existential crisis, take two.

As an instructor I am many things: feminist in politics, casual in presentation, strict in policy, detailed in assignments, sometimes funny, sometimes flip, sometimes focused in discussion. I like to think that I’m a good teacher. I can summarize difficult arguments in brief and clear language. I try to make space for students who wouldn’t normally speak to be heard. Though it is cliche and sentimental, I genuinely believe something powerful can happen in the classroom. I believe that people change how they think, or begin to change how they think about the world. And I generally perceive that change for the better.

This week, I was something in my classroom that I have never explicitly been before. This week, I spoke to my students not as an informed and (inasmuch as possible, objective) instructor, but as a Palestinian who had lived under occupation; as someone who approached the topic from a specific political perspective, with ideas grounded in theory as much as feeling, and with definite opinions regarding action and change. I have never done this. I have never been a Palestinian first. While I am unclear on how to describe that position in concrete language, I suppose the closest I can say is that to my students I stood in for Palestine. For many, I was likely the only Palestinian they had seen in person, or with whom they could converse. For many, I was the only indication that something like Palestine existed, that it was populated by real people, and that it was under occupation.

I feel incredibly conflicted about holding this position. I was clear when I began my sections that I would be happy to pursue our regularly scheduled activity. I was clear that if this was undesirable or unproductive, we could move on. And while it was productive and interesting for many of my students, I could tell that one student in particular was not comfortable, was not OK. While I wouldn’t characterize her posture as hostile, I would say that it was defensive. Now, 24 hours later, I still can’t shake the feelings of vulnerability and anxiety I felt in the classroom. What a curious effect of oppression, that in acknowledging your own personhood, you might feel guilty. Guilty to take a “biased” position, guilty to claim space, guilty to make those who would support your oppression feel at all uncomfortable. I know that this guilt is obviously complicated by the fact that I am her instructor, and we exist in a relationship that is unequal. And while I prefaced and reiterated multiple times that I was speaking that day primarily as a person with a clear position, rather than facilitating discussion and underlining concepts with no position other than conveyor of course materials, I feel so…icky. Did I do something wrong? Was this the correct course of action? Should I have stuck to the lesson plan? Isn’t it OK sometimes to be honest, to be me, to be Palestinian? I know that neutrality is a farce. I know that even when I play instructor, my personhood and politics don’t disappear, but neither are they as explicit as they were yesterday. I am afraid that I have alienated her. I am afraid that I was too transparent. I am afraid that the room will be altered irrevocably after this. I am afraid of my anger at feeling afraid in the first place. I am afraid I am not cut out for this job. I am afraid that now that I have been a Palestinian first, I will not be able to lie to myself– I was one always, throughout all things. I am afraid to be Palestinian. I am afraid to be.

Sun, Salt, and the Sea

I have been practicing my floating. As a non-swimmer, the feeling of my body weightless and at the whim of the water is unsettling. I am much more comfortable in control, my feet firmly planted on the basin. I began experimenting in the kiddie pool of our resort in Punta Cana, when we visited in February. A mere two feet deep, I could easily find solid ground again when it became too scary. Drowning is my earliest memory; my mother taking swimming lessons at the Y with her daughter, her hands under my belly. I am before years but I recall the emptiness when she withdrew her support, my small shape sinking into the blue of the pool. I went under twice since then, once at my Aunt’s pool when I played too close to the edge, and fell in. No one heard the splash but my cousin, who came to my aid as I bobbed uselessly. Again a couple years later coming down a slide at a beach in Michigan. I had studied the other riders carefully, watched as they came off the slide, fell into the water, and buoyed up seconds later. When I went down, I didn’t come up, and they sent a lifeguard when it became clear I wouldn’t find the way back on my own.

In the Dead Sea, floating is easy. Lot’s Wife, that unnamed rebel, carries me, her body turned to such salt that it kills all the water’s inhabitants, cakes the rocks with her essence. The Dead Sea is riotous when we visit. The waves crashing against the rocks, which despite years of sanding, remain sharp under my feet. I lay in the water, moving my limbs in ways I can’t against gravity, and feel the same discomfort, nestled as it always is on my lower back. The water splashes into my eyes and I make my way clumsily back to the shore, eyes closed, blinded. A lifeguard comes to my aid with fresh water, pouring it over my face, demanding I open the eyes, wash out the burn. It’s like a baptism and I see anew; he pulls me up out of the water with one arm, hauls me back safely to the dock. I go in again later, careful to keep my head up. The Sea is luxurious, slippery over my skin. I feel wounds healing, my scars tickle. I paint myself twice with the mud from the water’s depths, letting it cake dry on my skin before heading back to the water to rinse.

The resort attached to this hunk of beach is beautiful. We tried a different place first, but their beach was closed, so we move on to the Movenpick, a Swedish import. In Amman, the shore is bought up by mostly foreign corporations that turn their chunk of land into a rich haven: upscale, expensive dining; top notch liquor; brown bodies in uniforms, fulfilling needy guests’ every whim. I won’t pretend I don’t enjoy the space, but I hate that my experience is filtered through this. Despite their best efforts, though, the sea remains as is. I am glad I haven’t gone back to the shore in Palestine, for I know that the size of the Sea is shrinking rapidly there, drained for use. The resort is a series of infinity pools leading up to the waterfront, and we watch the sun set. From afar, the Sea is as any other, but we know better. We have felt her secrets on our skin, tasted her brine, slathered in her silt.

From the Dead Sea we visit Hammamat Ma’in, or the Baths of Ma’in. They are not baths, really, but a series of hot springs cascading over the mountains. The waterfalls are fiery, and like the Sea, said to have high mineral contents, with healing properties. I had wanted to come here for those reasons, because my body still aches from my surgery. The first day at the resort, we try to visit the biggest, most beautiful of the Falls. It remains the property of Jordan, and is thus public access. When we arrive, there are no women in the water. They sit on the sidelines, many of them in full hijab, while the men run around in shorts and speedos, enjoying the hot, cascading water. My mother is upset; if we go in, we will be gakwed at, made uncomfortable. We could, and I say to hell with what they think, but even I know how unpleasant the experience will become.

