Wednesday, August 15, 2007
finally...my jerualem post!
Here it is guys- my apologies for not doing better proofreading, but I just wanted to get this thing up!
Before I traveled to Jerusalem this weekend, I had brewing in my mind what one might consider a “biased” image of the Arab-Israeli conflict: in short, I have been fervently anti-Israel from the moment I first grasped the immensity of injustice that was befalling the Palestinian people. I crossed the Jordanian-Israeli border considering how perhaps I should open my mind to try to understand the Israeli point of view or at least the Jewish attachment to this sacred place. I thought that perhaps if I talked to some of these people as individuals and not as blind followers or representatives of some military-industrial complex then maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t look like the drooling, demonic caricature of the Jewish Israeli that we analyzed in my last media class, ordering a George Bush-headed parrot to repeat, “I hate the Arabs! I hate the Arabs!”. Sadly, however, I left Israel- ahem- Palestine, wondering how these people could be so full of hate and so hungry for power over a people who live right next door.
Our first horrendous encounter with Israeli guards took place at the Yarmouk program’s oh so beloved travel destination- the border. I admit I was quite surprised by how young and- for the most part- how attractive all the officers were, but my how the fairest of them all can be the most merciless. We entered expecting some trouble given that Ola is clearly Muslim and clearly Arab, that I have an Arabic last name, and that Kim, Ola, and I had all been to Syria on two separate occasions. Surprisingly the factor that probably caused the most suspicion and stress for us as a result was my grandfather’s origins in Lebanon. I must have been asked about five times over a period of four hours about where my father was born, where my grandfather was born, where my mother was born, etc, etc, which is quite hilarious because I have never even MET my grandfather since he died before I was born AND he moved to North Carolina from Souq al-Gharb, a small town in Mount Lebanon, when he was a mere six years old. Anyhow, I believe the guards developed some theory that I was a converted white Muslim disguising my true identity behind my Christian surname, and this was proven by the fact that I was traveling with a Muslim, had avid interest in visiting the Dome of the Rock mosque in Jerusalem (“Why did I want to visit the mosque if I was a Christian?”, and by my grandfather’s first name (“Why is his name Baheej? You are Christian? Baheej is a Muslim name!). According to Ola, Baheej is not necessarily a Muslim name, but if my great grandmother were alive to explain to me why she decided to give her son a name that might confound agents of the Israeli occupation a century later, perhaps I would. Then again, if I could actually talk to her, I would probably ask about her life back in Mount Lebanon and why she left exactly and why she never insisted that my dad learn Arabic- somehow I have to ask myself-and pardon the cliché-“What’s in a name?”
So after climbing our way through the jungle gym of senseless bureaucracy, we finally made it out of the border four hours later, AFTER being told that there was no way we could possibly get a bus to Jerusalem at 10:00 at night, despite the fact that their endless interrogation was the reason we were finding ourselves at a loss for affordable transportation. We ended up hitching a ride with some older asshole guard who, of course, ridiculously overcharged us, to a “guest house” in Bet-She’an. Bet She’an: picture Laguna Beach meets Zionist kibbutz, about 10 miles from the Israeli border. Our supposed youth hostel was this really modern looking juxtaposition of ivory-colored stone and imposing metal where the kids, mostly high school age, were probably either on birthright trips on the way to Jerusalem or in some youth Israeli ROTC (given that we woke up at 7 in the morning to hear the rhythmic pounding of oversized boots across the patio). It was that morning, during my totally ineffective attempt to communicate with the hotel front desk that I came to realize that the vocabulary of just about any Israeli who holds even the most menial position of power is restricted to the phrases, “It’s impossible!”, “You cannot travel by ___ to ____ on ____day at ____ time”, “Stop!”, the dismissive“So?”, and the Arabic, “Hadha Mumnu’a” (It is forbidden). We walked to the bank to exchange money that morning (which, naturally was closed when we arrived) where, naturally, they totally ripped us off with their oppressive fees. Fortunately we did catch the bus- although either the hotel staff or the bus driver lied to us about the price, which ended up being 3 times of that which we had expected- which turned about to be a main mode of transportation for young members of the Israeli army. I can honestly say that I have never been around that many guns in my life, nor have I ever been so close to one- especially such a large one- as one of the men, obviously an American by his fluency in English and his reading of The Da Vinci Code, sat next to me. There were both male and female soldiers, since apparently Israeli females must enter the army when they turn 18, many more of whom must have been American. There was something inexplicably jarring about seeing yamaka and military garb-clad young men putting their rifles aside to adjust the headphones on their iPods and call their entire calling list on their cell phones.
