Tear Gas and Rock Throwing

I had only one non-negotiable agenda item for my most recent trip to Palestine: I wanted to observe/participate in the weekly Friday protest against the Wall in Bi'ilin. The Wall is being illegally constructed in part of this small village of about 1,600 inhabitants, west of Ramallah. The concrete blockade is dipping into defined West Bank territory, weaving over the Green Line and partitioning off land used to farm olive trees, an important part of Bi'ilin's economy and culture. The protest has been staged for over the last two years and has garnered international attention. At the same time, Bi'ilin succeeded, through an Israeli Supreme Court order, in getting a portion of the Wall dismantled and moved back 1.7 kilometers towards the Green Line. However, the court also allowed the existing (and illegal) Matityahu settlement to remain on Bi'ilin land.

My knowledge of the protest was limited to information supplied by Stop the Wall material and a few online articles. Had I read more thoroughly, I would have known that Israeli soldiers often use tear gas and rubber bullets, that in 2005 Israel declared Bi'ilin a "closed military zone" and that foreigners and Palestinians have been injured during the demonstrations. Alas, I entered the fray as the usual dimwitted international, well intentioned but ignorant and problematic. My presence is still an issue I'm pondering. On the one hand, I want to stand in solidarity and spread the word, which is perhaps partially what has made the event so successful, on the other hand, the Palestinian youth throwing rocks seemed to be taking dangerous chances in order to be photographically immortalized. After an hour of tear gassing, in which the soldiers didn't seem to be abating, my friend encouraged us to leave, stating after a certain point an internationals' presence is gratuitous. This situation for many, myself included, definitely isn't fun, but is exciting. While not the only outcome, it is a story to be savored over a drink with friends. This alone makes me uncomfortable. However, we might also be causing further damage and we can always leave the village. For the Palestinians, this is their home. And the tear gassing seems routine for many Palestinians. Once back in Dheisha, my Palestinian friends casually asked if we were tear gassed and smiling, merely shrugged when they learned the answer.


But enough background, I'll recap and let the reader decide. Luckily, I convinced a fellow SIT colleague to join me on the adventure. We headed toward Ramallah, having heard the city was mere miles outside. However, the few we chanced to meet in the NGO mecca hadn't even heard of Bi'ilin. When we finally arrived in the rural area, we were dropped off in the center of town. Fearing we were late and had missed the action, we rushed toward what else but the Wall. We saw a large congregation on the hill above us and assumed we were heading in the right direction. We found a dirt path and began to pick our way through the deserted land, regarding the group as we grew nearer. There seemed to be Israeli soldiers amidst the protesters, a lot of them. However, as we got to the base of the hill, four camouflaged, gun-totting youth stepped out from behind rocks and trees, only 20 feet from us but completely unseen. One young man asked if we were looking for the protest and told us to go back into town to find them. Upon learning that we were students, he told us to come back after the protest and talk to him. That we had plenty to learn from the soldiers. He then warned us to be careful, the protesters throw rocks. I'm wondering now if he was mocking us, but he seemed sincere.

As we made our way back into town, we saw a line of people walking on a road above us, which we would soon meet. Through the trees, I could make out a hint of yellow, the color, I was told, representing Fatah. At the intersection appeared perhaps 20-30 people, a variety of demographics represented, both Palestinian and International. The group encouraged us to take pictures and we joined them, walking down the hill back toward the Israeli soldiers who had been waiting for us in ambush, except now we were meeting them from a different direction. The Israeli soldiers were lined up side by side, forming another wall, this one human. As we marched, still quite a distance from the brigade, the soldiers, without provocation (as in rock throwing), shot several objects into the air. The loud bang was enough to start my heart pounding. Besides some rocks and trees, we were completely exposed. Baffled as to what they were shooting and what would happen next, I stood rooted to the road, my head craned, watching where they would hit so I would know which direction to run. My friend suddenly appeared, shaking me out of my stupor and handing me a handkerchief. He instructed me to hold it over my mouth, explaining it would help. They were shooting tear gas at us.

As the minutes unfolded and I slunk back out of the chaos, I realized most present were familiar with this dance. People were running around snapping photos as gas rose from the ground, watering our eyes. Several were wearing white masks over their mouth and nose, some protected their eyes with goggles, and others their heads with helmets. These were the men closet to the soldiers. The group dispersed, some to the left, others to the right, but the game was played on either side. The protesters would try to gain ground, throwing rocks and inching closer to the soldiers. When the soldiers felt threatened, they would shoot. My nerves began to calm as I reasoned it was only tear gas, even though it was being shot every minute or two. I made my way first to the left to see how far some had gotten to the soldiers. I could see the Fatah and Palestine flags waving in the distance, beacons among the plooms, nearing the armored men in black. This was also the area where the tear gas shooting seemed to be concentrated. I then distractedly ushered to the right. I saw a group of people hiding in the trees and grass. As I neared them, tear gassed whizzed by first my friend's head and then my leg. These were not the long arches streaming through the air, these were weapons that could be aimed. They were clipping the leaves decorating the branches near our heads. I cowered behind some trees with six other internationals, confused as to where the shooting was coming from and why they were aiming it directly at us. Several canisters came dangerously close and we even moved back to a safer tree.

Suddenly there was a boom and fire erupted before my eyes. I backed up as the smoke engulfed us and my friend was shouting at me to take his camera. The protester in front of me had been hit and my friend needed his hands free to assist and assess the damage. I looked down and blood was leaking from the man's forehead. Another shot caught my attention and I noticed the old woman we had been squatting with was standing in the line of fire, holding her head and not moving. Others surrounded her, trying to lead her away. We ushered the wounded out of the action and up the road. As we walked, he explained in an American accent that he felt fine, that the tear gas had hit him directly in the head. Others received him at the top of the road and led him into the city, taking picture after picture before offering him water or a place to sit. I'm sure he's become a great PR tool for the protest.

