Picking up the Pieces in Palestine

Power Walking in Beit Sahour

A few days ago, I saret Sahouriya or, in other words, became one who hails from Beit Sahour. That’s the Palestinian way of saying that I moved to Beit Sahour, the small town bordering Bethlehem to the east. My new home is host to Shepherd’s Field, where the angel announced the birth of Jesus to the shepherds. In reality there are two separate fields—apparently the Greek Orthodox shepherd got the news while he was standing about 1 kilometer away from where the Catholic shepherd was working.

I am living with a young Christian family; the mother is 24 and they have two small sons, ages three and five. Nona, the mother, convinced me to join her on walks around the town instead of exercising at the YMCA. So, that evening we were joined by her sister-in-law, brother-in-law and their baby for an evening of power-walking.

In America, people jog to be alone to think, to listen to music, or to wind down. In Bethlehem, that’s not the case at all. People’s clocks seem to be synchronized. At approximately 8pm, the entire city, save Grandpas and invalids, descends on the streets wearing walking shoes.

What constitutes a good walking shoe varies. For teenage girls, the heel must be at least 1.5 inches and is generally color coordinated to the belt, shirt, earrings and eye-makeup. For older but not yet obsolete Christian ladies, a thickly-padded rubber sole shoe neutral in color will do. This is often offset by a shin-length navy blue or black skirt. The adventurous of this group may opt for the peep-toe version so that their stocking-covered toes are visible. The town’s Muslim women often don sportier versions of the hijab, though I did not notice one with a Nike logo. Their skirts are generally ankle-length and shoe choice varies widely. The men of Beit Sahour seem to opt for running shoes or thick-strapped sandals.

Once one enters the great outdoor track, certain rules must be observed.

Ipods aren’t allowed—listening to music hinders one from his or her social obligations in the street or town center. The ideal walker must maintain a delicate pace; somewhere between burning calories and not being so out of breath that you cannot call ‘hala, hala’ (“what’s up?”) to the neighbors you pass. And one must always, always keep the right hand free for hand-shaking and back-patting.

Strollers are necessary for children under four. Husbands are necessary to push the stroller. It isn’t normal for the exercise to take one’s breath away. It is normal for the sunset over the hills to stop you in your tracks. By 9:30PM, one can circle the town if an aggressive pace was maintained. If one arrives at Flavors, the best ice-cream shop in town, past 10:00PM she will have to wait in line behind the faster walkers.

The Tough Questions

Some days you get what you deserve. Others, you get a little bit more.

I had one of those ‘other’ days last weekend when I attended non violence training in Jenin, a Palestinian city whose name is associated with armed resistance, Israeli raids, and an infamous massacre. Nothing of these things happened while I was there but I did have my own personal collisions with a few locals.

The trainings were the first in a series of similar efforts being undertaken by Holy Land Trust, a Palestinian NGO in Bethlehem where I volunteer. As soon as a 15 minute break was announced, I found myself flanked by a group of young women all very eager to speak with me. They began introducing themselves and asked if they could practice speaking English with me. A few minutes into the conversation, another girl shyly approached the group. I asked if she was a student like the others and was promptly assured that “she’s not a student. She’s a virgin.” Arabs are a bit like children in the sense that you never know what they’re going to say next. The 15 minutes I had intended to use to gain insight into participants’ motivation for pursuing non violence proceeded thus:

Me: Oh, so you’re not in school. Are you married?

Girl 1: “No, she’s a VIRGIN.”

-I think you mean she’s single, right?

Girl 2: “No, she’s a virgin.” Looks at the other women for support, who are all nodding in agreement to the quiet one’s chastity. “So, where are you from?” they ask me.

-The U.S.

“Where exactly?”

-Alabama

Hmph. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of Al-La-Bom-Ah.” She looks at me with an eyebrow raised in suspicion and then decides to give me a chance even though I’m not from New York or California.

-So, do you know Helen?

-Keller? (Not concealing my wonderment at the thoroughness of the Palestinian education system.)

-Um, no HELEN. She was tall….blonde hair…. She came here once.

-She was from Alabama?

-No, Chicago. Well, then do you know Charlie?

-Where’s he from?

-London.