When traveling to Jerusalem- specifically the New City- from an Arab country, you immediately notice two things: how strikingly different the architecture and infrastructure are from any other major city in the region, and how wide the divide is in quality of life of the Arabs and the Israelis. The trend in Israel seems to be an attempt to imitate the old architecture, characterized by the construction of houses, temples, churches, and mosques with large blocks of stone, only in a fresh-looking, sterile style with enough aesthetic flourish to draw the line between wealthy Israeli citizens and marginalized Arab residents who have become like neglected house plants never completely rooted from their soil, but left long enough to wither up and wilt. In general I found that Israeli homes resemble what I consider to be faceless components of suburban sprawl, much like that in some regions of the United States, whereas Arab neighborhoods tended to be littered with many houses suffering from major decay. On the other hand, the latter still seems to foster an undeniable charisma and character that even the Occupation cannot suppress. Moreover, the countryside surrounding the city (what I consider to be the essence of Palestine), is one of the most beautiful sites I have seen in my life- and I think one has to have a deep appreciation for Arab culture and specifically the Palestinian people to understand what I am talking about. I’m referring to the rolling hills of olive orchards that overlook mosques and church towers- what appear to be totally uninhabited today. Our cab driver from Jerusalem to the border on our last day pointed out a massive district of luxurious houses constructed for the Jewish but uninhabited today, where once were Palestinian homesteads (and no, the Palestinians didn’t just decide to take work elsewhere and give up their land to the state of Israel). He also indicated a district of homes where many Israelis do live, only illegally, as Palestinian families do supposedly hold the papers proving their rights to reside on this tract of land, but that Israel has nonetheless seized and distributed to Jewish families. He noted that these people- unlike those in other Israeli homes- did not display any Israeli flags outside their houses so as not to draw attention to the fact that they are living on land that isn’t theirs. Of course there is no way for me to prove what one Palestinian cab driver pointed out, but somehow I doubt in my heart of hearts that his stories are very far from the truth, if straying from it at all.
We managed to find a very affordable hotel right in the Old City which was Arab-Christian owned and reminded me of my own house- eccentric and inhabited by nostalgic packrats (well, perhaps just a little bit neater- sorry Daddy). The hotel was full of pictures from the early 1900’s of Jaffa Gate, the Tower of David, and various other sites of the Old City, as well as maps portraying the current border situation of Israel and Palestine. The walls were also decorated with intricately-weaved, traditional Palestinian jalbiyyas and paintings and photographs of women wearing them in typical Palestinian olive orchard-settings. Our particular room had an upstairs loft and a quaint balcony overlooking the Old City, and given the near-perfect weather of Al-Quds, there was no need whatsoever for air conditioning. My favorite part about the hotel, however, was the “small library” (as the brochure advertises) which contained hundreds of mini-magazines entitled “This Week in Palestine”, journals on the mental and physical consequences of armed conflict on children, and old Al Quds University brochures. Of course anything I could find which had a duplicate copy (which was a LOT) I stuffed into my bag, since I know how any written journal or pamphlet regarding Palestine as a country in and of itself and acknowledging the brutality of the occupation is hard to come by.
On Friday we wandered through the slinky alleyways of the suq where I spent much more money than I had originally planned. Christian, Muslim, and Jewish shops were scattered throughout the market- I would argue not exclusively setting up shop in their respective quarters- and most sold keychains, necklaces, shirts, etc representing each of the three faiths under one roof.
