...be thankful

You all saw it on the news: Gaza and Israel at it again. And many of you sent quick notes to me, checking in on how I was. I appreciated that. It was a strange night, when it all began. I was in Jaffa, a city just south of Tel Aviv, when we first heard the rumors of war. My friends David, who left for America a couple of days later, and Ditte and Sofie, the Danes, were all dressed up and going to see the new Bond movie, Skyfall. At dinner we chuckled uneasily about the all-too appropriate title to that movie.

Tel aviv, from Jaffa

The next night was interrupted by tremors of war as rockets missed their mark, or sputtered out early, and landed in the Mediterranean nearby. We thought we might go dancing, but the mood sort of died amidst the already-growing suffering.

The week passed like a fitful night of sleep. Even the weather groaned and tossed and turned…nothing was at ease. Every day we counted the fresh graves with solemn souls. At night I heard the firing of gas or sound or light grenades as people threw stones at Israeli soldiers, and they responded. The unrest has stretched into the West Bank and many people joined Gaza by strike, by stone, or by prayer. 

Imagine the honking

The greatest of all the shocks in Hebron was not from a stray missile, though. No, we were hit hardest and closest when one of our own was shot and killed in the street, amongst his brothers. The pictures and phone-recorded clips found their way to YouTube and Facebook instantaneously; I saw grief I have never known, blood I’ve never seen shed, and it sunk heavy as stone in my heart. This was no news reel—this was a friend of a friend who lived down the street. I could have seen him, perhaps purchased something from him. His hands were Khalili, as are mine, and as I type this, I know he never will. The grief was overwhelming, and it carried him through the street the next day, held aloft, proudly, in a bed of wood and covered by the colors of Palestine, black, white, green, and red. Here is our martyr.

Two days later I sat atop a high place in Hebron and overlooked the hills in the shadow of war and approaching night. Lights shivered in the distance: that was Gaza. A flare in the darkness was no celebratory firework, but a presage of grief. I found myself in a coffee shop later, joined by foreigners and Palestinians alike. We wondered with shaded hearts what tomorrow would bring. That a ceasefire was being discussed behind doors where lives are saved and wasted, we knew; that the ceasefire may not work, we feared. As we looked out to the street and watched the parade of honking fury pass below, we acknowledged that our time in Hebron might be cut short. We looked at our Palestinian friends who sat among us, whose hospitality we had so generously been recipients of, whose love for one another bled even for us, who had known them for so little. Could we leave? Must we?  

We will if we must.

The anxious gathering

And with that we saw to our homes for another tormented night.

I woke up on Thursday to a strangely golden room. There was an afternoon’s light bursting into my room and I fumbled for my watch to answer a question I knew to be impossible: was it still morning? It was. I ventured into my kitchen and looked out the window. Away in front of me a tall mosque thrust itself into a sky so golden and overcast I felt uneasy. There was something apocalyptic about it and without internet or television to inform me, I feared the worst. But I had to prepare a pancake breakfast for the Danes and my two roommates, as promised.

I noticed something, here. In all this turmoil I saw many people who fought, many who cried, and many who stood, stone statues of old kings besieged, but untoppled by breaking crests. And in every moment I only thought about food. The day before I had kept my friend company, making pancakes to fill her worrying mind and body. I prepared coffee and small snacks for my roommates, and in doing so, I suppose I felt human in something that can confuse even that foundation. 

My roommates creaked out of bed slowly, with joints unoiled, and Ditte and Sofie arrived while I built an impressive stack. The girls have internet at their place and so were bearers of great news. Besides the fact that Ditte had all week been in Jaffa, alone, and had just arrived yesterday in Hebron, the ceasefire was successful. We celebrated over starch and brown sugar, and it was a Dane that first said ‘Happy Thanksgiving!’ And so it was.

The sun came out in full glory that day, and most of the morning and afternoon was spent joyfully doing errands. I had planned to prepare a traditional meal for some of my friends here, but the whole conflict had closed roads and checkpoints and raised tensions in many places, including Jerusalem, where I needed to go to purchase some important ingredients. Now, with rocketless skies, I made the trip into the holy capitol. I was looking for one rumored store in a place called Beit Hanina that apparently sold pumpkin puree and who knows what else. But I had no idea where it was, except that a stop on the train in Jerusalem was called Beit Hanina.