As we lingered, I found the older woman I had crouched beside, worried that she had been harmed. There were deep purple circles ringing her eyes. She said that a canister had hit her in the stomach and when she looked down she was literally blinded, unable to move. Her friend, who had also been hit in the head, was able to lead her out. Both women were internationals, one American, the other possibly Canadian. I told them about the young man and the blood. The nearly blinded smiled brightly, "oh, he'll be a hero now".

International Pick-up Techniques

The border gods are fickle. Their change in mood and whimsical determinant of fate is as inexplicable and frustrating as Zeus or Hera, or any member of the Mount Olympus Dynasty. This weekend, I’ll admit I chanced incurring their wrath. Desperate to get in to Syria after procrastination eroded my specified time allowance for admittance, I tampered with my Visa, changing the 3 scrawled in blue ink next to the category of months into a 6. My crime was also motivated by the $100 cost of the Visa I would absorb without even getting to gaze on ancient Damascus.

Not to make generalizations, but Syria, in response to certain policies of our Government, doesn’t encourage Americans to visit their country. I therefore anticipated a struggle at the border crossing. However, when I stepped up to the window after my two friends, one Bolivian and one an amalgamation of Spanish/French, had been granted entry, I found myself easily passed through, with an official stamp in my passport and the guard offering me a sweet and a smile. We left the building in order to go through the process of buying a Visa for my Bolivian friend, who was without one. I felt elated at having come away without even a verbal scratch. I even brazenly admitted my trickery to our new European friend, whom I had kept the situation from out of nervousness.

My Bolivian friend was required to return to the same window, with the same benevolent guard to get the same stamp I had just acquired. I stood back, waiting patiently. The border guard then called us all up and asked for the America Visa, not even sure which one of us had been the owner. Confused, I handed it through the window. He stared at it for a long time, contemplating and smoking a cigarette. Then he motioned with his hand and declared “Hallas, no good”. I’m not sure why the flare for dramatics, because the number was obviously forged. However, I played dumb and was insistent even as he became angrier. My Bolivian friend pleaded on my behalf and appealed to his humanity, stating that she had Palestinian family in Syria she desperately wanted to see. If the border guard turned us away, he would be denying her a once-in-a-life-time family reunion. How could he live with the burden of that guilt? I appealed to his pocketbook and offered dinars. The guard eventually told all of us to sit, expect for my Bolivian friend. He then held a private conversation with her in which he emphasized he was doing this as a favor for her and all Palestinians and got her number.

*I forgot my camera. Pictures courtesy of Google.

Kingdom of Duloc

Palestine is difficult for me to write about in a public forum, namely because I lack crucial facts, historical context and political background. I would do well to ground my experience with research, and probably even my posts, with secondary material. No doubt my visits have encouraged me to learn as much as I can about the situation. There is nothing like the tangible to drive me towards pursuing the word. However, I don't believe my inability to ramble off the Olso Accord should prevent me from writing. Indeed, I can add nothing to the discussion, even if I were well versed about all facets of the conflict. There are just too many voices out there with more political and analytical savvy than me, not to mention better writing skills. My posts can only offer emotion and observation. But sometimes I think we discount personal experience as being one sided and subjective. Of course, they are, but the problem is we discount them.

I couch my introduction because as I began to write about Hebron, I realized I was making assertions I wasn't sure were entirely true. I started checking my validity and discovered that the situation is so unbelievably complex that authenticating my statements would be an arduous task, perhaps even an impossible one. So I will write hoping no one is foolish enough to take my word as gospel.

Hebron is a city where the Israeli occupation is shockingly visible. Former Israeli Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion declared Hebron "more Jewish even than Jerusalem". A Zionist argument claims that Jerusalem became Jewish three thousand years ago under King David but Hebron became Jewish four thousand years ago under Abraham and included a number of settlements that were destroyed two days before Israel was established.

Regardless, when the Jewish attempted to "reclaim" the land, Palestinians were well established. The city is now broken in to two parts. H1, which is under control by the Palestinian Authority and H2, which is controlled by the Israeli army, in large part to protect the 1,000 or so Israeli settlers, many American natives. I have heard that there is as many as two soldiers for every one settler. From the few Jewish settlers I was able to readily identify, one chatting casually on the phone, standing on his balcony over looking the old city, another ambling confidently down the street, they seem unconcerned by the threat of the Palestinians who out numbered them.

As we walked through the city, we came to several check points with bored Israeli soldiers. When we asked if we could pass, they told us no. Pressed to explain, they expressed concern for our safety. We assured them we would be fine and continued into the Palestinian neighborhood, only to find young children playfully asking us to take their picture or shop keepers and passersby welcoming us to the area, even though we were obviously Western, even though one of our red-headed, freckled friends could be mistaken for a Jew. I wondered if the soldiers really were that illusioned about the safety threat or if Palestinians unleash their frustration on the human manifestation of the occupation.

Hebron settlers are notorious for their aggression toward the Palestinian residents. It was in Hebron in 1994 that Brooklyn born physician Dr. Baruch Goldstein gunned down 29 Arabs praying in the Tomb of the Patriarchs. One of our Palestinian friends dubbed him the first suicide bomber. The settlers have implanted themselves literally on top of the homes and shops of the Palestinians in the old city. Palestinian shopkeepers and residents have constructed metal netting through the winding alleys in order to protect themselves from the bricks, rocks and trash the settlers drop from above. The netting doesn't prevent falling liquids, however. Posted at either end in high towers are Israeli guards, watching to assure the settlers are not harassed.

Navigating the old city feels claustrophobic with the netting and debris over head, the narrow stone walk ways, the obscured sunlight and the dank shop corners. The dominating gaze of the guards and the settlers is a constant tension. Bodies are crowded into small spaces as they shop and owners stand in their door way begging you to come inside and buy or ready to tell you the plight of their stolen land.