One thing you notice immediately when you enter Jerusalem is the omnipresent spirituality of the place, as there is not only a coexistence (whether totally peaceful or not) of individuals following different religious paths, but a feeling of connectedness to all other people who consciously or subconsciously seem to flock here to seek the source of faith and the promise of something after death. A cynical agnostic who has witnessed so many of the detrimental aspects of all major religions, even I found that my walls of skepticism collapsed when I entered the church of the Holy Sepulchre, where lies the stone where (supposedly) Jesus’ body was lain after his death. Swarms of people- mostly Catholic women- crowded around the rock to lay their hands on it and kiss it. I personally believe that whether or not a place such as this has an intrinsic sacred quality, the channeling of positive spiritual energies from people from many backgrounds and cultures can actually endow the object or location with a powerful quality that can in fact have a healing effect on those who flock to it. There were also lines of monks and other Christian followers descending into the depths of the church chanting from prayer books in Latin and holding candles to light their way through the darkness below. I usually only cover my head in mosques but in this place I felt compelled to keep my scarf on as it was not an ordinary place and seemed to demand greater modesty.
Another thing I loved about Jerusalem was that since there are so many tourists from around the world who frequent Arab shops and cafes, the store owners actually appreciated when I used my broken Arabic (I should say my horrific a’ameeya) with them and actually REPLIED in Arabic as well- which almost never happens in Irbid unless the person doesn’t speak a word of English. I got to practice a lot, also probably because I didn’t have Ola, who speaks ‘ameeya fluently, there to help me out the entire time. By the time we were talking to our cab driver on the way back to Jordan I was understanding about 65-70% of what he was saying in Palestinian dialect, which is a major improvement on my skills before I came here, when all I understood was FusHa.
So anyway Jerusalem was quite the ideal place for adventuring, whether or not this was the smartest idea on my part! We had very limited time in the city so Ola and I were set on exploring as much as possible and we really wanted to see al-Aqsa mosque at night so on Friday we headed out through the incredibly sketched-out souq at about 11:00. After seeing other people’s pictures from their trip to Quds I had this idea in my head that somehow we could get right in front of the mosque and take pictures, but unfortunately after about an hour and a half of searching through every hidden path and shortcut, I discovered this was not so. We did, however, get to see the Wailing Wall at night which was pretty cool, and at least the dome of the mosque. Ola had the very artistic idea for a picture which I copied (see in pictures above).
So we did try (at my insistence of course) to see the Dome of the Rock up close, and gave up only because we were sure that we would be able to see the mosque the next day, which was Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath of course. For whatever supposed “security” reason, the state of Israel has declared that no non-Muslim can go past the inner walls of the mosque, a regulation which the expressionless Israeli guards informed us of when we only had a few hours left in Israel. Naturally I was furious- our other friend perhaps not so much as she is an atheist and didn’t seem to be as emotionally affected by what many view as an intense spirituality of the place. Ola was pretty upset as well since she realized just as I did that this whole barring of particular religious groups from a place of worship is more about Israel wanting to exercise its power and force over outsiders and most importantly, wanting to have this entire holy area (which includes the Wailing Wall for itself. Read about the excavations going on if you’d like to learn more about what little respect Israel has for other creeds’ sacred places: http://www.jerusalemites.org/crimes/crimes_against_islam/5.htm
Anyway back to the story. We didn’t just crouch off with our tails between our legs after the Israeli guards barked their usual No’s at us but went up to speak with the Muslim guy who at least has some nominal power in the affairs of the mosque. He talked to us very kindly in his office and warmly offered us drinks, asking us to wait while he called various people (I imagine other Israeli authorities) to see if there was any way we could at least get into the courtyard of the mosque to see it up close and then just let Ola walk in to pray. Unfortunately we had no luck and he went on to explain in Arabic (which I mostly understood) how the Israelis control everything, and despite the fact that it says in the Qur’an that people of all Abrahamic faiths should be permitted into this particular mosque, Muslims can’t do anything to stop them. Having been harassed at the border, been sent in opposite directions from our destinations by asshole Israeli guards (yeh, that’s a whole OTHER story), and seen the way Arabs are treated in Jerusalem, I could just couldn’t help but stop sobbing. While of course on a selfish level I was terribly disappointed that I wasn’t going to be able to see the ONE site I had come to Jerusalem to visit, I mainly kept thinking how if this is how not getting into the mosque affects me, imagine how it must fracture the souls of Palestinian Muslims from ever entering the mosque at all. Besides, this one act of cruelty and oppression is just a tiny piece of what many Arabs in Jerusalem experience everyday.