Training resumed and I had gained nothing, save a sense of the girls’ provinciality. Had I known what was coming next, I would have spent the next hour prepping rather than wondering what Helen had been doing in Jenin.

When it was once again time for coffee, I was approached by one of the lawyers in the group. We exchanged niceties and I told him where I was from, remarking that it wasn’t one of the more well known states. He laughed and said that he knew Alabama well. In fact, he could name every state in the U.S. Then he asked if the average American could name just two Palestinian cities. I saw where he was headed immediately.

I’ve had this conversation before. The first one happened several years ago on my first excursion outside the U.S. to England. It seems like most of the rest of the world has an idea that Americans are largely ignorant about the world around them. For the most part, they are right. Why, for instance, is the media giving more attention to Paris Hilton’s house arrest than to the G8 Summit? The media alone is not at fault; it is merely responding to demand.

The same man asked me if I lived in a democratic country. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He wanted to know if I understood exactly how much money my country gives to Israel and what it is used for. I said, yes I am aware and I am sorry. I am sorry that you associate the U.S. with weapons, walls and checkpoints that make occupation efficient. But you should also know how much aid the US has given to Palestinians.

He asked about the Jewish lobby and why it was so powerful. Why all the presidential candidates were saying the same things regarding Israel and the Palestinians. Why the media only showed bad things that happened to Israelis but not to Palestinians. Why America seemed to hate Arabs.

My Arabic was failing me miserably. Another young man stepped in to defend me, but I told him I could handle it. I slowed the questions being fired at me long enough to tell my colleague that I would gladly speak with him, under the condition that he also listen to what I had to say.

All too often, I can’t formulate proper answers to such inquiries. But I have to try because I do live in a democratic country and theoretically have some say in its policies in the world. Sometimes I just wish I could drag a few fellow Americans over here with me and make them assist in my feeble attempts at diplomacy. Perhaps mandatory encounters with people whose lives our policies directly affect wouldn't be such a bad idea. If all went well, people might begin to care a bit more about what happens across the Atlantic. At the very least, it would give Ms. Hilton and other undeserving celebrities a break from the spotlight.

Throwing in the Habit

Well, I did it. I threw in the habit. A few of you probably feel vindicated, and want to say I told you so. You told me that I couldn’t handle living in a monastery and perhaps you were right.

I tried, I really did but I just kept failing. I sat on the couch politely nodding my head in agreement to Russian jibberish, only to have my legs smacked because they were crossed at the knee. I was reprimanded for using the wrong coffee cup—the pretty ones are apparently Sisters Only. (Talk about civil rights. I’d launch a movement for the rights of Second Rate Christians if the whole Palestinian issue wasn’t consuming my time).

Things started to look up when Joanna, a German education major and 6-week volunteer, moved in. Being new and naïve, I thought her blunders might deflect the attention that I always seemed to garner. My hopes came crashing down upon me one sunny spring day in April.

Having finished lunch, I cleared the table, washed my dishes and was whistling a tune of victory when I heard a Russian shriek (clearly identifiable by the more alarmed nature). I turned around to see Joanna holding a cup of hot tea and Sister Natasha holding the tea pot from which it came. The next thing I saw sent chills down my spine.

Ole Natti’s face was turning red from the chin up and her finger was having a seizure in MY face. Joanna, the evidence clearly still in her hand, had somehow managed to frame me for taking the hot water! I tried to explain to my Sister in Christ that water was indeed scarce in these lands, but that the situation wasn’t as dire as she seemed to think. Of course, there was no apology when it was brought to her attention that the fault was Joanna’s and not mine. She did laugh the next day, however, when I emphatically asked permission to use the hot water. In any case, I made sure to acquire a permit for each ensuing cup of tea if for no other reason than to highlight the injustice of life in the kitchen.

That day I was certainly angry, but there were others much more troubling and confusing. Take the night of March 16, 2007. I entered the kitchen to take my daily dose of mush and mash and immediately realized that there was no room at the table. Relieved to have an excuse to take my plate to my room, I prepared to take my leave but was urged to stay. Aw, I thought, they’re being sweet tonight. Matushka, the top dawg, was usually less than sugary and I thought maybe she was just in the Easter spirit. She smiled and told me that I must stay and dine with them.