We go next to the “family” fall, where a brood of women, also in full hijab sit on the sidelines still. There are only women here, and this cascade is pitiful in comparison to the last one. My mother is disgusted, still, and won’t even try the water. She returns to the hotel while Rachel and I stay, strip to our suits. The women are gaping at us. They are speaking Arabic, shocked at our attire, our desire to enter the water. I smile sweetly, say “Marhaba”, so they know I understand. We try to go into the water, but it’s scaldingly hot, and we can’t bear it. Still our presence has enervated the women, and a couple join our feeble attempts. I can tell they are amused by our presence, a spectacle. When Rachel and I decide to leave, they suggest we come back. Since I am not above being petty when they are so clearly mocking us, I tell them to enjoy the water, the heat.

We return to the hotel, and try to coax my Mother out of the room. She is going on about the disparity, how backwards she finds the behavior at the falls. Not much of a feminist, my mother’s stance surprises me: what bothers her most is how cruel this is to the women, how unfair. I am impartial on their behalf since I am more than accustomed to being stared at and judged by complete strangers at this point in my trip, but it’s a new feeling for her. We take to the resort’s Spa, which also has segregated waterfalls, also disparaging sizes. We flout the rules and hang out at the men’s, but I can tell she’s still unhappy. This fall is nowhere near the size, beauty or comfort of the main one. We end the day in the pool, where I try floating again. My ears submerged, my face just above, eyes closed, willing my body up, up.

The next day, my parents wake early, visit the main fall before it opens to the public, and my mother returns blissful, radiant. She says we have to go back again, at night when it closes to the public, or in the morning the next day. I promise her we will, though I am over the whole thing. With my departure date so close, I am childishly longing for home. I just want to go back to my life, my things, my time. Still, there is whole two more days to be spent in Jordan, and one more at the resort. We spend the day at the pool, where I continue to float cautiously, no more than a few inches from the wall. Rachel and I compete to see how long we can hold our breath without pinching our noses, and I try opening my eyes under water. It’s blurry, familiar, oddly soothing. Like most adolescents, my niece is bored easily, so the day of lounging has her frustrated, but I am content with our laziness. Later, we watch the football game in the lounge, become depressed about Brazil. We try the main fall again, but because it’s Friday, the public hours are later, and we return, thwarted again, to our rooms. I promise my mother I will wake early, go in the morning. I can tell she wants this for me, doesn’t want me to leave disappointed, because she hopes these small gifts will pull me back, like waves, more often.

Meanwhile, I drift in the water, unfettered by my usual neuroses. Weightless and light, just this once.

Do You Remember Hanna Awwad?

One of my favorite things about sitting with my father and his contemporaries is the exchange of folk songs and old stories. There’s a story about my Ammo Manawail and Ammo Fouad as boys, fighting over the dried watermelon seeds. When Fouad let go, Manawail fell backward into the tray where Taita Hilwa, my grandmother kept her baby chicks. Ammo squashed the chicks, and the seeds went flying. He immediately went into hiding, and Hilwa (which means pretty) gave chase, tying a bandanna around her head before tracking him down. When Ammo tells the story, he mimes her tying the bandanna, and we all laugh. There’s the folk song my Great Grandfather Ibrahim wrote about a cat knocking Elias Kassis’ aoud onto the wheat grinder, and his wife, Katrina breaking him the news. There’s my all time favorite old Arabic song, Al Rosana, that my Aunt Anise knows, and I forget the verses to. I sing what I remember anyway, often when I’m lonely, or putting babies to sleep.

I don’t know if the story about Hanna Awwad is true, or just a word play with rhyme. I only really remember line of the song, “titthakaree Hanna Awwad” (do you remember Hanna Awwad)? And it’s response “kharaga wa lem ya’oud” (He left and did not return).  Tony and another cousin of ours, Fadi, used to tell it all the time. In the recesses of my brain, I think he went to the store for something silly, and was never heard from again. I think it’s real, because Tony always got in trouble when he told it. The story reminds me of Tony, who I loved like my brother. Who I miss, now that everything is different, and now that I am leaving. I’ve been in Palestine for 19 days, and I have only seen Tony once. I saw a couple of school friends to whom I’m related, and I didn’t see my best friend from my years in residence at all. She was supposed to visit, but never did. I’m not surprised by her absence, or by the sadness I feel about it. Short of seeing Lubnah and the kids, everything here hurts. And though the joy I get from spending time with my sister, and the ease with which we are ourselves, exactly as we’ve always been, is huge, the reverse, the pain of our parting is huge, too.

We leave Sunday afternoon, at around 4:00. The driver to the Jisr is early, and my parents are frazzled. They are running around the house, trying to tie up loosed ends while we meander in the drive-way, waiting. The waiting makes it worse because I have time to get (more) emotional. By the time they come down the stairs, I’ve already begun weeping. I hug Lubnah fiercely one more time, and get into the van with Rachel and my parents, and two strangers. The fam is coming to Amman with me for a week before I fly off, and Lubnah is working until Tuesday, when she will fly to France for the city. We take Wad il Naar to the Jisr, as we came, and by now I’m familiar with its dips and curves. I can’t say I’m sad to part with the terrain like I once was, or perhaps I’ve used up all the sad in the reservoir on this trip already. By the time we are in Jericho, I have moved to cracking jokes and gearing up for the maze of red tape ahead.