As you exit the Palestinian section of the old city and enter the Jewish section, the world opens as if you are surfacing the water after a deep dive. Our friends had told us on their previous visit that the Israeli's had been blaring loud religious music from the temple, at a volume that could only be described as provocative. However, when we entered music was playing softly and an eery calm greeted us. There were no cries for our patronage. Buildings looked newly renovated. Sunlight illuminated the inviting grass and transplated palm trees decorated the entrance to the synagogue. I can't properly articulate why that situation felt so wrong. Obviously the juxtaposition of the rubbles of the oppressed with the decadence of the oppressor. Yet, it was more. It was Disneylandesque. It smacked of brainwashing, or at the very least desperately trying to live a lie. Just grin and plant flowers and hum to yourself and your guilt will melt away. Their reality seemed as fake as their palm trees.


* Pictures courtesy of Eric Maddox

Assuming Innocence

It is easy to get caught up in sympathy with the "oppressed" without asking questions and start regarding every incident as an act of injustice. Or perhaps I should qualify this as my own assumptions and mistakes.

In the old city of Jerusalem, we watched as an elderly man, obviously Palestinian, was roughly escorted out of the stone gates by three young Israeli soldiers. He was cloaked in traditional white, billowing robes, his garb contrasting starkly with the camouflage. His withered body hobbled out unsteadily, forced by the strong arm of the guard to march at a pace much too rapid for his age. A passerby saw the commotion and came to the old man's aid. The victim rested his weight gratefully on the witness's shoulder as he was led into the cobbled street.

Already charged with anger by checkpoints, tales of prison horrors and the abuse of a Palestinian boy on our bus ride over, this only served to heighten our tension. We followed the procession, disgusted, but ambled ahead, weary of the armed men. As we walked, the old man soon caught up to us. Eager to express our sympathy, we smiled warmly at him and nodded encouragement. We lacked common language to communicate much more. He approached us and took my companion's hand. They hugged lightly and the old man planted a kiss on my friend's check.

I stood behind and waited my turn at solidifying solidarity. What happened next took place too quickly for me to comprehend in real time and act in accordance, but I soon found myself molested by the seeming innocent. The old man's gentle hug transitioned into a sucking kiss on my check, moving down my neck and beyond. I could feel his probing tongue as my companion pulled me away and placed himself in between.

We had assumed the old man was removed from the city because of his ethnicity. Perhaps though he was simply a pervert who had attempted the same indecency with another unsuspecting female. We'll never know and I'm not sure if my reaction would or should change if I knew the answer. It would still be wrong if he had been treated unjustly because he was Palestinian, acting debase doesn't negate this. Either way though, I felt sick to my stomach the rest of the afternoon at having been violated.

Flippant

One morning, our Palestinian host gave us a tour of his Bethlehem. I apply ownership because his reality of the city differs starkly from a tourist's or an Israeli's. He took us to a spot where he watched a German doctor explode into pieces from an Israeli bomb. He showed us the bullet holes in the concrete wall behind and pointed two feet away to where he had hidden and filmed, waiting for more than five hours for the shooting to stop so he could collect the parts of his friend. We looked up at the encroaching Israeli settlement. He explained that the hills they are built on are strategic for waging war or imposing psychological intimidation. He drove us to the wall. We passed the remnants of crumbling buildings and he named those who had died inside and how.

Our last stop was a new cemetery. Only martyrs are buried there. For many Palestinians, it is a coveted honor to rest under the dirt in the raised, concrete beds. Several are left empty and open, waiting. We were led to three graves in the back and listened to a story. A few years ago, when fighting broke out, a young man dug the grave of his friend. The next day another died and the same young man was back with a shovel. After he finished, he dug one more because he knew that peace would not come. He was killed the following day. His image graces the wall of Ibdaa. Immortalized with his arm raised, swinging a Molotov cocktail. The picture is in my previous post. As we left the cemetery, our gaze was drawn to a house on the horizon, waving a Palestinian flag and overlooking the dead. The distraught boy's mother moved there so that she could see her son everyday.

Later that evening, we gathered and lounged in the dining room. My companion made a joke, perhaps related to me doing domestic chores. I can't remember exactly but it elicited my teasing response of: You dug your own grave. I cringed as the phrase took on new meaning.

*Pictures soon to come

Barometers of Culture

I'm a little overwhelmed attempting to blog about Palestine. Besides the obvious mental obstacles including sounding contrite, misrepresenting and feeling inadequate and the cop-out mantra of "I'm still processing", there is just so much that happened in four days. One thing the experience confirmed for me is that there is no school comparative to that of life. I've decided to continue in the vein of my other posts and tackle the trip thematically, one entry at a time. And hope that I keep my words efficient. Feel free to chastise me if I'm unsuccessful.

Today's theme is kids and guns.

I thought my first significant experience would be the border crossing. I had heard horror stories about 5 hour waits and exhaustive interrogations. However, we crossed with relative ease, perhaps because my travel companion's blazing red hair and pale, freckled skin were the equivalent of parading around in an American flag. Or at the very least, we obviously weren't Palestinian and that meant the Israeli officials weren't going to make our lives hell.

It was on our way in search of a felafel, after dropping our bags at Ibdaa, Dheisheh's community center, that I was confronted with the unexpected and disconcerting. As we walked out the door we were surrounded by small children with very real looking guns. They pointed them at my companion's face and we laughed uneasily as they shouted words in Arabic and pretended to shoot. Continuing down the street we noticed a trend. Every little boy, and there were many, had a gun. Whether they were aiming it at their friends, harassing passersby or showing the piece off, it seemed the whole progeny of Bethlehem were becoming marksmen.

We later learned that this was a common phenomenon. Little kids are given money for Eid. Boys choose to spend their gift on toy weapons, girls either save their money or buy clothing. I have had experience with small children. Both my brother and sister have several. I know that little boys are prone to weapons. I was even a fan of GI Joe as a child. However, everywhere we went in the West Bank, we found children brandishing extremely realistic armament. I don't think this can be compared to fads like Elmo or Spiderman. While I am no psychologist or expert in Palestinian/Israeli history and relations, I do think this speaks about the situation.