Then she pointed to my chair…a lone stool in the center of the kitchen and told me to eat there. So, while everyone else happily chatted at the table for People Who Wear Black and Officially Love the Lord, I thought about how life is strangely cruel. Just at the moment when I decided it couldn’t get any worse, they all stood up, faced me, and started singing. There I was, sitting alone in the middle of the kitchen, between the congregation and the icon to which evening prayers are sung. I began to pray too, silently asking God to start giving me warning signs for similar awkward situations.

God must have an amazing sense of humor. Just a few days later, Joanna and I were talking quietly in the kitchen while the sisters and Matushka were sitting around the table, chatting and sipping tea. Not really understanding why, we were shooed out. Ran off like stray dogs. We later were told that during dinner with Matushka, no one is allowed to talk unless she poses a direct question. We also learned that the Russian Orthodox Church doesn’t change its clocks when the rest of the world does and that whistling is bad luck.

I could have stayed, really. I was managing quite well but then an email came presenting an opportunity to live in downtown Jerusalem. Thanking God for finally answering my prayers, I moved in with a sweet Palestinian Baptist (I didn’t know they existed either) who pinches my cheeks and constantly tells me how cute and smart I am. It’s a bit like living with my Grandmother, evangelical television programming and all.

Epilogue:

I haven’t abandoned the monastery. I have a close relationship with the head nun, who has a huge heart and works more than one person should. I still drive little girls to doctor’s appointments and play beauty shop in the afternoon.

If I’ve learned anything from my time in the monastery it is this: Some people have a hard time expressing love or even recognizing it—until it is gone, that is. Sister Natasha, whose love and acceptance I pined for, told me how she felt the day I moved my bags out. “Ava, why you go? I so sad.” Since that day, my every arrival is greeted with a beaming smile and four fat Russian kisses on the cheek. And each time, I’m almost tempted to stay. But I don’t; instead I walk away and in the distance can almost see her quivering hand wiping a tear from her tired old face. It’s a shame, really. Resisting love for so long, and only realizing the truth a moment too late.

Natti, ‘ole girl, we could have been so happy together.

A Strange Little Town

My current home is the place where Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, which is why it is called Al-Azariya (from the Arabic form of Lazarus). The residents also claim to host the homes of Maria and Martha, but this point is disputed. Nevertheless, situated at the foot of the Mount of Olives, this small but once vibrant town welcomed thousands of Christian pilgrims each year, particularly during the Feast of Lazarus. It was also the usual resting place for travelers between Jerusalem and Jericho, a position that accelerated its growth and sustained its economy.

Much has changed in the last five years. Once the second Intifada began, tourism dropped to almost zilch. Some of my Muslim friends told me how they used to take the kids and line the street to watch the Christians’ procession from Jerusalem to Lazarus’ tomb on Lazarus Day. That procession was held yesterday, and I counted a grand total of three tour buses which came sporadically and without grandeur. If the town fell ill to the violence that shook Israel and Palestine after the Al-Aqsa Intifada, it has all but died at the arrival of the Wall. Once the wall began to snake through the area, roping a few sections into greater Jerusalem and isolating the others, the town became isolated and the economy grinded to a halt. Many of the fellaheen, or country folk, suffered from being cut off from their land and having had their olive groves uprooted. Others just suffer from immobility. In one strange case, the path of the Wall cuts right between the homes of two brothers. One is now a Jerusalemite and the other forbidden to visit his brother’s side. An side effect that directly impacted the school where I volunteer was the enrollment, which changed daily for several months as kids who once came to schools here from Jerusalem were forced to relocate, and students living here and attending a private school in the city were denied permission.

I’ve learned a lot about this little town in the last few weeks. In addition to its history and its politics, I’ve come to understand that there are a lot of things about this place that may forever remain a mystery to me. It seems to have a lot of secrets, and judging from what I’ve seen lately, I don’t want or need to know them. This feeling is a direct consequence of the past two weeks, which left me feeling like the star of a second rate action film.

I started frequenting the little restaurant across the street in an effort to escape the monastery food (which is a strange hybrid of Russian recipes and Arab ingredients). One evening, the owner’s brother noticed that I was doing Arabic homework. From that day on, he would come to my table whenever he wasn’t serving someone and speak to me in Arabic. Last Saturday, once I finished my meal he suggested that we go to the pastry shop down the road for dessert. Considering that it was close, in a public area and not yet nighttime, I agreed. Oh, how I wish I didn’t have such a sweet tooth.