The culmination of the soullessness of Israel of course is the apartheid wall- no not a fence- which our taxi driver was kind enough to drive us to for no extra charge. Of course I had seen pictures of it before and heard about it on TV, but when I actually saw it in person, when I was close enough to actually touch it, I realized how the total marginalization of Palestinians is a process that is only getting worse with the construction of this wall, which I’m pretty sure is a total violation of international law.
To sum up my experience, Jerusalem was by far one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen- perhaps the most beautiful city. But the experience of being there and seeing the injustice that the Israeli state exercises on Palestinians every hour of every day was gut-wrenching, yet at the same time inspiring as now I even more want to do something, particularly in the West Bank.
Well I’m sorry it took me so long to post this, but here it is. I’ll try to post one more before I leave you guys until my next adventure, in sha’allah.
Before I traveled to Jerusalem this weekend, I had brewing in my mind what one might consider a “biased” image of the Arab-Israeli conflict: in short, I have been fervently anti-Israel from the moment I first grasped the immensity of injustice that was befalling the Palestinian people. I crossed the Jordanian-Israeli border considering how perhaps I should open my mind to try to understand the Israeli point of view or at least the Jewish attachment to this sacred place. I thought that perhaps if I talked to some of these people as individuals and not as blind followers or representatives of some military-industrial complex then maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t look like the drooling, demonic caricature of the Jewish Israeli that we analyzed in my last media class, ordering a George Bush-headed parrot to repeat, “I hate the Arabs! I hate the Arabs!”. Sadly, however, I left Israel- ahem- Palestine, wondering how these people could be so full of hate and so hungry for power over a people who live right next door.
Our first horrendous encounter with Israeli guards took place at the Yarmouk program’s oh so beloved travel destination- the border. I admit I was quite surprised by how young and- for the most part- how attractive all the officers were, but my how the fairest of them all can be the most merciless. We entered expecting some trouble given that Ola is clearly Muslim and clearly Arab, that I have an Arabic last name, and that Kim, Ola, and I had all been to Syria on two separate occasions. Surprisingly the factor that probably caused the most suspicion and stress for us as a result was my grandfather’s origins in Lebanon. I must have been asked about five times over a period of four hours about where my father was born, where my grandfather was born, where my mother was born, etc, etc, which is quite hilarious because I have never even MET my grandfather since he died before I was born AND he moved to North Carolina from Souq al-Gharb, a small town in Mount Lebanon, when he was a mere six years old. Anyhow, I believe the guards developed some theory that I was a converted white Muslim disguising my true identity behind my Christian surname, and this was proven by the fact that I was traveling with a Muslim, had avid interest in visiting the Dome of the Rock mosque in Jerusalem (“Why did I want to visit the mosque if I was a Christian?”, and by my grandfather’s first name (“Why is his name Baheej? You are Christian? Baheej is a Muslim name!). According to Ola, Baheej is not necessarily a Muslim name, but if my great grandmother were alive to explain to me why she decided to give her son a name that might confound agents of the Israeli occupation a century later, perhaps I would. Then again, if I could actually talk to her, I would probably ask about her life back in Mount Lebanon and why she left exactly and why she never insisted that my dad learn Arabic- somehow I have to ask myself-and pardon the cliché-“What’s in a name?”