Palestinians have been made to feel helpless by the Israeli government. They are confined to refugee camps or the proximity of a small town such as Bethlehem. At times they are even fenced in, caged. If they travel around the West Bank, what has laughably been deemed Palestinian territory, they must go through several check points. At these check points they may be made to wait for hours or even arrested because of the whim of a young, entitled Israeli soldier. Imagine the stress every time you want to journey just twenty minutes away. I watched on a bus to Jerusalem as a Palestinian boy, probably not older than sixteen, was dragged off and roughly shoved. His bag with his clothes were emptied on the ground and they made him remove his socks. The bus waited for five minutes and then left him. Even though he had a permit (ridiculous that he even needed one), he was probably taken to jail. Unfortunately, this is a common situation for a young Palestinian.

Palestinian children grow up with tales about the death of family members and friends. They hold the key to their home that they can no longer even drive by. They visit the graves of the martyred (those killed by Israeli soldiers), their buildings are plastered with posters of homage to the dead and they learn that this title is the highest honor they can receive. They watch as their fathers and mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts, and uncles are taken to jail. They pass members of street gangs prowling the Old City in Nablus, clutching M16s. They hear the shots being fired and they learn quickly never to let anyone take their picture holding a weapon. It could be used against them.

So of course, if you were a small Palestinian boy, your toy of choice would be a gun. It represents the only form of power they could ever hope to have. It equalizes them in some small way with the ubiquitous figure of an Israeli soldier. This is their life. Occupation. Every aspect of it has been soiled with this bitter reality. The guns reminded me of pictures I had seen drawn by Sudanese refugee children. The crayon images were of nightmarish horse-men, burning villages and blood. I would argue that the thoughts and behaviors of a child are the greatest indication of a culture, a situation, a life-style. Palestinian children armed and playing is a haunting projection of Israel.

Righteous Indignation

Last week I was finally pulled over by the police. From what I’ve been told, it was inevitable. In anticipation, I had been advised on several courses of action in order to avoid a pricey ticket: 1) Speak fast 2) Speak English 3) Keep saying Petra, over and over 4) Act confused. I however choose to ignore these pieces of advice and follow my on path by responding with righteous indignation.

Let’s back up so that I may launch into the ubiquitous self-justification and therefore end this entry with a shred of self-respect. The night had begun with an attempt to drive unaccompanied to a friend’s house. I have visited this friend repeatedly. So the pressure not to get lost emanated not just from an all consuming fear of ending up on a dark and deserted road outside Amman in fictitious (although quite tangible when my imagination runs) hijacker and rapist territory but also from a need to prove myself as a navigator. After making several correct turns and feeling elated by my success, I found myself on a road that I could not exit. For miles and miles and miles. This happens ALL THE TIME here and it is the bane of my existence. I repeatedly attempted to turn around but just wound myself deeper into pedestrian packed streets and Ramadan hell. After a frantic phone call to my friend, in which I pendulumned between slamming my fist repeatedly into the steering wheel and biting back tears, I managed to right myself and she agreed to meet me in the closest circle so that I could follow her.

I was now pissed that I had failed and that it was getting later and later and I would be unable to work on my fellowship application at her Internet equipped apartment. I arrived in the circle after 10 minutes of grinding my teeth and trying to talk myself down only to make a wrong turn that was taking me away from my desired destination. So I threw an "illegal" u-turn. Because in Amman I thought nothing was technically illegal except going slow. I assumed this to be written into the law books but quickly realized I was mistaken as I was flagged over first by one policeman on foot, which I attempted to avoid following my roommates lucky example, and then by another policeman behind the wheel.

As they approached the car, all I felt was seething rage. I was so close to meeting my friend and was now once again being thwarted by the ridiculous driving circumstances of a city where logic goes to die. Perhaps I have been pulled over one too many times by police officers anyway and no longer feel much fear of anything significant or detrimental actually materializing and there for mainly feel inconvenienced. This time was different though because while I was angry, I now had a shield with which I desperately hid behind. I was an American. There was no way these Jordanians were going to give me a ticket.

After rolling down the window, the police, notorious for knowing very little English, attempted to ask me if I knew what I had done wrong. I told them I had no idea what they were talking about and said I felt uncomfortable with the situation and threatened to call for back up. They looked confused and asked for my license and registration while continuing to try to explain to me my crime. I thrust them both documents and again denied any wrong doing, clutching my phone and preparing to dial. As they examined my car registration, they pointed to the top of the paper and read out loud the bold word, Diplomat. This is the name of the car rental agency.

“Are you a Diplomat?” They said.

“Yes,” I responded quickly. “Do you want me to call my supervisor?”

They looked at each other, shook their heads and handed me back my things. Then one of the officers asked if I was lost and did I need any help. I snorted a no, rolled up my window and peeled out.

This is probably the first time I have waved my American flag in a foreigners face to get what I wanted. Those are the kinds of actions that disgust me about expats. And for the most part, I’m embarrassed to be an American when abroad. Funny how quickly one adjusts their morals when faced with a significant (or in my case, a sadly insignificant) amount of discomfort.

* Yep, those are sheep in that there parking lot, right across from my office.

Eternal Crises

I had my first Jordanian existential crisis this weekend. At SIT I averaged about three a week, so if I can keep it down to one a month here I'll be happy.


This upset was stress induced, but then isn't anything significant? I had spent the day hunched over my lap top at one of the few open places of business during daylight hours, the ever-reliable Starbucks. I was downloading applications for job possibilities next year and researching programs. As I read more about fellowships and grants like fulbright and Bosch, I began to feel slightly euphoric as images of Berlin and Tunisia swam through my head. Then I started a mental check list; I would need research project proposals, personal statements, language tests, resumes, recommendations, etc. etc. I examined my life in order to spin it to look good on paper and entice the interests of a donor. I began to compartmentalize my time; if I fill out this at work and study this after iftar, if I travel next weekend and write while we drive, if I go to the Internet cafe after I teach class...Soon my head was throbbing and my eyes watering. My entire body tightened and my jaw ached as I realized deadlines loomed near. I was overwhelmed with life and work, schedules and responsibilities. And time was ticking for me to return home to our apartment to prepare for a dinner party. Now the excitement of company was transforming into a chore keeping me from my future.