A half an hour of walking after I got off the city train I finally found Jafar Supermarket. I was in an Arab town between Jerusalem and Ramallah at this point. Two hours prior I had left Hebron, and when I didn’t find pumpkin puree there, a flicker of frustration caught flame. But I found sweet potatoes and butternut squash instead, so I grabbed some with my other groceries. However nice this small market was, I grumbled for I could have bought these things most anywhere in Jerusalem at least. So I started my trudge back, but I had scored little that I came for, and I was still turkey-less. I had thirty minutes of walking and I knew I had passed a couple butcher shops on my way. I walked into the first one.

Salaam alaykum. Ainduk deek rumi? 
              (Peace be upon you. Do you have turkey?)

La. Djej, bas. (No. Only chicken)

Ah. Shukrahn. Yatik Allafiya. Salaam. 
              (Ah. Thanks. God bless you. Peace.)

Shop number two was the same, but third times the charm, as they say, and soon I was on my way with the smallest turkey they had: a 20 pound doozie. I actually called a friend of mine to get a second opinion. Was I really about to purchase a toddler of a turkey and attempt to cook it? And they sell by the kilo: this was no cheap steak. She cleared my head with strong affirmatives, and so I paid and left, heavy laden with a long road ahead.

The Danes had joked earlier that I should buy the turkey in Jerusalem and travel home with this frozen hunk of meat under my arm. I wasn’t laughing as their premonition became all-too true. I initially had a frisson of excitement, but soon my breath swam away in front of me as my arms ached for breaks they could not have. My legs stung and my left shoe began to dig away at my Achilles. I made it back to the train and knew the walking was over. But it was not. In less than a short hour I was standing by the road outside of Bethlehem wondering where all the shared taxis were in this fallen darkness. At this point I did not laugh, but sneered inside at the fact that my groceries had depleted all my cash save barely enough to get home. I couldn’t afford a taxi from here. I looked away down a dimly lit road where I knew I could be led to the main street in Bethlehem. The problem was, it was a few miles down that road. But twenty minutes of thawing turkey made up my mind and I started off. The familiar aches, stings and groans of my body quickly resurfaced and I found myself whimpering in pity.

She finally made it home. Subsequently, she lost her head.

But on I walked motivated by some apparition of a brown turkey before wide eyes that I had conjured, and I was determined to see it through. I revisited every prideful act I ever committed those miles of the night, and was strangely strengthened by them. I would see this bird to the stove, and my spent arms couldn’t wail loud enough to stop me.

I had been 5 hours from Hebron by the time I reached the main street, and I could only pitifully deplore this white man who stumbled out of the darkness with full bags into the usual going-ons of the neighborhood. It was some divine gift that brought me a car less than ten minutes later. The driver recognized me, and took me to Hebron and the whole way I sat in the back, on brand new leather seats, fearfully cradling the dripping turkey in my lap. I reminded myself that it was thanksgiving, and so I counted things I was happy for. A ride. A turkey. Absorbent jeans. When I finally got out of the car, I looked as if I had wet myself, but I saw no gleam on the seat. Alhamdulillah. Thank God.

Palestinians with Pies

The day ended weeks after it began. I had done some surgery on the bird, disrobed her, spiced her, and tacked her skin back on before putting her in the fridge. Then I walked home and fell into sleep. And the night ended only minutes after it began. Soon I was back at the Danes’ place, improvising some pita bread stuffing, and getting the bird a-cooking by ten-thirty. I had never done any of this before, but I felt confident…for some reason. I spent the entire day cooking and preparing. The stuffed turkey was in the oven, the potatoes were ready to be mashed, the pecan pie and butternut squash pie were ready to go in once the bird was out, vegetables were cut for roastin, the cans of cranberry sauce eager to be opened and served, salads on the verge of being thrown together, flour out and ready to become gravy in her marriage to turkey juice, and then it all happened; the puzzle began to take sudden form. 

Though it was all a bit impetuous I was proud of the table that was laden. Two Danes, two Aussies, two Palestinians and I all sat down and feasted. Only two of us had ever known this meal before. Even the Arabs kind of liked it, and they are not known for their tolerance of different foods.

