…catch a leaf

It has been busy, I have been quiet, the blog remains untouched by any. Wild things can change the course of one man, a leaf in the wind fearing the impact and finality of the grass, his grave, and the unknown cold emptiness of atmosphere, unable to choose in which he’d rather bed.

Teaching continues; she is the course that runs sure. No, that’s not it. Streams change when trees fall or stones roll into their paths…Teaching is a waterfall where rocks, fish, trees, hydrogen-dioxide have no choice but to plummet, violent in nature, but peaceful in method. Students thunder into class, absorb, try, extend, leave, still water but impacted by the fall. There is comfort in this vehement routine. It is all else here that is different, even opposite: peaceful in nature, but violent in method, the stone that rolls into the stream. At once it is sturdy, unchanging, calm. A flick of the eyes to a passing songbird or a fox on the prowl and you suddenly see the stone differently (did it move? change shape?) for its power, dormant kineticism, preying for destruction:

I go to buy a gas burner, I look for life’s necessities, I find myself accused of theft and robbed of prior pieties. The rumor rolled into my stream, and stuck itself in the mud. How common this act of necessity was, and yet, how disruptive it’s become. But I’ve kept moving, flowing and soon I trust that it will dislodge, only to leave the bank quite different than it had been.

Some belongings have been sitting in my apartment, their owner a previous tenant or two who seem to have forgotten. But today a gentle rap on my metal door, once opened, revealed the young hand of a slender woman. I let her in, but left the door ajar. The prodigal daughter came and collected her things with smiling nostalgia. As the transaction ended, for that’s all it was, a passing, two winds, or just one and the wood, with the door left open for all to observe (and they did, all of the children who live around me in this hive, buzzing curiously into my empty cement cell), she waved and parted, bearing her new-old burden.

But the bees stayed and they asked me if I was afraid of God, which I’ve been asked before and still don’t know how to answer. Do they mean merely that I know God is powerful, that I should fear him in my love for him? Or do they mean, as I think they do and are taught, that one should be afraid of God, and should pray to appease him after offense? This was the course of action I was strongly advised to take after choosing my response: No, I am not afraid. With a simultaneous, seemingly rehearsed gasp, they leaned back, forced by the blast of blasphemy in my words, and I went from neighbor to infidel.

I blessed them good-bye and sank into my room where their atavistic noises surrounded once again. Children, so peaceful when tucked in, so innocent of worries to come as they tie string to twigs to plastic and call it a kite, so angry and raw, bearing milkteeth in disgust.

And Tim leaves too, in a month, to ingest the New England autumn like apple crisp and cranberry sauce. The quietness I’ll know will be a cacophony of absence. So I’ll pick up more classes and keep myself busy.

But busy-ness doesn’t mean absent-ness, though I find myself on the stoop less often, my passing breezy and quick, neither warm to notice, nor cold to hunch in. An autumn lull has settled here, and common living rooms have lost their detail in my mental frames.

Fall only exists in evening, summer reigns all day. Winter peeks in the stripes of night that descend as does the sun, but her pale face has yet to emerge from her sneaky, mischievous hibernation. I grow enamored with the language as she becomes familiar, and conversations are had where we dip into each other’s tongue and taste what we think we know and ask about what we’ve never had.

And meanwhile I soothe something within or around or holistic with the differently familiar sounds of the Mumford & Sons new album; sometimes I read or sit or pray or do push-ups. As I make coffee on the burner I bought to calm my accusers’ pointed fingers, I catch up on world news that I downloaded onto my phone the day before and wonder how Morsi or Hadi’s trip to the UN will be received and if Palestine will get her borders, if Obama will listen or if Romney will rise, or if Ahmadinejad will ever put his foot in his mouth or even use it to step down next year…and my thoughts drift, papery, colorful.

I suppose I choose the grass, I say to the wind. Though final, it’s steady. I want Niagra; though brutal, it’s sure. Not the sweet, calm atmosphere that will change in an instant and thin in oxygen and loose its hold on you then gently drop you off into space where the last thing you see is the smile of the moon before asteroids and a once-planet become silhouettes by a dim star and Hubble catches sight of you causing scientists to wonder What is that? and you’re classified as UFO in science books that gather dust on the shelves of libraries.