Suddenly my phone rang. My roommate needed me to pick up a few things from the grocery store. She was already cooking. It just wasn't enough time. I had accomplished nothing, wasted my day. I angrily left the cafe and returned to my car to navigate the labyrinthine neighborhoods and Ramadan craze. I brooded through traffic, growing more frustrated and stressed with each honk or illegal turn. As I stopped at a light, a severely deformed man with bowed legs and a crooked back hobbled through the idling cars, withered hand outstretched. And of course my heart sank. I handed him a JD and guiltily sped away, slowly sinking into depression. For the last three days I had been killing myself trying to find ways to continue living abroad and I just arrived in Amman three weeks ago. And why did I want to live abroad or for that matter why am I even in Jordan? Clearly it has little to do with changing the world. I'm more interested in finding dance clubs, the perfect fellowship, writing for a magazine, meeting people, teaching class, building my resume and traveling than actually helping people who need it most. I sit in an office all day typing about travel packages or organizational structure or tourism advocacy. I tell myself that increasing tourism could create 50,000 new jobs for people in Jordan. But giving a crippled beggar a JD is my only interaction with the poor. So I wonder, is the world of development really for me? Does it mean nothing more to me than numbers on a piece of paper, impressive credentials and exotic locations?

Two quotes best represent my mood and contemplations as I pass through this crisis that I'm sure everyone has wrestled with at one time or another or every other week.

"The ultimate end of human acts is eudaimonia, happiness in the sense of living well, which all men desire; all acts are but different means chosen to arrive at it." -- Hannah Arendt


"I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day." -E.B. White

*Pictures taken while lost in Amman.

Office Life

This afternoon I saw two of my colleagues praying in my bosses empty office. I passed the darkened room and noticed their thin figures and rigid backs, kneeling side-by-side on the hard marble. They were reciting on decorative rugs, squished between the wall and the desk, subjugating themselves to the file cabinet.


I quickly returned to my computer, feeling like I had caught them doing something wrong. I'm not sure why.

It makes me wonder though, have they been doing this everyday when the prayer call begins? And when my boss is in the office, where do they pray? Could it be that all of my colleagues have been using their offices or the lobby or the meeting room, tucking themselves into a corner or under a table, silently genuflecting and I have simply hermited in my office, none-the-wiser? There are only five of us, counting myself and our work space is a converted apartment, smaller than my own. So much for cultural exploration when you've got facebook.

*Interspersed are some boring pictures of my office, but taken by my own hand;)

Worth a Thousand Words

When I bought my adorable, magenta Kodak Elf for Christmas, it was with the promise that I was going to take more pictures. I wanted (or still want) to become an amateur photographer. I used incentives to ward off laziness. The first dangling carrot was my photo blog. I was thwarted though by a stronger desire, to develop my writing skills. While I continued to post, I started using pictures from the Internet. They were better images and more appropriate for my subject matter. Then I got my assignment in Jordan. What better reason to practice and improve my photographic skills than a new country? So Jordan became my new carrot.

And yeah, maybe I don't like carrots. It seems that every time we are in an interesting place, worthy of being captured in the annals of time, I find myself without my camera. At the SOUK JARA, at the down town market, at the Dead Sea, passing a camel, walking the streets, everywhere I go it's the same mantra: "I'll be here again, I'll take pictures next time." The irony is that for most of these occasions my camera has been tucked into my bag hanging from my shoulder. I bought the smallest camera I could find so that it would always be with me. And it is. I'm just too lazy to pull it out.

But when I first arrived, I was determined to keep my promise. On my second day in Amman I walked a few blocks from our hotel, snapping pictures of the interesting buildings, the supermarket, anything that looked unique. And of course everything did, because everything was new. Admittedly, though, I was scared to walk far. I even took pictures of several of the streets signs, kind of like dropping rocks behind you or trailing a piece of string when you are lost in the woods and need to find your way back. I was also nervous about the residents staring at me. What I wanted to take pictures of were women in hijabs, men in white gowns with red head bands gathered on the street corner or silent, armed guards in front of every building. But I wasn't ready to interact with strangers so intimately when I was so obviously a foreigner...from America.

The next morning we were driven to our first day of orientation and as we pulled up to the large, stone-white abode and entered through the gates, there was the ubiquitous guard in blueish fatigues, sitting on a chair in the shade with a rifle resting across his lap. I told myself tomorrow I would take his picture. He was associated with our organization, so it would be safe.

During the orientation our supervisor discussed many issues, one of them being photography. He warned us about where we pointed our lens. "Don't take any pictures with bridges in the background, malls, official buildings, police stations or officers." He then related a story about a former fulbright student on his last day in the country. At his mom's request, he scouted the city capturing images that illustrated his life for the past year. After several shots, he took a picture of the police station. Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by angry men and under arrest. He made a frantic call to our supervisor and then throughout the day was moved from one police station to the next until he finally ended up in a white van with a black bag over his head and his hands cuffed, on his way to the Jordanian equivalent of the CIA. Our supervisor was tracking his every move but was powerless to help. Fortunately, after a brief interrogation, the CIA realized he was not a terrorist threat and released the shell shocked student. I'm sure he stepped on that plane home more relieved than he ever could have imagined.

So this anecdote is my lame excuse for why I have been procrastinating with my picture taking. The unfortunate photographer was Turkish and probably looked more like a terrorist than I do, but still, you can never be too careful;) I promise though that my next post will begin with a photo taken by my own hand.