And with a bit of wine in me, and the merriment of company filling all the spaces within me not already occupied by tender meat and perfect pies, I slept well on the couch, and I was quite thankful. We had all agreed at the table: this was one to remember, with Gaza quiet, the air still, and hearts and stomachs full. Happy Thanksgiving, we said. And indeed, it was.

Oh, he beems with pride

...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…  

...watch the sun set

We raced Apollo to Hebron, Tim and I traveling east over the Atlantic, and he, west over the Pacific. We made it in time to watch him set over the city. From the roof of the Excellent Center where we will be working, it was a magnificent victory. Here is how we got there:

Our metal chariot took us from Boston to London, where Tim and I sat together, excitedly. My phone went to ‘airplane mode’ as I gave a bittersweet farewell to the American soil. From Heathrow we flew to Tel Aviv, over Central Europe, the mythical Aegean and the mystical Mediterranean. I felt bad for the men who sat on either side of my two-by-four shoulders during the flight; there should be a maximum width barring me from middle seats. Once we landed and made it through suspicious  customs we finally breathed Israeli air. Warm, gentle, silky. Because Palestinian transport can only traverse Israeli roads near Jerusalem, we played quite the game of hopscotch across the Holy Land to Hebron. First, from the Ben Gurion Airport in northwest Israel, we caught a group taxi down (direction) and up (altitude) to Jerusalem. They drive here like the knitting needles of a novice: twitchy, aggressive weaving with short stops like stitch drops and, of course, some mild cursing. I was next to a petite Asian woman who sat quietly, buckled herself in immediately as if expecting trouble, and began nibbling on aromatic nuts whose scent I could not identify. She surprised us all when she blurted out Hebrew to the driver in translation for the confused Russian pilgrim. This is indeed the land of cultural blends. She, Tim and I all got off at the Damascus Gate, the main entrance to the Old City of Jerusalem, and she bounded away determinedly, crossing busy streets with the sonar of a bat.

Here at the Damascus Gate the Arab busses are located. Those Palestinians with the permission spend their days outside of the west bank and funnel back home from this point. We got on bus 21 to Bethlehem and waited for it to fill up a bit before departure. It cost 7.30 NIS (Shekels), which is about 2 USD (Dollars). At some point in the trip the bus stopped in a place we only recognized from the picture sent to us by our employer. Otherwise, this sandy lot on the side of an indistinct hill would have passed without cause to notice. But we hopped out, grabbed our luggage and made way to another taxi. So far there is nothing preventing us from standing out, with neon signs, as foreigners. Language, look and luggage, it all says “alien.”

Luckily, the people are kind and not out for a scam. We communicated with a couple of men to get a ride to a specific street in Hebron: Ain Sara. They knew of the place. Thank God. But how much? One charismatic man, with a smile that cratered his face, exposing smoker’s teeth unashamedly, wrote “62” in the dust on the back window of a taxi. “Give me money, my friend,” he nearly shouted. He does not know the word “please,” and it doesn’t bother me; I don’t know “please” in Arabic. Besides, Apollo threatened to leave us blinder than we already were, so we were eager to hop aboard.

In twenty minutes our driver, Mohammed, kicked us out on Ain Sara. With no cell phones, neither Mohammed, Tim nor I could call the Excellence Center for final directions to our exact location. So we collected ourselves as Mohammed sped away, looked around at many buildings and into many staring eyes and chose a direction to walk. Certainly someone would speak English or lend us their phone, we reasoned, but Fortune must’ve been angry with Apollo for she was on our side. Around one corner we walked before we looked up and saw the sign marking the Excellence Center. We made it.

After short introductions (many of the center’s employees are currently in Amman, Jordan), we were given a tour by a young man named Ayman (Like Simon without the ‘S’), which ended on the roof.

Halleluiah.

We stood up there and watched the street haze into darkness. The buildings were blocking a direct flaunt to the sun, but it was no matter. The beauty of the stone buildings rising around us, the fumes of street shops and the urban voices of vehicles and passersby were enough to steal our attention. We had no complaint when the center told us our apartment wasn’t ready to move into; we had already found home.