So after climbing our way through the jungle gym of senseless bureaucracy, we finally made it out of the border four hours later, AFTER being told that there was no way we could possibly get a bus to Jerusalem at 10:00 at night, despite the fact that their endless interrogation was the reason we were finding ourselves at a loss for affordable transportation. We ended up hitching a ride with some older asshole guard who, of course, ridiculously overcharged us, to a “guest house” in Bet-She’an. Bet She’an: picture Laguna Beach meets Zionist kibbutz, about 10 miles from the Israeli border. Our supposed youth hostel was this really modern looking juxtaposition of ivory-colored stone and imposing metal where the kids, mostly high school age, were probably either on birthright trips on the way to Jerusalem or in some youth Israeli ROTC (given that we woke up at 7 in the morning to hear the rhythmic pounding of oversized boots across the patio). It was that morning, during my totally ineffective attempt to communicate with the hotel front desk that I came to realize that the vocabulary of just about any Israeli who holds even the most menial position of power is restricted to the phrases, “It’s impossible!”, “You cannot travel by ___ to ____ on ____day at ____ time”, “Stop!”, the dismissive“So?”, and the Arabic, “Hadha Mumnu’a” (It is forbidden). We walked to the bank to exchange money that morning (which, naturally was closed when we arrived) where, naturally, they totally ripped us off with their oppressive fees. Fortunately we did catch the bus- although either the hotel staff or the bus driver lied to us about the price, which ended up being 3 times of that which we had expected- which turned about to be a main mode of transportation for young members of the Israeli army. I can honestly say that I have never been around that many guns in my life, nor have I ever been so close to one- especially such a large one- as one of the men, obviously an American by his fluency in English and his reading of The Da Vinci Code, sat next to me. There were both male and female soldiers, since apparently Israeli females must enter the army when they turn 18, many more of whom must have been American. There was something inexplicably jarring about seeing yamaka and military garb-clad young men putting their rifles aside to adjust the headphones on their iPods and call their entire calling list on their cell phones.
When traveling to Jerusalem- specifically the New City- from an Arab country, you immediately notice two things: how strikingly different the architecture and infrastructure are from any other major city in the region, and how wide the divide is in quality of life of the Arabs and the Israelis. The trend in Israel seems to be an attempt to imitate the old architecture, characterized by the construction of houses, temples, churches, and mosques with large blocks of stone, only in a fresh-looking, sterile style with enough aesthetic flourish to draw the line between wealthy Israeli citizens and marginalized Arab residents who have become like neglected house plants never completely rooted from their soil, but left long enough to wither up and wilt. In general I found that Israeli homes resemble what I consider to be faceless components of suburban sprawl, much like that in some regions of the United States, whereas Arab neighborhoods tended to be littered with many houses suffering from major decay. On the other hand, the latter still seems to foster an undeniable charisma and character that even the Occupation cannot suppress. Moreover, the countryside surrounding the city (what I consider to be the essence of Palestine), is one of the most beautiful sites I have seen in my life- and I think one has to have a deep appreciation for Arab culture and specifically the Palestinian people to understand what I am talking about. I’m referring to the rolling hills of olive orchards that overlook mosques and church towers- what appear to be totally uninhabited today. Our cab driver from Jerusalem to the border on our last day pointed out a massive district of luxurious houses constructed for the Jewish but uninhabited today, where once were Palestinian homesteads (and no, the Palestinians didn’t just decide to take work elsewhere and give up their land to the state of Israel). He also indicated a district of homes where many Israelis do live, only illegally, as Palestinian families do supposedly hold the papers proving their rights to reside on this tract of land, but that Israel has nonetheless seized and distributed to Jewish families. He noted that these people- unlike those in other Israeli homes- did not display any Israeli flags outside their houses so as not to draw attention to the fact that they are living on land that isn’t theirs. Of course there is no way for me to prove what one Palestinian cab driver pointed out, but somehow I doubt in my heart of hearts that his stories are very far from the truth, if straying from it at all.