Rape and Pillage

This weekend I was invited to a salsa party at the American Embassy. Marines were hosting the event. This is not a group of people I would normally seek out. However, all of the clubs are closed during Ramadan and my roommate and I had been jonesin to dance all week. And the relationship between men and women here is so confusing and foreign (not to mention frustrating) that I was relieved to hang out with men I could tell to kiss off if they started getting fresh.

The night was not particularly remarkable. I taught kickboxing until 9:30 and my roommate was at an iftar until 10 so we didn't even make it in time to catch any real dancing. Yet we were still able to enjoy some free drinks, meet some new people and they even took us to a club in the down town area that is open during the holiday.

It was the experience of going to the embassy that was fascinating. The embassy is a huge fortified compound very near our apartment. We basically live on embassy row. Once inside, after a thorough search by several check points with guards, the embassy is like a college campus. I only saw a portion of it, but soldiers and staff were passing us on bikes. It was that big. I found myself walking at ease in a tube top without a scarf, almost like I was going to a party on East Campus back in Missouri. I was on American soil. And the marine quarters where we spent the majority of our night was like a frat house. There was a dance floor, kitchen and bar, bed rooms and huge terrace.

The marines invited us back the next night and once again because nothing was open and we therefore didn't have much better to do, we accepted. It was on this second night though that we noticed a giant poster on the wall of their rec room with a blown up quote by Genghis Khan. I had noticed the author the first night and found it interesting that they had chosen such a brutal conquerer to display on their wall. I paid little more attention to it though, assuming it was something about strategy or discipline.

The second night though, two more people commented on the strangeness of the author and we went over to the wall to read the entire quote. In big black letters, this is what it said:

"The Greatest Happiness is to scatter your enemy and drive him before you. To see his cities reduced to ashes. To see those who love him shrouded and in tears. And to gather to your bosom his wives and daughters."

My biggest regret of the night was that I didn't have my camera. That would have been impossible though because they confiscated those at the entrance to the embassy. My inability to take pictures was not my only regret and after reading something so chilling, we promptly left. I won't be returning to the marine house. In some ways it makes me sad that I will be returning to the US.

Ramadan Laws

Last week the ministry watched the moon closely, and by employing complicated calculations determined that Ramadan would begin on Thursday. It was announced and thus began a month of fasting during the day and celebrating at night. As Americans, the EMDAPer's knew little of what to expect of the coming month except a shortened work day, hungry and therefore angry drivers, desolation under the sun and festivities under the moon.

One thing we had noted was that there would be special deserts, such as the one pictured above, only available during Ramadan. My roommate had been eagerly awaiting their arrival. On her way home from work she stopped at a bakery and bought a box of sweet pastries in the form of gooey cheese stuffed in a fried pastry shell and dipped in syrup. Too excited to wait until she was in her kitchen, she started tasting the treats as she drove. After a bite or two a cop car appeared in the rear view mirror with its sirens flashing. The two furious policemen seemed to be yelling at her, but scared and confused, she decided not to pull over. As far as she could tell she wasn't doing anything illegal. However, the car continued to follow her and a mini chase ensued. Eventually, tired of weaving in and out of traffic and around circles, the cops drove up beside her window, yelled a few more incomprehensible phrases, shook their fists and sped off. Shaken for the entire afternoon, she described the story to several of us that night. One of our friends laughed and explained that it's illegal to eat or drink in public during Ramadan. Since public space differs greatly here as compared to the US, your car counts.

And with this event I started to understand why one returned EMDAPer referred to the holiday as Ramahell. Everything shuts down during the day, there is no alcohol to be found (this is a difficult task without a religious reason to abstain) and due to the fasting, the driving is even more hellish because everyone is hungry and thirsty and therefore irritated.

And yet, besides some of the aforementioned negatives, I think this is a beautiful holiday. While the day is boring, the nights are full of excitement. Around 6:30 or sundown people break fast, which is called iftar. Families gather together to celebrate with huge meals and special deserts. All of the restaurants stay open until the wee hours and live entertainment is abound. Hundreds of people come out of their homes to walk the streets and partake in the festivities. People actually indulge so much in iftar that the BMI of the entire country increases. This phenomenon is particularly amusing because the ideological point of Ramadan is to connect with the poor. One does not eat or drink from sun up to sun down so that they can realize the suffering of those less fortunate than themselves. The month is also supposed to be a time for charity work. The only practitioners exempt are pregnant women and the ill. And they are supposed to make up the days of fasting later in the year. If this is not possible, then they must feed an impoverished person for every day of Ramadan that they missed. In some ways it is very Christmas-esque. My boss even compared the two holidays, stating that in both cases people had lost sight of their real purpose and now simply celebrate consumption.

Regardless, Muslims, and therefore the country of Jordan, take the holiday very seriously. I guess that's something we will have to watch out for;)

*I did not take this picture, but did eat two of these last night. They are a special pancake with nutella inside. A favorite Ramadan dessert.

Desert Crib

This is my blue living room. Our foyer with a beautiful golden chandler and stylish mirrors is barely visible on the right. The door on the left leads to our balcony with a gorgeous view of the new bridge. A complimentary hookah was resting on the table for us when we arrived. We've spent many nights outside sipping wine, smoking sheesha and enjoying the desert breeze. The dinning room recedes in the middle of the photo. We don't spend much time in either of these rooms. They're reserved for company;)

This is our green living room. It comes complete with satellite t.v., DVD player and DVD's. Although, because copy right laws aren't enforced here, you can purchase any movie, even the newest releases, for around a dollar. We loaded up this weekend. So far we've spent the majority of our time in this room, chatting with guests and unwinding with a flick

This is our kitchen, with the dinning room peaking out the left. The picture is distorted because of my inability to work the panoramic function. The only amenity missing from this spacious cookery is a dish washer. There was even charcoal and flavored tobacco in the cupboard so that we could smoke hubbly bubbly on our first night in our new place.

This is my roommate's master bedroom.

