Arab smiles before and I am convinced a big part of their beauty is the genuinity woven into their entire faces when they smile. Their grins are uninhibited, their eyes become watery with excitement and their cheeks and eyebrows rise in anticipation. Never before have I seen such smiles.Tim said it well when he confessed that describing these smiles is impossible to do with words that aren’t cliché. It is as if they are genetically designed to smile. I think I agree. Anyway, these boys immediately grabbed my arm and pulled me eagerly to the meatshop they are proud to work at. Inside it smelled raw, but I’m sure they have become inured to it. They sat me down and had their uncle make me some coffee, which he did with meaty hands. One of the two spoke better English and we conversed about homes, America and football. I should mention that I had already been invited into his house. That came in sentence 4 or 5. We weighed ourselves on the meat-weighing-machine (I’m a solid 87 Kilos) and looked at pictures of American celebrities in the paper. But soon I had to excuse myself to go back to work and quickly they pleaded with me to come see their football game after work. So I did. For a moment.

There a young man, perhaps 14 or 15, began speaking to me. It was the usual but I left fairly quickly. When I said I was leaving he looked at me with shocked eyes. He then pushed over and beckoned to the newly made seat.  La! La! Sit! You are welcome! I thanked him and apologized and left, chuckling as I descended from the stadium. We could barely communicate, the two of us, and yet, even just the connection was important enough to deserve a lengthier period of time. I can still see his face in my mind’s eye, a genuine, unashamed expression of desire; I still feel guilty to let such an expression go unsatisfied.

So perhaps the animals are looked at with cold eyes. A pregnant cat was tossed on my lap the other day and I swear it was the first time this poor girl ever got her neck scratched. And as I pampered the half-stray, seeing to its comfort and pleasure, I realize it is a bit silly to judge the Arab. To them, I am the half-stray and their care is more than a nice scratch on the neck.

...sit on a roof

We have finally begun the settling-in process now that our apartment received a toilet. Yes, we got a toilet. Halleluiah. Alhamdulillah. We live in a concrete box with no furniture except the thin mattresses we sleep on and the cardboard boxes that hold our clothes. But we have a toilet; we couldn’t be happier. Since this is the case, that we are settling, I can finally write about our days which, though far from identical, remain similar, as does one cousin to another.

We wake up early and walk with the boys to school. The boys I refer to are the brothers by two mothers who live in this family compound and who go to secondary school (high school): Wisam and  Ibrahim. The school I refer to is Al Hussein’s Secondary School for boys, which conveniently sits directly across the street from Markaz (center) Excellence. We can see into classrooms from our roof. I’ll get to that later…the roof, that is, not the classrooms. We are more and more frequently joined by Omar, too, Ibrahim’s little brother who will surely grow into his ears some day. Currently, they rest on his temples as beacons of cuteness. Wisam is a responsible young man who has a wide forehead and farmers’ hands. His eyes are round as is his chest and arms. He converses in the best English of the family and so deals with us the most. Ibrahim has the friendliest face I have ever seen. He approaches you, his hips slightly forward, his arms loosely at his side like any typical growing teenager who doesn’t know what else to do with them. His eyes become crescent in joy and his smile is engaging, inviting. Its something about Arabs, I think, something specific to their kind: they have eyes like fishing poles and smiles like bait. We are the exotic fish and they are in the boat. Sometimes I wonder, purely out of the strength of their gaze, if I am rude not to bite. But if I lived by this rule, I’d be late. Everywhere.

On our way to school the street is a hive of school children and yellow school busses and yellow taxis full of school children. There are no parents. In fact, young men and women and even children are often roaming the streets alone, day and night. It makes me feel safe to know that this is commonplace.

Atop a rundown structure

After a morning of work it is lunch time. We figure out what we want and retrieve it, down to the grocer and up to the butcher. At the grocer we spend mere dollars for a bag full of vegetables. At the butcher we spend a bit more. There, skinned animals hang on hooks in the windows and the men working take long drags on their cigarettes. Once we order, one stores his firmly between his lips, prepares the meat whole-handedly, takes our money, takes a drag…then sticks his hand out for a shake. Its always a bit curdling to comply.