Before arriving at the Jisr, we stop at a maktaba in Jericho to get tasareeh (permissions) for me to exit with my howiyyah. Of course, I have my passport, so the tasareeh shouldn’t be necessary, but apparently the jawaz (passport) needs a month before it’s accessible on the computer system. I marvel at this techno fail–that you could receive your passport but not use it for travel–the entire time we are applying for the tasareeh, which cost another 55 shekels. The van takes us to the Palestinian side/building/agency and chaos ensues. My father wants to make sure Rachel can travel with us because she’s a minor, we need to buy bus tickets and cargo tickets, we need to make sure the suitcases get on the bus, we need to pay Palestine 134 shekels a pop to leave, we need to show our passports and howiyyahs and tasareeh to some dude at a desk to be arrogant and troubled by. I have forgotten something crucial, something I should have considered before agreeing to all this: traveling with my parents makes all things 100 times more difficult. We leave the Palestinian border with 4 bus tickets, 5 suitcase vouchers, 4 “exit tax” receipts.

A bus takes us to the Israeli side.  Well, first it takes us to a gate, where we disembark, walk through metal detectors, and load onto a another bus. This second bus takes us to the Israeli border, where another metal detector awaits. We are let off the bus in small groups, and the Israeli guards divert me, Rachel, and Mom directly to the building without passing through security. Men and women wearing hijab are directed through this first metal detector. Inside the building, another metal detector and a baggage scanner await. All travelers go through this, and my father goes through three times: the first time he has forgotten his belt. The second time he has found a key in his pocket. The third time is beep-free. We stand in line to have our papers stamped and stapled and shuffled but the line is taking eons. There are approximately 100 travelers and three people working the booths. Like Meijer, we pick the slowest cashier. From here, we go to another station, where the woman demands proof of exit tax payment, and yet another, where a man checks our passports and howiyyahs a final time.

We get our bags, and load them onto a third bus (which also requires a ticket and luggage vouchers) that will deposit us at the Jordanian border. On the bus, we fill out a white card with some banal information which is then checked when we disembark. The suitcases are taken from us to be checked, again, and deposited on the other side of the border, to be retrieved when we complete our Jordanian stamping and shuffling. When we enter this building, we’re given a number, and for a moment I am ecstatic: no elbowing old ladies in line, no other travelers attempting sneaky “cutsies.” My enthusiasm is misplaced. Even given numbers, people swarm the windows like vacationers at the cruise ship buffet. When you do manage to hand your paperwork over, they ask you to have a seat on the chairs and wait for your name to be called. No one does this. They stand at the window staring down the workers, waiting for a moment’s weakness to ask for favors. My name is finally called, and I am cleared to go through. I pay 10 dinars for my visa to enter into Jordan.  Meanwhile, Rachel is being held back while she secures a green card. I myself have one of these, bu I don’t know what they mean, or what they are for. Merely that they are part of what Jordan wants to see.

After we all make it through, we buy various treats from the duty free, and go outside to find a taxi. My father negotiates a price to Amman, and we bundle into the four door, for an hour ride to Ammo Manawail’s. On the whole, our trip lasts 5 hours. As we’re driving, I notice things I didn’t notice 19 days ago like the spread of American fast food joints and designer labels. You can get everything in Amman, for a price, per global capitalism’s intention. Still, I feel lighter here, my heart ready to shake off some of the heaviness;  I didn’t realize it was so heavy until it lifted. I am excited for the next week, because I will be taking in Amman as I never have before: the Petra, the Dead Sea, Hammamat Ma’in (Turkish Baths). We visited Amman often, but always spent the time with family. The whirlwind schedule suits–I don’t want time to think about what I left. What if Hanna had come back, after 11 years? Would he still be lost? Wasn’t I?

Ammo’s house is mostly as I remember it with a few key changes. They have removed the small fountain from the right side of the main entrance to make a car park, and they have hired a new live-in house servant. His name is, Mina, from Masr, and he is only 22. Manawail has always stood out to me as the richest person in our family, and his house belies it. It’s enormous, well kept, not visibly rich,  but deeply, like old money. I love it, but it makes me feel dirty. I hate hearing Ammo yell at Mina (he yells as a way of communication), but Mina is new, and doesn’t know that Ammo barks at everyone. Still, I feel strange when my bags are wordlessly, and invisibly taken to my room. I inquire later about Mina’s pay, and become disgusted with myself even further, but everyone seems convinced they are doing him a favor. I try to engage him, but he averts his eyes from me, from everyone but children as far as I can tell, with whom he plays, easily, often.

That night, Ammo Manawail hears about my fig-lust, and sneaks me three straight off the tree in his garden. He tells me to eat them downstairs, so I don’t have to share, and I selfishly do. Upstairs, I hear the women talking about weight loss, how fat they are, nose size, depilatory choices. Next to them, the men play cards for dinars, smoke cigarettes and argiylah. I excuse myself from both spaces, feigning exhaustion, and walk down into the basement, into my room. The finished basement is 10 degrees cooler then the house above, and it’s a house unto itself, fully furnished, a spacious kitchen, 1.5 baths. A picture of Seedo Farid hangs in the living room, and one of Ammo Fouad sits in my bedroom. The last time I saw him was in a dream, shortly after his death. I resolve things that way, in my sleep. In my sleep, Rami forgave me for leaving him and not loving him back enough. In my sleep, Dalia and I have a Lifetime reunion, holding each other as the years recede meaninglessly.

In Amman, I can’t sleep at all so I unpack as Fouad looks on. I sing Al Rosana, my favorite verse: kolhum habibhom ma’hom wa anna habibi raah. Ya rabi nasmit hawa t’rod il habib liyah: everyone has their love with them, but my love has gone. Dear God, send a gentle breeze to bring back my love. It sounds cheeky, but it’s not. The rhythm is so simple, the register so earnest. I sing what I know to Fouad as I prepare for the next week, prepare to go back to another kind of home. Meanwhile, there are Taita’s chicks, Ibrahim’s cat, Hanna.

The answer is yes.

Yes, yes. I remember.

