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.