Ibrahim Mosque

After we wash and after we eat and after the rest of the day’s work (though sometimes during it, too) we experience what I call roof culture…life on the roof. The first thing we did when we got to our apartment was ask Wesam to take us to the roof. After our first radio show we watched the sun set from the roof. On a random walk we climbed a run-down structure to its roof. In the Old City we climbed atop the Hebron Rehabilitation Center for a full view of the Ibrahim Mosque. In Bethlehem we would not be seated unless it was on the roof. At Markaz Excellence we sit, eat, relax, relate, watch, insert verb here, on the roof. It’s roof culture and I love it. The views are spectacular. Hebron cascades away in a frozen avalanche of stone and iron. She rises up a hill like a child’s stacking blocks. Life moves joyfully by below.

Bethlehem

But the day must end and we descend to the street, faced with the prospect of hiking Ain Sara. On late nights we take a taxi, but mostly we walk. Besides, the best falafel stands are on the way and its not even a dollar for one. If  that doesn’t make it taste good, the falafel-and-veggie-and-tahini stuffed pita does. Its worth the walk in money, in pleasure and in white carbs.

We are met by at least one stranger each time, too, and are engaged in a conversation. Yesterday we were actually flagged down by two rambunctious young men who merely wanted to say ‘Hi’ and invite us for coffee (or sell it to us. Not sure.). We politely declined for our bedtime was fast approaching and these days are long and hot.

Sunset from our roof

And so we make it home, and each night, at bedtime, a dog begins to bark, his timely yap  a cause to wonder. Perhaps he is being attacked? No, he returned twenty-four hours later with his incessancy and I knew it was something else. Perhaps his stray feline enemies. This thought leads me to dreams of life in the states or practicing Arabic. And I wake up early and walk with the boys to school…  

…make eye contact

I love Palestine.

Let me, for a minute, try to capture within the realm of words, the real world.

In this concrete apartment I hear the cries of a young child above. Her mother calls out: Naam! Naam! Yes! Yes! On the street below I see the litter of an urban people with other, more pressing cares than street-sweeping. Men walk in each other arms, always stylish, friendly. Women, fully covered save their faces, link their elbows and speak huddled, hurriedly, hushed. Children chase nothing, or each other as they play. Sometimes they throw rocks like in the exciting stories of the intafadas, told by their fathers and brothers, perhaps. Above it all, the many minarets call out with the pious voices of the mu’addin (or muezzin) five times a day.

The border between sidewalk and street, is undefined. The curb keeps no one back though the taxis blur by with a short beep-beep to see if you’re interested. Traffic is damned by street lights, but little else as vehicles play games of leapfrog (and we play games of frogger). When wedding parties drive by, the bride encased in white, the gang of celebrating cars honk and wail and drive with their e-brake pulled to full-screech; everyone else pulls over. This parade repeats itself daily, and especially on Friday.

The sun bakes in the morning and cools as it sinks, ushering in a gush of wind that chills considerably. This was a surprise. At night, on the roof of the Excellence Center, we look over the main street, Ain Sara, and a football (soccer) stadium, and wrap ourselves up, and practice Arabic.

I learned this: Inta ayuni (if you are speaking to a male) or intih ayuni (if you are speaking to a female.) It is an idiomatic expression meaning “I love you.” Literally, it means “You are my eyes.” (N.B. the appropriate use of literally).

The poetic side of me thinks this: that eyes are one of the strongest places for love to exist, to begin, to reside, to end. The man looks upon the woman and so finds love; the lovers opens their eyes, look at one another, and so love; the lover closes his eyes in death and loves no more. Perhaps the metaphor is perfect, then. The person of your affection is the place love dwells. You are my eyes. I think it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard.

It is the full moon now, and today it hung over Bethlehem, bright like a star. Yes, Mike, Megan, I was at the Church of the Nativity again. With my Palestinian boss we skipped the long line, talked to the police, and slipped right down into the ornate would-be cave. Again, full. Again, uninspiring. Neat, I suppose, but lacking in something. Perhaps it is…well, never mind. I’ll keep these feelings behind my sunglasses.

We stayed briefly for we wanted to explore the streets of Bethlehem, the sweet streets of Palestine. I was only able to do this for a moment last time I was here, though I wanted to do it for days. We walked down the same street I visited last time I was here, with the cheeky Stars&Bucks Café. And I remember: this place was the birthplace of something, just not…well, now I said I’d keep that to myself. Right. So these streets birthed my love for the Palestinian. I snuck away from the funnel gift-shop and bought pita bread and pomegranate juice. I met Arabs and conversed with them. I left the West behind, finally, and visited the West Bank, finally. And I loved it. That day I knew I would be back, and here I am.

Palestine, inta ayuni.