And its what I’m getting in the Arab Autumn where crispness lacks in air and stove, but heat exists in both, and tumbling over waterfalls seems a bit dramatic as I lay in the grass and look up at stars. Who knows who’s up there, and down here in books.

...honk your horn

Dusk settled onto my city tonight as I approached home, and in the ephemeral twilight I stopped for a pensive moment to look around at the many neighborhoods built on the hills in view. Around me were the homes and shops I knew; in the distance, the tide of the Israeli settlement crept higher and wider; and in the middle were the crumbled cement and gnarled rebar of homes that once stood. There was a haze everywhere, a kind of mixture of two bloods. Because a coldness has visited Palestine, a refreshing chill from the blazing heat, condensation takes a visible form now, as it dances in the air above stone houses and vineyards. It is clear and fresh, but it isn’t alone. A grimy cloud also floats—over pavement and car graveyards. Every dumpster in Khalil is smoking, sickly and rotten, with the unnatural stench of things thatought not burn, and tires char in the street as monuments of youthful defiance. The two hover, swirl, blurring my usually clear view.

It was such a quiet moment, which was strange for where I was standing, because usually stoop-sitters are calling my name or a mob of young children surround me here. But I was alone.

I was in a ghost town.

Empty Shuhada Street

If you’ve done some research you know that ‘ghost town’ is the sardonic name used for a once-busy area in the Old City of Khalil called Shuhada Street. This road used to teem with Arab merchants and patrons, but has now been shut down by Israel to be used as a sort of buffer-zone between Palestine and the Israeli Settlement. For those whose livelihood existed on that pavement, this has been the most detrimental; for everyone else, it is a fraternal frustration they share. Fight Ghost Town is the cry one can find spray-painted on walls around the city.

But that is not where I was today. I was on the main street in Khalil, Ain Sara, and it was a ghost town. Everyone was at the city-center joining in on the protest. Or denned up in their homes. No shops were open save the bakeries, which closed early. Wind blew vacant bags like tumbleweed and stray animals took their chance to bolt across the street. Schoolchildren in their uniforms disappeared into homes and group of young men all headed to the demonstration.

It was a bit creepy, actually, everything flowing like a river down toward some rapids of social frustration. The higher I got up the street, away from the protests, the more post-apocalyptic it felt. But I think it was smart to stay away. The Palestinian men were reacting to the cost of fuel going up, and, subsequently, everything else. Even bread, a staple here unlike anywhere else, is more expensive, but salaries aren’t raising to compensate. People’s livelihoods are being threatened by an internal force now, too; this is no battle with Israel.

My friend Ihab snapped this earlier in the day.

And it all began in the morning when trucks of all kinds paraded down the street, blaring their horns unremittingly, getting our attention. It was enough to boil my blood. Demonstrations like this occurred all over the West Bank; it was quite the operation. In Khalil it ended with a kind of riot, where windows were broken and the police station was targeted. Billy clubs were passed out to policemen and even the army got involved. But I was safely tucked away in my home avoiding the streets, listening to the sirens of ambulances taking patients to the nearby hospital every few minutes. I even heard a string of shots fired in the distance, but they sounded like warning shots rather than offensive ones.

It is exciting to think what sort of change this might bring to Palestine. The call of these men is for the resignation of the Prime Minister, the need is for lower prices, and apparently he has the power to do something about it. And at the end of this month the President is going to the UN to make another bid for statehood. It's not just crisp Autumn and rank garbage, now; revolution is also in the air.

The protests at the city center...notice people on the billboard.

So schools and shops were closed for one day, but they will be back in business tomorrow. If nothing changes, perhaps something like this will happen again; if something does, they’ll refocus on the Occupation. That cloud never leaves their horizon no matter the waves they deal with today. They greet it at the checkpoints, see it on their hillsides, and feel it in their hearts. And often talk to me about it.