Gilligan Does “il Dakhil” (Part One)

Maybe I am biased, but none of the many drivers I’ve ridden with here can compare to Saalih. On Wednesday morning Rula and I make my third attempt to enter the Israeli territories;  a driver named Shakir picks us up at 6:30am. This time, we are attempting to cross the mahsoom/checkpoint in Beit Sahour, which, like Mahsoom al Nafuck, allows vehicles through. Shakir is an Arab Israeli from Nazareth, fluent in both Arabic and Hebrew. His van is tidy, and he offers us ka’ak (a delicious sesame bread) as we make our way to the mahsoom.

We came to know Shakir through my cousin Rafat, who works as a tour guide for a Palestinian agency. Rafat, in addition to arranging for our transportation, has also arranged for Rula and I, should we get through the checkpoint, to join a tour group for two days as they visit Nazareth and Jerusalem. I should say I never got the opportunity to apply for tasareeh (the visa or permissions for Palestinians to access Israel) since Beit Sahour residents can only apply on Thursdays, and last Thursday was my Uncle’s funeral. Even if we are turned around, I have already decided I will not apply. Perhaps it’s stupidity or stubbornness, but I won’t put myself at Israel’s mercy more than I already have.

When Shakir sees the guard at the mahsoom, he curses briefly under his breath. This guard is new, and doesn’t know Shakir. Still, Shakir smiles widely, converses with him for a moment in Hebrew, before requesting our passports. As we oblige, the guard walks away, and Shakir hops out of the car to follow, passports in tow. He is gone for less than a minute, though it feels longer. Upon his return, Shakir says we have been rejected, and I feel nothing. I expected this. But Shakir guns the car anyway, and it takes me a few more seconds to realize he’s joking. The guard was having breakfast, and didn’t even open the passports to check for visas. Suddenly, I am officially in Israel, my access the result of some random man’s hunger. Shakir and Rula congratulate me, but I don’t feel victorious. I feel sick; how arbitrary and cruel these stipulations and manipulations are.

Shakir drives on, for we are trying to make it to Nazareth (al Nassra) in two hours. He is a genial driver, mostly quiet. He offers bits of information as we drive through the diverse terrain of the (my? our?) country: here is Abu Ghosh, the last Arab-occupied space between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. Here is Megiddo, the military and political prison for Palestinians. The way Shakir imparts this information reminisces of a museum tour: here are some curious things, some things from the past. It’s as though the Arab population and the reality of political prisoners in Israel are not part of the present, not part of daily life. At some point, I must tune him out, because he seems to think that the reason the Palestinian territories are poor is merely a matter of laziness. I feel like one of my students: Shakir is a nice guy, except for the little bit o’ racism. Still, I am grateful he can show me these things, grateful that for as much as he expresses distaste for the “Arab work ethic,” he is also happy to help pull one over on Israeli security at the checkpoints.

We stop only once before Nazareth, pulling into a small convenience store and gas station. It must be near a military base, because there are dozens of soldiers milling about. They are so young, so casual with their machine guns strapped across their bodies. They flirt and joke with one another like the teenagers they are and I am sad for them, sad for us. I know Palestinian boys who dropped out of school because the Intifadas made attendance impossible, because they lost families and loved ones, became disaffected by the war, the incontinuity of their lives. They are casualties, the cost of occupation and its resistance. I wonder about these Israeli soldiers, their uniforms heavy on their bodies, aging them in ways I couldn’t imagine. Do they believe in what they represent? Do they resent it? I can’t pretend to know what they think or feel, but to me, they too seem to be casualties, collateral damage of a different sort.

We make Nazareth in the predicted two hours, though it costs us the more scenic drive along the coast of the Mediterranean. Shakir pulls up outside of a strip of stores, and a second driver, Yousef arrives to take us to meet the tour group. We thank Shakir (which, incidentally, means “one who thanks”) and transfer vehicles. Yousef also works with Rafat,  also speaks Arabic and Hebrew. As we drive to catch up with the tour, we inform Yousef of our newly hatched plan to travel with the tour on day one, and then ditch it the second day, to visit Yaffa and Jerusalem on our own. Concerned with our shenanigans, Yousef calls Rafat, and together they agree that Yousef ought to stay with us for the whole two days instead, acting as our personal guide/driver. Though this idea grates at my nerves, Rula is ecstatic to have someone cater to her every desire and a place to leave her things between locations. Her enthusiasm trumps my tourist-sex fantasy, and we plan our itinerary with Yousef. Nazareth to Tiberias to Akka to Haifa on day one. Yaffa and Jerusalem on day two. It’ll be a miracle if we manage it.

Boom Goes the Dynamite

When my cousin Rula comes to visit Palestine from Amman, she convinces me to attempt to cross the mahsoom, or checkpoint again, without a visa or tasareeh in order to visit Jerusalem. That first time, we attempted entry from the Beit Lehem point. This time, Rula and I go up to Beit Lehem, and take a bus that will take us to a mahsoom in Beit Jala, a neighboring city. This checkpoint is called Mahsoom al Nafuck (insert joke here). Nafuck apparently means bridge, and so there is. The bus costs 6 shekels, and pulls aside at the far left lane of the mahsoom. As the bus pulls off, my stomach is pulled in a hundred directions–into itself in anxiety, into my throat like bile, into my knees like shock. We disembark, and stand behind a guardrail in queue while a soldier searches the bus. Meanwhile, a second soldier gestures us forward and asks for our identification and paperwork. There is only one person ahead of me, an adolescent boy with a blue howwiyyah (ours are green). The soldier keeps the boy’s howwiyyah but indicates he should return to the bus.