The next day, Sister Martha said she needed to talk to me. I thought I had inadvertently angered Sister Natasha, a scenario I would have welcomed once she began with, “The Palestinian CIA called today.” They said the person I was meeting in the pastry shop was an Israeli spy and that if I was seen with him again, I could be in real physical danger. The caller gave a very detailed description of what I had been wearing, what time I was there, etc. To make matters worse, this very same night a group of several boys decided to beat on the gate of the monastery and climb the walls. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that there is no police here in 'Area B,' which means that the town is supposed to be under Palestinian Authority but Israeli security. The irony is that the Israelis never come here and don't allow the Palestinians to actually have any authority...so there is no police and no recourse. Except the one that is secretly maintained--with whom I was about to become acquainted.

After spending the next day in class quite certain that every person in Israel was watching me, I came home and began helping the girls with their homework. I was interrupted with a phone call from a man saying I had to come open the door because we needed to talk. The man, who was reminiscent of a Palestinian Zach Morris, said he had come from Ramallah to Azariya to talk to me about my ‘meetings with the spy.’

So, I’m thinking this is turning into a big deal…I mean, someone was sent to interrogate me. I had to give detailed accounts of every conversation I ever had with Mohamed (which was quite boring I’m sure. Ex: “So, when you want to say that it’s raining and when you say that it’s cold outside, that’s essentially the same thing? Oh, and if I was late for the bus is it appropriate to say...”) Louie, the CIA wannabe, attempted to anger and intimidate me for a while. He told me that if he didn't like me, he could force the Abess to make me leave. He also clarified that he was part of the 'morality' wing of the intelligence service (which, I must admit, made me laugh....especially after his hypocritical comments about his and his girlfriend's affairs). Finally, he told me that he wanted to be my friend. He said that I really had no choice because if I were to go out in Azariya, even to buy groceries, I had to call him first.

I attempted to locate Sister Martha, whom he said had given him permission to speak with me personally, but she was nowhere to be found. The school principal, and whose name he also cited when I questioned his legitimacy, was also absent. The entire next day I was still paranoid, as Louie had recounted details about what time I left from and returned to the monastery, where I studied, the phone call from the secret police and emphasized my new dependency on him, which irritated me to no end. I felt confined to the monastery, which led me to think about other housing options. (More on that later.)

For brevity's sake, I'll skip right to the resolution of this strange little tale.

The movie on fast forward: I tell Mohamed, the restaurant man, that I’ve been informed that he is a spy and whether it’s true or not we can’t be friends. I find out from the principal that Louie is actually just some guy that lives across the street--NOT in Ramallah--nor does he work for the intelligence service. (This revelation doesn’t explain his knowledge of the phone calls to the Sr. about the spy, but it does explain a few comments he made during our conversation and the vibe I was getting that he was attempting to mix business with pleasure). So, I inform Louie of my new information, which he denies. Both give up trying to contact me after two weeks.

The cloud: I no longer feel comfortable eating at the restaurant, meaning more quality time with Sr.Natasha and her cold soup and grease pies. I also take a cab when I visit my friends who live down the street, because walking to their house would necessitate passing the spy’s shop.

The silver lining: I have been successfully interrogated in Arabic and learned a whole new set of vocabulary.

A Better Way

Sleepless Nights

Traveling back from the village of Bil’in, our car passed through the checkpoint in Ramallah where we noticed dozens of men lined up on one side of the road. Each of them was looking across the road to where a group of Palestinian boys stood facing three Israeli jeeps. Each of the boys, whose ages ranged from five to fifteen, had a rock in his hand. And each of the soldiers had his finger on a trigger. One rock was thrown, and then several more followed. My driver stepped on the accelerator as the firing started.

The four other people in the car with me, including two university professors, resumed their conversation but I didn’t hear them, nor did I clearly see the road in front of me. I thought about why a child would look down the barrel of a gun when he knew his weapon was inferior. It must be that he just had something that needed to be said. And then the soldier, who has no choice but to serve. What if it was his bullet that struck one of them? Can he sleep at night? I can’t, not tonight anyway.