My day ended with tea and fresh-off-the-vine grapes at my cousins’ house. A man with his kuffiya draped on his neck rolled strong cigarettes in front of me while his guest, the soon-to-be father-in-law of his son, engaged me in conversation. He spoke some English and was delighted to share. There was another man there too, who I never fully identified. Certainly Himony, uncertainly who. And it was that man who sent the question my way: Do you love the Jewish people? It’s a question whose answer is deep and delicate, and as I go to speak, I feel like that man, taking his first step out onto the tightrope between the towers of the World Trace Center.

“I love all people.” It is the answer I have settled on, and one the good Muslim cannot argue with. So I am safe. We can agree that people don’t always do the right thing, but my answer serves as a dead end, and we move on to other topics.

Now (two days later), I am finding myself apologizing for a movie about Mohammed I knew nothing about. Some research filled me in—there has been an offensive movie toward Islam posted on YouTube and, as a result, some Americans in Lybia were killed. Here people express sadness or anger, but the don’t justify the murders. All I can say is “I’m sorry.”

“You are a good man, Wisam, but…” It is the response I hear repeatedly. People aren’t too happy about it, and with the passing of 9-11, all these tensions seem to be fuel for something…fuel that has been much more expensive than the rise of gas prices.

Revolution is indeed in the air.

As is this.

…make a mistake

Oh the differences between the West and Mid East…It’s Kansas and Oz. If you’ve been following along down the yellow bricks I’ve been laying, you may have already noticed and experienced many of them yourself. Yesterday I was thinking more intentionally about them as I walked hand-in-hand with my friend, Saleh, around town. Shwarma and taxis and heat—oh my! We had been meaning to go to a coffee shop and enjoy each other’s company for some time and it worked out that we finally both had time. Now—and I am sure you’ve guessed it since unmarried men and women don’t spend time together in public here—Saleh is male. Yes, Saleh is twenty-two years old, has finished university as an accountant, works in a bakery-sweetshop, and likes to slip his hand into mine as we meander and ambulate between falafel vendors and fashion shops.

Now, I knew that Arab men were more physically expressive before I got here, but I found out to what degree when I started to get to know them. If I enter a room, I find the seat not safely distanced from my host but right alongside of him. If I’m beckoned to the stoop I find myself snuggled between relatives, and if I am indeed sitting next to someone, we are inevitably making contact. Perhaps my hand has become the play-thing of an absent minded cousin or we’ve linked arms, me and my seatmate. Most of the time an arm rests on my thigh instead of its owner’s own.

But I have gotten used to it, I noticed, as I walked through town, interdigitating with a well-dressed young Arab. It used to be that every time I held hands my mind would vacate my head and swim down to my phalanges. I would have a hard time focusing on anything else except the fact that a man is holding my arm and we are waltzing down main street—oh my goodness, now he’s holding my hand—ah! we’ve slid our fingers around one another’s! Seriously, its hard to navigate through a crowd with so much mental noise.

And as I reflect, I think about the many cultural chasms I’ve stumbled across and all the faux pas that I’ve made, or barely avoided, as an ajnabi (foreigner). Indeed, I’ve yet to fully correct this wicked glitch from the west.

Some of the blips come from the difference in our ways of communicating…

There is a favorite treat of mine I’ve so creatively named ‘two-shekel ice cream.’ Not only is it cheap, but it’s also really tasty, especially while walking in the heat. And I’ve been adopting a greater sense of hospitality here too, so a few times, while walking with a Khalili (local), I’ve offered to purchase a couple for us. Biduk means (Do) you want and booza means ice cream. Biduk booza? I was confused when people not only denied my offer, but also looked at me quite strangely. What? It’s just two shekels? Really, it’s no problem…It never worked. Why? Well, I received quite the surprise when I realized that I was mispronouncing booza as boosa…Boosa means kiss.