This is my master bedroom. What would have tipped you off had I not labeled them? Surely not the mess;)

*Not pictured are the guest bedroom, two more bathrooms, the balcony, the laundry room with washing machine and the marble floors. As well, the pictures simply do not do the place justice, mainly because of poor lighting but also because the rooms are too enormous to fit into my view finder, even with the panoramic.

Why am I posting these pictures?To show-off my new panoramic picture taking skills? Obviously not. To brag that I am living in luxury in a developing country? I try to think I'm better than that. So that friends and family can better understand my life here and provide incentive for them to visit? Definitely a little.

But my main purpose is to demonstrate a phenomenon of the developing world and the benefits to those who work in it. One of many complaints about international development at SIT was that people with good intentions would travel to developing countries to help the poor and make life a little better for everyone. Sometimes though, their life would be the most improved. An American dollar stretches a lot further in places other than Europe. And due to these lucky circumstances, the good intentioned would end up far removed from the actual problems of the country and easily forget why they moved there in the first place. Or sometimes people's intentions are not to help, but simply to take advantage of this happy situation.

So yes, I'm experiencing a little bit of guilt. Especially since a full brighter or two have disdainfully snubbed their noses at our humble abode. Here's my justification. We chose this place because we wanted to get out of our expensive hotel as quickly as possible. EMDAPer's were only allowed a limited settling in allowance and our time at Al Qasar was quickly burning through this. Plus we just wanted to unpack. Abdoun, where we are located, is close to both my roommate and my jobs. The apartment has been used for years by full bright students and in fact, the landlord will only house them. We are a two minute walk from a trendy circle with an all night grocery store and lots of amenities, such as nice restaurants and gyms. Abdoun is one of the safest areas of Amman, and perhaps the only place I feel comfortable walking alone without cover. My independence and freedom to dress as I choose, regardless of my gender, means a lot to me.

There are other areas of Amman that had we known about when shown our housing options, we definitely would have pushed for. I was more than prepared to live in a hole. And to be honest, we are removed for a certain Amman experience and this is a down side. We see as many tourists as Jordanians in the area and the shops are expensive.

But I guess in the end, I'm just going to have to live with it and in it and continue to justify my guilt away. Sadly, it's not hard to do when I come home after a long day at the office.

SOUK JARA Dispute

Today marks my first on-the-job moral quandary. As a public relations officer promoting tourism in a developing country, I expect many more of these. I'm sure my year at SIT has prepared me well?

Throughout my first work week, I have spent the majority of my time reading. Obviously, in order to write about tourism and my organization, I must first understand what it is I will be writing about. But reading all day is boring. So as the assignments have slowly trickled in, I attack them with enthusiasm.

Today, besides more reading, I have been given the task of rewriting an article about the success of the first Jordanian flea market, now in its third year. SOUK JARA was created through the partnership of the Greater Amman Municipality (GAM) and the Jabal Amman Residents Association (JARA) They have converted a street in a historic neighborhood into what they call "a dynamic marketplace". And indeed it is extremely popular, especially with tourist. I was excited to have been given the article because I had unknowingly attended the market's last day this past Friday. The area was crowded with people, none of whom spoke Arabic. However, the shopping was very relaxed, perhaps because we were all languishing under the intense sun. To counteract the ever present cotton mouth here, I enjoyed fresh squeezed lemonade from a stall run by a Habitat for Humanity employee who turned out to be a friend of a friend. A common Jordanian phenomenon.

The other stalls sold trinkets, handicrafts, food and clothing. The vendors were friendly and my roommate struck up a conversation in French with a Senegalese who traveled the area selling wood carvings and who was delighted to converse in his second tongue. I also purchased a large scarf that I have grown quite attached to as it allows me to cover myself comfortably and to wear a tank top underneath for places where bare arms are acceptable. I found the experience to be extremely pleasant and mentally noted it as an activity for future visitors.

The market is located in one of the oldest sections of down town, Jabal Amman. Antiquity is coveted in a city that is developing exponentially. It is in a residential area and we had to crawl through alleys and up and down dangerously steep steps and through narrow streets to reach it. It was in fact the first time I truly felt like I was in the Middle East and I reveled in the adventure. However, the market is basically the equivalent of parking "the new" smack in the middle of "the old".

As I was researching facts about the history of the area that I could add to the article, I stumbled onto a blog with comments lambasting the market. Apparently, some residents despise it, claiming it is noisy, dirty and crowded and that it deteriorates their neighborhood, increases traffic, theft and violence . The market is also open on Friday, the day of rest in the Muslim culture. After more web surfing with a sinking stomach, I found an article in Arabic and through the wonders of Google Translate read that a society of Jabal Amman Veterans had been created in order to protest. However, the youth of the area seem to enjoy the souk, and others argue that it is a great addition to a changing Amman.

It is one of the age-old dilemmas of tourism. Bringing outsiders into a country can destroy the fabric of their society, taint the culture and ruin the historical artifacts. And of course this happens locally as well. Before I left the country, my friends and I visited the Sturgis Bike Rally and my mom, who had grown up in the area, lamented that the event was damaging the economy and the culture for the locals. However, as in most places, tourism is one of the biggest industries. In Jordan it contributes 10% to the GDP. Jobs are created and FDI is attracted. As well, individuals from cultures where the Middle East is misrepresented are able to learn and break stereotypes and return home to educate those around them.

Obviously I will finish the article and turn it in for publication. However, the dispute reminds me that there are always two sides to the same coin. As a sheltered American in this country, this is a fact that I easily forget. I'm glad for the reminder.

*I cannot claim this picture as my own. I have been very lazy about taking pictures, but promise to improve.

Haunting Refrain

There are prayer calls five times a day and I'm thankful I don't live next to a mosque to be woken up at 4 am. They are blared from loudspeakers in a deep baritone and the ghostly chanting echoes throughout the ancient streets. The first two mornings the hairs stood up on the back of my neck as I lay on my hotel bed listening. Now I find them to be relaxing and familiar.