We managed to find a very affordable hotel right in the Old City which was Arab-Christian owned and reminded me of my own house- eccentric and inhabited by nostalgic packrats (well, perhaps just a little bit neater- sorry Daddy). The hotel was full of pictures from the early 1900’s of Jaffa Gate, the Tower of David, and various other sites of the Old City, as well as maps portraying the current border situation of Israel and Palestine. The walls were also decorated with intricately-weaved, traditional Palestinian jalbiyyas and paintings and photographs of women wearing them in typical Palestinian olive orchard-settings. Our particular room had an upstairs loft and a quaint balcony overlooking the Old City, and given the near-perfect weather of Al-Quds, there was no need whatsoever for air conditioning. My favorite part about the hotel, however, was the “small library” (as the brochure advertises) which contained hundreds of mini-magazines entitled “This Week in Palestine”, journals on the mental and physical consequences of armed conflict on children, and old Al Quds University brochures. Of course anything I could find which had a duplicate copy (which was a LOT) I stuffed into my bag, since I know how any written journal or pamphlet regarding Palestine as a country in and of itself and acknowledging the brutality of the occupation is hard to come by.
On Friday we wandered through the slinky alleyways of the suq where I spent much more money than I had originally planned. Christian, Muslim, and Jewish shops were scattered throughout the market- I would argue not exclusively setting up shop in their respective quarters- and most sold keychains, necklaces, shirts, etc representing each of the three faiths under one roof.
One thing you notice immediately when you enter Jerusalem is the omnipresent spirituality of the place, as there is not only a coexistence (whether totally peaceful or not) of individuals following different religious paths, but a feeling of connectedness to all other people who consciously or subconsciously seem to flock here to seek the source of faith and the promise of something after death. A cynical agnostic who has witnessed so many of the detrimental aspects of all major religions, even I found that my walls of skepticism collapsed when I entered the church of the Holy Sepulchre, where lies the stone where (supposedly) Jesus’ body was lain after his death. Swarms of people- mostly Catholic women- crowded around the rock to lay their hands on it and kiss it. I personally believe that whether or not a place such as this has an intrinsic sacred quality, the channeling of positive spiritual energies from people from many backgrounds and cultures can actually endow the object or location with a powerful quality that can in fact have a healing effect on those who flock to it. There were also lines of monks and other Christian followers descending into the depths of the church chanting from prayer books in Latin and holding candles to light their way through the darkness below. I usually only cover my head in mosques but in this place I felt compelled to keep my scarf on as it was not an ordinary place and seemed to demand greater modesty.
Another thing I loved about Jerusalem was that since there are so many tourists from around the world who frequent Arab shops and cafes, the store owners actually appreciated when I used my broken Arabic (I should say my horrific a’ameeya) with them and actually REPLIED in Arabic as well- which almost never happens in Irbid unless the person doesn’t speak a word of English. I got to practice a lot, also probably because I didn’t have Ola, who speaks ‘ameeya fluently, there to help me out the entire time. By the time we were talking to our cab driver on the way back to Jordan I was understanding about 65-70% of what he was saying in Palestinian dialect, which is a major improvement on my skills before I came here, when all I understood was FusHa.
So anyway Jerusalem was quite the ideal place for adventuring, whether or not this was the smartest idea on my part! We had very limited time in the city so Ola and I were set on exploring as much as possible and we really wanted to see al-Aqsa mosque at night so on Friday we headed out through the incredibly sketched-out souq at about 11:00. After seeing other people’s pictures from their trip to Quds I had this idea in my head that somehow we could get right in front of the mosque and take pictures, but unfortunately after about an hour and a half of searching through every hidden path and shortcut, I discovered this was not so. We did, however, get to see the Wailing Wall at night which was pretty cool, and at least the dome of the mosque. Ola had the very artistic idea for a picture which I copied (see in pictures above).