Tim and I both have stories of the next lingual flop. We like to speak as much Arabic as we can in our classrooms, especially when congratulating students on good work. We’ve developed a vocabulary of classroom-words, and one of those words is smart. Easy, right? Inta zeki. Well, not really, because a slight vowel shift in the word changes zeki to zaki, which is the difference between smart and delicious. No, it’s never been considered good form to tell students how tasty they are.

The Palestinians have quite the collection of gestural vocabulary, too. This is something I didn’t know, and I am learning many of them. A scoop of the hand from palm-down to palm-up stands in for the most pertinent question at the time. Perhaps it is why, what’s up, or where were you…but the most frequently used gesture is a quick jump of the eyebrows. Sometimes it is accompanied with a click of the tongue, but it always means no. In the States we tick our head and flick our eyebrows as a kind of silent hello to passerbys. So, now that I think about it, there are scads of Palestinians who are at home now, wondering why that ajnabi walked passed them and “said” NO! How rude.

But cultural differences aren’t just found in communication styles. Social relationships, as you know, are also vastly different. I have learned to keep my eyes steady as I walk past any number of women. Though it isn’t as strict here as in other Arab countries, I still avoid eye-contact as we pass. Children are my only exception, that is, if the mother hasn’t pulled them in close and tight. And I am used to hijabs, the head coverings of the women here. They frame the face, close and tight, while safely covering every strand of hair from unwanted sight. This is the norm. One thing that tells me I am becoming like the Khalili is how I stare when a women doesn’t have a hijab on. Oh, it was just hair when I first arrived, but now it is something so foreign, so strange. I have to correct myself as I ogle with a dropped jaw.

And while these differenced are so obvious, some are not. I observed one instance of this in a recent and unfortunate incident. Safety is a surprisingly low priority here. Every construction site I walk past is lacking in hardhats and overflowing with casts. Every family, it seems, has a story of a relative who passed away unnaturally or who has brain damage from an accident later in life. I know people who lost their fathers when they were teenagers or younger. One of my students at the Excellence Center came into class, heavily bandaged because of a recent bike accident. And everybody has a noticeable amount of scars all over their body from something. This is very different than the US.

Last week a nine-year-old Himony was climbing up the side of something—a building, maybe—when he lost his hold and fell. I wasn’t there to witness the event but I heard about it. It was as bad as you wouldn’t want it to be. And the second thing people asked me when they talked to me about the boy, whose name is Mohammed, was did you go see him yet? I was slightly confused, for I was just hearing about the incident. But apparently the family rallies around events like this. It seems to be expected that everyone visits the hospital and sees the patient, no matter how distant the relative. But I don’t know where the hospital is, and across the language divide, the details were hazy anyways.

Besides, I’ve been told many times about the death of someone I know, only to find out later that it was a complete exaggeration or just outright lie. Not funny to me, though somehow so to them.

Last week I was offered the opportunity to join the father at the hospital. Great, of course, I’ll be there. So Tim and I got up early and hopped into a taxi with him. This was actually the second time I was going. Two days prior I caught a ride with my brother, but we weren’t able to actually see Mohammed. I gather that seeing in important, so I went again.

This time Tim and I got to witness Mohammed as he came out of surgery and was transported to get a cat scan. He was asleep, bandaged and swollen. His eyes were plums, and his cheeks were no longer clinging to his bones as they usually do. Where his skull was put back together there was a large bandage. But his chest rose and fell with the promise of life and the monitor that traveled with him displayed a steady heart rate. As we went with him to the cat scan we found ourselves being ordered, in a foreign language, to help with some medical procedures. I mean, it was only helping transfer the small body from one bed to another, but with the tubes and wires and chords everywhere, it was a bit stressful. This would never happen in the States, I thought.

Mohammed is still in the hospital but we hear good reports. And I can now join in the conversation. When someone asks, I can tell them I saw the young boy and then offer up a blessing on him or a praise to God. We agree: it is up to God. But however different and sad it was, I was happy to visit and see Mohammed after his operation. I fulfilled my familial duty and was able to keep the waiting family company. And in my great capacity for sentiment I offered a worried cousin a kiss. And this time I meant it: Biduk booza?

Oh, shoot. That means ice cream.