When I hand the soldier my passport, she speaks to me in English, asks me where I’m from. I tell her Michigan, and she repeats the word, curiously, like a novelty. She looks at my picture, back at me. Without checking for a visa she hands me the passport, and tells me to have a nice day. I re-board the bus, in disbelief. Behind me, the soldier looks over Rula’s paperwork and passport. She has Jordanian citizenship, and was granted a visa in order to attend the consecration of another Shomali cousin, William, into Catholic bishop-hood (bishopness? bishopity?). The soldier sends Rula back to the bus, but keeps her passport. Rula sits next to me while the rest of the passengers are screened, each presenting a blue howwiyyah, each returning to the bus without it. A third soldier takes the stack of IDs and Rula’s passport to look them over. When he sees the Jordanian emblem, he calls Rula off the bus, and informs her that she cannot enter, even though she has a visa. He claims that this mahsoom is only for people with blue howwiyyat, ie, Arab Israelis. The guard who let me onto the bus gestures me off, and we are both sent away.

The thing is, Mahsoom al Nafuck is not only for Arab Israelis; people pass through on visas daily. The bus driver, with whom we had consulted regarding my visa-less passport, was sure Rula would pass through without fuss, and if anyone was sent back, it’d be me. Instead, for reasons unbeknown to me Rula was turned around, and I, the only passenger who was sent back to the bus with her identification, was asked to leave after being cleared. I can only assume that they saw us sitting with one another, and assumed guilt by association.

The Nafuck, unlike Mahsoom Beit Lehem, allows individual cars to pass, so there aren’t any taxis waiting around for passengers. It also does not function as a bus stop. So Rula and I walk back to the road the bus came in on, approximately half a mile from the checkpoint. We wait there for a taxi. Several white ones pass before we realize that white taxis will not stop; they are Israeli companies, with the yellow Israeli tags. My mood, which is already dangerously morbid, drops a bit more, and I match my internal fuming with external. Lighting the cigarette my hands shake, and I barely manage it. I’m so angry, so frazzled, I don’t even realize I’ve dropped the pack until a yellow taxi stops, and we ride a few minutes. By then it’s too late to retrieve them.

The other passengers in the cab are both men, and they are douches. They laugh with condescension when we get in, and I’m at a loss as to the hilarity: is it because we are Mahsoom rejects? Is it because I was smoking in public? Is it because we are two women, on the side of the road, at a loss? I can’t find it funny, though maybe, sometime later, I will. The cab takes us to my other priestly cousin’s church, where we get a ride from my Uncle George. Rula elects to go to Mahsoom Beit Lehem, but I am furious, and can’t bear to be turned around again. I curse in multiple languages, with multiple registers. My mobility is at the whim of another person on both a macro and microscopic level.  I hate relying on other people for transporation. I hate feeling caged in. I hate feeling like a second class citizen. Because I’m Arab in Israel. Because I’m a girl in Palestine.

When I get home, I retell the story, over and over again, to my family and random other people who want to know what happened. I wish I could stop. I wish they wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t make me repeat it.Each time I do, my gestures become bigger, my voice louder, my emotions…I can’t. Everything spills over, and I sob on my bed in my room, the room I had as a girl, in which I had doubtless cried a million times. I can’t catch my breath, my mascara bleeds into my eyes, so I cry harder, and my body shakes shakes shakes. Even here,  so little control. I ask myself how people live like this, how they survive this dehumanization daily. I am angry that I know what it feels like, angry that I know why people put up with it. Angry at myself for forgetting, angry at myself for forcefully remembering. I think, if I lived here, I might die. And then I am angry that I am too weak to stay and fight, and angry that I dare judge or question the people who do.

I gather myself to go out onto the veranda and have another cigarette. The rhythmic inhale, exhale calms me down for a moment, but midway in I am crying again. Quietly now, my quivering confined to my face, my shoulders shuddering randomly. I think, what now? What next?

israel unsettled

From the Bethlehem area, there are approximately three checkpoints into Israel. My sister calls everything past the checkpoints “il daakhil”, the inside–inside the wall. Lubnah won’t call it Israel, and give the occupation a legitimate name. Portions of the wall have been under construction since 1994, but really got underway in 2002. It is enormous, intimidating. I suppose that’s the intent, but some aren’t so scared. Some treat the wall as a canvas for the feelings of a caged people: messages of hope, peace, banality even, are everywhere.

the wall in beit lehem

i want my ball back.

I can’t tell you how I feel about Israel. I can’t claim I would see all the people who have come here since 1948 be uprooted. My people were uprooted, and we’re still a little miffed. It would be silly to pretend I am not angry about the illegal settlements. It would be naive to pretend that the brutality Palestinians experience at the hands of the Israeli government doesn’t continue to shock and infuriate me.

Today, my mother Mariam, my sister Lubnah, my two nieces Rachel and Marie, my nephew Jacob, and I attempted to enter Jerusalem. The morning is lazy: my parents go to church, come home for coffee on the Veranda. By noon, the sun is at its peak, and the air sizzles with it. Lubnah comes to pick us up in her car, and we all pile in, plus my father, so he can take the car home after we have been dropped off. We wind up the hills to Beit Lehem (Bethelehem), and park just short of the checkpoint’s entrance. We past fruit vendors as we begin the path inside.

walking to the security screenings

I feel claustrophobic and criminal as we ascend to the security screenings. We are attempting to enter only on our US passports. When you cross the jisr from jihit al ajanib, they stamp your passport with a visa that allows you inside  Israel. As Arabs, no such visa exists. Arabs instead apply for tasareeh (the Arab version). We are attempting to enter without tasareeh, partially from ease, for the application for these kinds of papers is time consuming, and not always successful. Since there is no religious holiday upon us, our chances of receiving tasareeh are diminished. We are also attempting this in defiance, subterfuge. I cannot, nor will I ever, believe that Palestinians shouldn’t be allowed into Jerusalem freely. It is home to three major religions; a part of my heritage.