So we did try (at my insistence of course) to see the Dome of the Rock up close, and gave up only because we were sure that we would be able to see the mosque the next day, which was Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath of course. For whatever supposed “security” reason, the state of Israel has declared that no non-Muslim can go past the inner walls of the mosque, a regulation which the expressionless Israeli guards informed us of when we only had a few hours left in Israel. Naturally I was furious- our other friend perhaps not so much as she is an atheist and didn’t seem to be as emotionally affected by what many view as an intense spirituality of the place. Ola was pretty upset as well since she realized just as I did that this whole barring of particular religious groups from a place of worship is more about Israel wanting to exercise its power and force over outsiders and most importantly, wanting to have this entire holy area (which includes the Wailing Wall for itself. Read about the excavations going on if you’d like to learn more about what little respect Israel has for other creeds’ sacred places: http://www.jerusalemites.org/crimes/crimes_against_islam/5.htm
Anyway back to the story. We didn’t just crouch off with our tails between our legs after the Israeli guards barked their usual No’s at us but went up to speak with the Muslim guy who at least has some nominal power in the affairs of the mosque. He talked to us very kindly in his office and warmly offered us drinks, asking us to wait while he called various people (I imagine other Israeli authorities) to see if there was any way we could at least get into the courtyard of the mosque to see it up close and then just let Ola walk in to pray. Unfortunately we had no luck and he went on to explain in Arabic (which I mostly understood) how the Israelis control everything, and despite the fact that it says in the Qur’an that people of all Abrahamic faiths should be permitted into this particular mosque, Muslims can’t do anything to stop them. Having been harassed at the border, been sent in opposite directions from our destinations by asshole Israeli guards (yeh, that’s a whole OTHER story), and seen the way Arabs are treated in Jerusalem, I could just couldn’t help but stop sobbing. While of course on a selfish level I was terribly disappointed that I wasn’t going to be able to see the ONE site I had come to Jerusalem to visit, I mainly kept thinking how if this is how not getting into the mosque affects me, imagine how it must fracture the souls of Palestinian Muslims from ever entering the mosque at all. Besides, this one act of cruelty and oppression is just a tiny piece of what many Arabs in Jerusalem experience everyday.
The culmination of the soullessness of Israel of course is the apartheid wall- no not a fence- which our taxi driver was kind enough to drive us to for no extra charge. Of course I had seen pictures of it before and heard about it on TV, but when I actually saw it in person, when I was close enough to actually touch it, I realized how the total marginalization of Palestinians is a process that is only getting worse with the construction of this wall, which I’m pretty sure is a total violation of international law.
To sum up my experience, Jerusalem was by far one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen- perhaps the most beautiful city. But the experience of being there and seeing the injustice that the Israeli state exercises on Palestinians every hour of every day was gut-wrenching, yet at the same time inspiring as now I even more want to do something, particularly in the West Bank.
Well I’m sorry it took me so long to post this, but here it is. I’ll try to post one more before I leave you guys until my next adventure, in sha’allah.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
wadi rum post...finally
Just a quick disclaimer: this post should have been up over 2 weeks ago but I have been sooooo busy I haven't gotten a chance to finish it and put it online, but finally here it is!
I'm currently working on a super long post on my Jerusalem trip and still have to write one for Syria so stay tuned.......
I think I’m finally learning the true meaning of being a “big fish in a small pond”, because right now I feel like the tiniest damn fish trying to swim without gills in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It’s one thing to feel like you’re failing in some area of life, but it’s another to completely suck at that which inspires you and what you want to spend your entire life doing. I realize that I got into Arabic and Middle East/Islamic studies late in my college career, but I have worked like crazy to make up that lost time and catch up. I guess what I’m trying to say is that this isn’t just another case of Suzanne’s perfectionism gone into overdrive, but a terrible fear that I will have to pursue some boring and meaningless career in some area that I don’t really care about.
I told my dad a few days ago that what I would really like to do is work in a Palestinian refugee camp, specifically in Palestine. Of course he suggested that I just work in a camp in Jordan where *insha’allah* I wouldn’t get killed. But for some reason I have this totally irrational obsession with Palestine and I am absolutely DYING to visit. I did technically see it when I was at the Dead Sea and at Um Qais , and just the little bit that I saw was spectacular. All my favorite scenes of Jordan totally resemble the images of Palestine I’ve seen on television. And besides my love of the landscape, the Israeli occupation of Palestine is one of the few issues that can really fire me up, because to me it is one of the most blatant violation of international law and human rights in the history of mankind. Every afternoon I watch this show on Al Jazeera International (that’s right, the one in English) called Witness that focuses primarily on human rights crises around the world, and one of them featured Palestinian families whose backyards were literally being cut off by the Israeli apartheid wall. I was actually crying during the scene where this mother escorts her kindergarten-age son beyond the end of the wall in the process of construction to view the stars over Al-Quds before his only image of the outside world becomes a gray concrete mass imposing on his ability to pursue a real life outside the prison that is the refugee camp.