How 'bout them apples

My first instance of corruption came after a day at the Dead Sea, spent floating on the sodium-rich water and slathering up with the mineral-rich mud, baking in the desert heat and enjoying the Europeans and water slides at the Dead Sea Spa because attending a public beach as a woman is frowned upon and one feels uncomfortable when stared at in a bathing suit. As we were leaving the spa, we waited for the guard to remove the pole barrier. He came over to our window and leaned inside, demanding something in a foreign tongue. After learning we didn't even speak small Arabic, he gestured toward the apples we were eating. My co-pilot misunderstood and thought he wanted us to throw them out. Knowing this was not a border crossing though I told her that was impossible. We finally understood he wanted one apple or three (for his friends). We had one left and happily handed him our last green apple and drove on.

Dangerous Driving

There is no driving school in Amman. Conversely, it is impossible to walk far is this vast, spider-webbed network of neighborhoods and suks lacking proper pedestrian paths and courteous drivers. Public transportation is radically underdeveloped, almost rivaling the states. Therefore, one must drive or one must taxi. EMDAPers have been given a car, which I had assumed would be an unwanted responsibility but now consider a small luxury. Only though if I discount the terrifying driving practices and absurdity of a city without street signs. As an American on a Jordanian road, I will see two lanes clearly marked in which I should drive, but a Jordanian sees the opportunity to cram in four or five rows of cars, disregarding the yellow lines. One must be both extremely aggressive and defensive and not take offense to constant horns. As well, to get somewhere in this labyrinth you must remember landmarks, because nobody knows the names of streets and they aren't marked anyway. On the flip side, it is fun to ignore all traffic signals such as one-way signs and normal taboos such as cutting someone off. I feel like a teenager on speed half the time I am tearing around the city. As well, I don't speak or read Arabic, so street signs would be meaningless.

Culture Shock

My first instance of culture shock came on the plane ride. I hadn't anticipated being one of the few Americans on my Royal Jordanian flight, although I should have. I was seated next to a middle-aged Amman native who was very antsy and spoke to me in Arabic. Apparently I look Jordanian. When he finally ascertained I was from the states, we conversed but briefly because his English was limited. However, from our small exchange I gathered he was very nice. The language barrier was somewhat relieving since it was an overnight flight and there was no reason or means to attempt chit chat. I quickly fell asleep and woke very parched. When I grabbed for my full water bottle tucked into the seat pocket in front of me, a bottle that I was very careful to fill before boarding for exactly this reason, I found it to be inexplicably empty. Inexplicable until my neighbor explained he had used it and was sorry, although he didn't replace it.

Tid Bits

In an attempt to summarize a very long week without being overwhelming and make up for a lack of posting (due entirely to an internet accessibility problem and not aforementioned personality flaws) I will provide numerous posts with some anecdotes and observations accompanied by random and mostly unrelated pictures that I have been very lackadaisical about taking.

Frantic Preparation

Preparing for a long stay in another country is inherently stressful. Unfortunately, certain aspects of my personality unnecessarily magnify this pressure. For instance, my inability to turn off the 50" plasma TV dominating my parents living room, especially when there is a Project Runway marathon. Damn you, Heidi. There's also my difficulty conceptualizing things like bills, the practicalities and necessities (or what I consider the dirty laundry) of everyday living. Or my obsession for attending aerobics classes when my time would be much better spent reading about tourism, an industry I have no work experience in, or Jordan, a country I have never visited in a region that vaguely terrifies me, or tying up the millions of loose ends I will undoubtedly leave hanging in space. Sigh.

Perhaps due to these personality flaws (although I'd like to think the fault lies elsewhere or at least somewhere in the middle) I have already run into my first major obstacle of life in a foreign country before I even stepped on or off the plane. I am not in possession of my passport and I leave in a mere two days. My passport is in fact hundreds of miles away in a small, dimly lit office of the Syrian Embassy in Washington DC, apparently gathering dust. Due to a Visa application error, it's extremely important speedy return to me has been delayed. The whole of my energy for the past two days has been dedicated to stressing about this problem and attempting to reach someone at the inexplicably empty embassy. I have now been told it will be overnighted to me and should reach me tomorrow, but for some reason, until I am clutching that beautiful, little blue book tightly in my hands, I still feel like vomiting.

The above picture is of the Advisers who will also be working in Jordan (except for two who are off to Indonesia). We met for a week of training in DC. We had four long, drawn out days of meetings and lectures and for some reason the only information that I retained was that we will all be given a car. The day after learning this there was a front page story on the USA Today staring up at me as I opened my hotel door that morning for breakfast . It declared that driving in a foreign country is the number one killer of ex pats. At least terrorism now pales in comparison to my more pressing death threat.

One thing we were asked to do all week at this training was state our assumed challenges and expectations. This is how I will end my first post and since I am not presenting this information to an audience of donors and employers, I can actually be honest.

Challenges:
1) Working in an office with six men, from a different culture, who's English is decent.
2) Driving in Amman, a city of 1 million, where street signs are in short supply and aggression behind the wheel is standard.
3) Learning Arabic.
4) Balancing work, writing my capstone, writing my case study, meeting people, traveling in the region, staying healthy (i.e. working out), and not going crazy.
5) Language barrier.
6) Cultural barrier.
7) Absolute fear.
8) Making friends.
9) Possibility that my job will be a complete joke.
10) Budgeting.

Expectations:
1) Getting to know the Jordanian tourism industry.
2) Learning about public relations.
3) Volunteering at the Jordan Times to gain some more media experience and by-lines.
4) Teaching an aerobics class at a Jordanian gym.
5) Running the Dead Sea marathon.
6) Traveling and meeting people.
7) Graduating.
8) Publishing a case study.
9) Going a little crazy.
10) Dropping my spare tyre due to a developing world diet (which equates to: there just ain't as much to eat;)