As girls, Lemma and I passed the checkpoints everyday to go to school in Jerusalem. The system was less elaborate then, before the wall, but still frightening. Soldiers with guns would smirk at us, two young girls alone, and leer at Lemma before allowing us through. I remember their cruel faces, and try to remember that they are doing a job assigned to them, but it’s hard to remain fair when I recall our flushed faces, Lemma’s hand clenched tensely around mine as we underwent scrutiny.

Today the first soldier passes us through without incident. We flash our passports and she waves us along. A tiny seed of hope flourishes. The second screening involves a metal detector, and we pass here too. By now, we are growing excited. Perhaps, this once, fate is on our side. We arrive at the final gate. An Israeli soldier stands guard, and a second inside a booth demands our passports. She checks them for visas, finding none. She and the other soldier in blue are confused: we have American citizenship, but no visa. In my head, I am chuckling. I can tell she thinks there is some kind of clerical error, and is prepared to send us through without. After all, we are with children, and I look foreign enough for all of us. What threat could three women and three children pose?

Before we can pass, a third soldier arrives. He is wearing green, and speaks to us in Arabic, though we feign ignorance. He is insistent on visas, and seems as confused as the others. Finally, after 3 minutes, a light bulb goes off above his head. He says to his companions something, though I only understand “Palestina. ” He begins to ask for our IDs (howwiyat). Had I been at the head of the line, I would have handed him my MI driver’s license, but I am not, and Lubnah stands silently, her face a mask of confusion. She gives the man the kid’s birth certificates instead. But this soldier is hip to her game, and insists “al howwiyah low samahti”, the IDs if you would. She tires, I think, recognizes the gig is up, hands him her howwiyah. He takes it and smirks, says something to the others even I can tell is derisive, lacking a knowledge of Hebrew.

He pulls Lubnah aside, speaks to her alone. Later she tells us he has essentially threatened her. If she goes quietly, he will not have to alert the police about her attempted deception. During the conversation my sister’s posture is casual, she leans against the turnstile and regards him coolly, unphased by his threats. He tells her that he is just like us, and to not make trouble, or else he will request a police escort.  If she applies for tasareeh, he is sure she will get them. But he is not like us. He stands there with the privilege of his uniform, backed by armed forces. If he has pulled her aside to save face in front of the other guards, that kindness is nullified by his threat of her safety.

We turn to leave, and Marie, 7,  can’t understand why we haven’t gotten through. Neither can I. In that moment, I hate him. His stupid mustache, his green uniform. We are demoralized and humiliated. I can’t tell if beneath her glasses my sister is crying, and I am glad we kept sunglasses on. They are tiny masks, a little defense against the wall, metaphorical and literal, we have come up against. We didn’t actually expect to get in, but the confirmation that we are not allowed access to our own history hits hard. My father has waited outside, so we make the long journey, back through the barred walkway to the car. We try to lighten the mood by cracking jokes, as we are wont to do, but underneath our smiles the sadness sets in. Lubnah announces that we will apply for tasareeh on Thursday, the day designated for residents of Beit Sahour. The set of her mouth speaks determination, and I am proud of her resilience. We will return to Jerusalem yet.

Traversing the Borderlands

I won’t keep you in suspense: I had the cigarette using the related concepts of academic obligation and deception. That second night in Amman, I explain to my uncle that I have some reading to do (Cruising Utopia) and would like to do it outside. Night has fallen, so we rig up a light above the old metal swing which is sort of in the front of the house, but down a few steps, effectively outside the visual range of the living room windows. I light up and crack open Munoz. He’s never sounded better.

smoker's paradise. seat cushions not included.

The next day, I leave Ammo’s house at 11am to make the journey to Beit Sahour (land of my well spent adolescence). The trip ought to take approximately five hours, though I make it in a timely seven point five. That’s over half the flight to Jordan from DTW for considerably less distance. First, my uncle drops me off at the taxi station, where authorized vehicles authoritatively drop you off at the “jisr” or bridge. It’s called a bridge because it links two lands, but it’s essentially an elaborate system of border controls. I don’t have photos from this (alas) because apparently, the governments don’t take kindly to you snapping photos of shady behavior. Fearing confiscation, I kept my camera to myself.

In order to cross from Jordan to Palestine, I must pass muster for three governments: Jordanian, Israeli, Palestinian, in that order. I entered Jordan on my US passport, and attempt to cross the Jordanian border from “jihit al ajanib” which basically means “the foreigner’s side”. This is not a joke. Non Arabs go to one side of the building, and Arabs toward the other. So, I haul my 4 bags to the first window at the Jordanian border where a fresh faced young man smiles shyly at my English, but pronounces my name correctly. He stamps some papers, slides them through to the next window, where a less-fresh-faced older man also pronounces my name correctly, but makes me feel as though my mere presence has caused him a serious case of indigestion. He not so quietly, not so kindly informs me that as a Palestinian, I cannot cross the Jordanian border on my US passport. This confuses me, since I came in the airport that way. When I ask for an explanation, he comes out of his booth, around the side of the window, lights up his cigarette, and says “Because. That’s the rule.”

So, I am escorted by a luggage handler old enough to be my grandfather over to the Arab side. At this window, another man informs me that since I have a US passport, I shouldn’t be on the Arab side and tells me I need to go to jihit al ajanib. At this point, sweat is dripping down my face and I’m pissed. These tools are looking at me like I’m an idiot, I feel like an idiot, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be able to get in to Palestine at all. I explain what’s happened, and someone who didn’t have a stick so far up his ass it was coming out of his mouth, told me that he can let me into Palestine as an Arab because I have a Palestinian ID card, but I will not be allowed to leave unless I get a Palestinian passport. He claims he is only treating me as Israel would, and while that’s the case, the other more nefarious purpose for this is to strip as many Palestinian refugees of their Jordanian citizenship as possible. You can’t hold two Arab passports, anymore. I don’t really want the Jordanian, mind you, but I figure this is a bad show of inter Arab support, and it will matter to my father, who has faithfully paid membership dues to a Farmer’s Union in Jordan for years, and relies on the retirement funds he receives from them each month. If he’s stripped of his Jordanian citizenship for a mostly fictive Palestinian one, he will no longer be eligible for those monies.

Carrying on: Stick-free fills out my paperwork, slides me to a second window where another soldier is also confused by my US passport and howwiyyah (Palestinian ID card), I direct him to consult with Stick-Free. He stamps some things, writes some things, slides me back to window one, where a third (fourth?) man looks at my documents, and tells me to have safe travels. Stick-free reminds me of my obligation to get a Palestinian passport, directs me to the buses for phase two, and smiles. Amidst this room of assholes, his smile is less creepy, and I am temporarily thankful. Yes. They are jerks. Yes. My hair is a mess. But he could have been like Indigestion from jihit al ajanib. I can’t tell if I’ve experienced genuine kindness here, or if I am so uncomfortable around the others that any scrap of decency is enough.

I board the bus that will take us to the Israeli checkpoint. I am sitting next to a woman who lives in Jerusalem, recognizes my surname. She tells me I have failed to secure a bus ticket and vouchers for my bags, which I hadn’t known were necessary. I hobble off the bus, meet the driver who sends me back on the bus, tells me the tickets aren’t necessary, and will just take cash. Back on the bus I stub my toe against the step, tripping onto the stairs. My face reddens like it’s high school and I gather what little grace I have to get back into my seat next to the woman with the drawn-on-eyebrows. Behind me the bus driver snickers and says “saabooki fil 3ain” which literally means “they touched you in the eye” and figuratively means that people were talking about you and jinxed you. I can’t tell if he’s doing sarcasm here, or admiring how great my butt must have looked in my leggings when I fell.

The bus to Israel’s checkpoint waits outside its gates for over an hour. There is one bus of Arabs ahead of us, and two buses of non-Arabs. I’ll let you guess who went first. When we finally get inside the gates, and off the bus, we send our bags to be scanned, are given vouchers in their place. We stand in line for security, which admittedly, makes the TSA look like overachievers. The Arab man who looks over my passport and hawwiyyah tells me to go in peace, and I stupidly think I’m done. I go inside to find another set of lines. One for people living in Palestine, a second for people visiting. I go to the visitors line. The woman working the counter says nothing to me as she takes my things. After a few moments of aggravated typing and sighing, she hands me back my documents, and moves me to a final window. I hand over my documents, again, and she barely glances at them, or me. I move on to find my bags, ignore the line for customs, exchange dollars for shekels, buy another bus ticket, smoke a cigarette, and proceed to phase three of the inspection.

We board a bus that will take us to “al istiraha” which translates into “the resting place” but is nothing of the sort. The istiraha is merely another port of authorized vehicles, that for a fee, will transport us to the various cities of Palestine. Before we istareeh/rest we stop at the Palestinian border. We’re allowed to remain on the bus while a man takes our hawwiyyat (plural of hawwiyyah) inside for checking. He’s gone for about 20 minutes before returning to distribute them like I would return papers after class: calling out our names before handing us the grade. All but two pass. Two men disembark and the bus moves on. At the Istiraha (and in the Arab world I know at large) queues are not generally taken seriously. Consequently, I am one of the last people of the bus, and a baggage handler has placed my luggage on a cart. I tell him where I’m going, and he escorts me to a driver who will take me to “bab il daar”, the front door of the house.  My driver is named Saalih, and I love him immediately. He tells me to take the front seat while we wait for a few more passengers, offers me a cigarette, and tells me about how he’s driven this route for over 15 years. He asks me about America, and we exchange jokes. His eyes are animated when he speaks, and when I tell him he can hop a ride to the US in my suitcase, I almost mean it. He’s so wire-y he could probably fit.

The other passengers seated behind us join in the conversation from time to time, long enough for me to recognize one as a boy my girlfriends and I had crushes in the previously mentioned well-spent youth. In our friend group there were at least 3 Ramis. Rami J I “dated” on and off. My best friend at the time, Dalia, used Rami S to make her boyfriend jealous. And Rami A everyone agreed had the most beautiful naturally lined eyes we’d ever seen, but was dumb as rock. This remains true. I giggled like that girl when I realized who he was, though I don’t think he ever did place me. Still, he came in handy later when as we traveled the long way to the West Bank through Wad il Naar (Valley of Fire) since we weren’t allowed through Jerusalem, the engine in a car ahead of us caught on fire and held up traffic. Rami slid out of our van to redirect traffic around the smoking vehicle. And I’m not ashamed to admit: I have made several jokes about flaming cars in Wad il Naar since then. What I lack in originality I make up for with charm.

Wad il Naar is hilly and winding. The paths are narrow and really only allow one car at a time. Of course, cars are traveling in both directions, so maneuvering past one another is an act of faith and physics I assume only seasoned drivers understand. Saalih breezes through, around massive trucks and cargo cars of cows. I come to Jesus six or seven times looking out the window at the distance we could fall, and Saalih quietly tells me we’re almost through. He is a king. A god among men.

Out of the valley, Beit Sahour is only 15 or so minutes more. The van is humming with anticipation, and I am the first to be dropped off. It’s out of Saalih’s way to drop me off first, but he knows I have had a long day, and that I haven’t been back for 11 years. Saalih is true to his word, parking the van directly in front of our house. My nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles and parents swarm around me. In the buzz I barely get to wave Saalih goodbye, but I catch his smile one last time and he tells me “koolik sharaf.” Sharaf is a word that can mean honor and/or dignity and/or class. I’m not any of these things, really, but koolik means you are all ____. I incline my head and tell him “Ana il itsharafit” which means I was the one honored–by his kindess and brief friendship. Saalih hops back in to deliver his passengers to other eager families and I remember the tiny arms around my waist, my kids looking up at me as I take in their faces, this sublime surreal moment.

Here.

I am finally home.

Clean Squeek

i love my apartment. the spacious dining room that doubles as study space; the color coded bookshelves; the double closets in the bedroom; the lamps i bought at TJMaxx; the quiet of the complex; the sun in the morning through the patio doors (that don’t actually lead to a patio-alas). i forget how lucky i am to have this serene, private space. i forget how much i love it until i spend significant time away from it. and i am always reminded when i come home. i am reminded when i clean it, and everything sparkles–looking almost as fresh and lovely as the day i moved in (remember, i have cats, so everything deteriorates eventually).

i cleaned it top to bottom today because i was having guests for a potluck. when i say top to bottom, i mean i actually vacuumed, dusted, and wiped down the bathroom. three tasks, that because i live alone, i feel no compulsion to do. and when i say potluck, i mean a hodgepodge dinner of egg rolls, spinach and artichoke dip with homemade bread, spinach salad with tahini sauce, and sour patch kids. for dessert i made an apple crumb pie, served warm with vanilla ice cream and cool whip. it was divine. there was also a nice selection of wines, and the company of fun friends, and DVRed episodes of Community. yes. i am lucky for the apartment, the means that allow me to live as i do, the cool people in my life.

so why the melancholy? the end of the semester left a big gap, but i should enjoy it. it should feel like breathing room instead of existential crisis. i woke up today ready to work. well, my brain did. my body went back to bed until noon. lucky, still. tomorrow i’ll try again. and if i fail, there is still the apartment, the DVR, the people. the research certainly isn’t going anywhere.

Silly rabbit

Today in my class we watched a documentary called Killing Us Softly 3, featuring Jean Kilbourne and directed by Sut Jhally. In this documentary, Kilbourne argues the advertising’s and media’s potryal of women is harmful to not just women, but also men. She claims that advertising objectifies, silences, devalues, infantilizes, and hypersexualizes women. As a result of these processes, women are subject to violence, discrimination, and disempowerment. That violence can be physical as in the case of battering, or emotional, as in the lack of self esteem or the development of eating disorders.

After watching it, I ask students whether or not they continue to see similar ads and messages in the media today, and if so, what kind of affects these ads have. While most students recognize the obvious correlation between gender socialization, the devaluing of women and femininity, and the problems both create, a few students will obstinately claim that they, personally, are exempt from the message. That “society” can say these things, but it doesn’t have to mean one must take it seriously or let it change how one behaves of feels. They are exempt from over 3000 images a day telling them what women should be and how they should be treated. That indeed, each person has a choice to allow these advertisements to affect them, to choose to believe, buy into, or perpetuate the messges and ensuing violence.

Silly me. All this time I didn’t have to feel bad about about being chubby? All this time, I’ve been waking up and deciding to hate about my stomach, or my chin. All this time I didn’t need to care that my face was broken out or that my hair looked stupid. How ridiculous I’ve been. How utterly weak.

Let me say this. I do think we have agency. We can choose what we watch, with whom we assosciate socially. We might even be able to filter out half of the negative messages we recieve that tell us we are not pretty enough, thin enough, smart enough. That we are not enough, and contraditorily, we are too much. That would leave us with 1500 messages from one source alone, not to mention the various other influences on our psyche. What person is able to control every aspect of how they feel? If telling myself I was beautiful were enough, there wouldn’t be a billion dollar weight loss industry. There wouldn’t be countless self help books and psychotherapy. There wouldn’t be eating disorders or catty “OMG Look what she’s wearing” conversations. It is not enough to make a personal choice, though that might be a good place to start.

We live in a society that devalues women. And though we might be good feminist ladies and gentlemen, we cannot choose how people respond to us and percieve us in the world. It is not enough for me to say “As a woman, I am choosing not to accept passivity and submission” because those values are expected and desired from me not just in personal relationships, but professional ones as well. I might be “immune” to the negativity, but we live in a great big world, and somewhere, someone out there believes and stands by the ugliness of the beauty myth, of victim blaming. That someone might be in your classroom who admittedly took the class to “meet chicks”. If, as a viewer and a member of a class that talks about equity and social justice, a person cannot see how his or her choices affects the world outside them, and how the larger “society” affects thier personal life, then feminism is in a scary place.

And I’ll add, that when posed with the question of “What if this documentary were about negative portrayals of racial minorities?” a person repsonds, “well, that’s different.” then we are dealing with sexism plain and simple. It is impossible to suggest that you can choose to disregard messages about violence against women and have no choice but to take seriously the violence advertising inflicts on men and women of color.  In that moment, all that’s really being said is that sexism is OK, but racism is not.

I’m going to make a radical claim. Neither is OK. Heterosexism, ableism, classism, sexism, racism, and all the other ISMs disguised by names like “family values” and “rugged individualism” are not OK. We are not OK and this is no utopia. This world is dangerous and unforgiving. It is scary and difficult and exhausting. If you choose to pretend otherwise, then I can only say you are choosing, openly and without regret, to pit yourself against freedom and equity. You are choosing to perpetuate hierarchy and discrimination, probably because you benefit from it in some way, or because you don’t want to recognize that we are all repsonsible for the world in which we currently reside.

We are all repsonsible. You and me and them and that person over there, checking MySpace. We all have to rethink gender, sex, race, class, sexuality, and ability. We all have to reckon with our inner demons and at the same time, reckon with those demons outside of us who would deny us jobs and healthcare, abuse our sisters, beat our “sissy” boys, or insult our heritage. I’m ready and willing to have these discussions, call a person out when s/he tells a racist joke, or refuse to partronize establisments that support violence (American Apparell, America’s Next Top Model, and McDonald’s: I’m looking at you). This is not a game or a joke to me. It is not a differnce of opinion, a to-ma-to, to-mah-to situation. This is serious. This is survival. So stop playing and take an honest look at the world and your place in it. Own your privilege and your sexism and your racism. Grow up. Even General Mills knows that tricks are for kids.