Anyway, my friend Allison’s friend who came through Irbid for a night talked to me about her experience in a refugee camp in Palestine where she’s working now in a theatre that I believe Palestinian youth use as a creative outlet in the bleakness of camp life. I was totally fascinated and would really like to research more about that particular position, especially since I interned at a theatre in Spain when I studied abroad. Specifically I would like to work as a part of effort for the advancement of education opportunities for Palestinian youth whose families simply lack the resources- financial or otherwise- to give their kids hope for using education as a means of improving their devastating situation. So if any of you readers have any suggestions for something that even remotely fits my aspirations, PLEASE comment on my blog!
So now let me take a few moments to describe the most spectacular experience of my entire life- my trip to Wadi Rum. I can’t believe I almost made the mistake of visiting Damascus a second time and almost missing this opportunity because there is no way I would ever replace the experience I had last weekend. After enjoying a touristy, overpriced lunch of dry chicken and miscellaneous pasta salads, we embarked on the real part of the trip- a trek through a desert of rippling red sand and great stone monoliths emerging as testimonies to the existence of something out there greater than ourselves. We rode a “jeep”, that is, in the bed of a rickety little truck in the last days of its ninth life, to various sites including Lawrence of Arabia’s spring and former home and a number of locations ideal for rock climbing whose peaks had amazing views. I tended to spend more of my time with the guys on the trip (well, at least the first day since on the second I got really sick) since they wanted to take advantage of every climb and view possible. Obviously I don’t have the stamina that these guys do, as all of them are in amazing physical shape, but I did my best to keep up in my cotton skirt and Teva sandals. My favorite nook was probably a rock I climbed alone from which you could yell into the valley below and hear your voice echoed at least five times. Being the weirdo that I am, I used this opportunity to practice my ululation, one of the many bizarre sounds I have somehow managed to master.
The best part about this particular place was not, however, its conduciveness to making an ass of yourself in the middle of the desert, but rather that, on that rugged peak standing high above the sand-powdered valley below, I could for the first time enjoy the silence that exists between my ears. Even in small town life, you don’t realize how seldom you are able to hear the sound of nothingness, of a whiteness so pure and clear that for once all the jumbled thoughts and images in your head seem to fizzle out into nothingness. And suddenly you become a part of that landscape that has embraced you, and no longer are you trying to stuff all the erratic parts of your self into a neatly packed cubby in one society or another. For in nature there is no culture, no need for the rationalizations of relativism and scientific theories to explain away the inexplicable and the mystical. For the first time, even in my jaded little head, even in my ears packed numb and deaf with the gauze of rationality and the experiences that seem to disprove any existence of a being that might actually care if I exist, I thought I heard the voice of God whispering- for God’s voice is not heard in church or even calls to prayer, but in a virginal silence of peace and clarity.
Of course we did the other touristy activities like staying over night in a Bedouin camp where we enjoyed a fantastic meal that was cooked in a vat underground, and camel riding the next day, but to me there was nothing more amazing than enjoying the solace from so-called civilization. For the first time since I was a child- before bright orange streetlights appeared in our neighborhood that would forever put out the natural bulbs that lit the sky each night- I was able to look up see the Milky Way and Mars and Jupiter and shooting stars. I could sink my hand into the sea of sand and feel the earth run through my fingers, unfiltered and untouched by mankind’s tools of modification and destruction.
I tell you, if any of you gets a chance to visit Jordan, of course you shouldn’t miss Petra, but Wadi Rum is a like a secret haven, and stepping into its desert valley is like closing your eyes and falling into the place of dreams, where your mind no longer tricks your thoughts into a disappointed, cynical, and diluted consciousness.
It is places like this that make the Middle East the destination of so many spiritual voyagers and adventurers, and unfortunately, the object of so much conflict and opposition. I can’t wait to see what Jerusalem is like…….
I'm currently working on a super long post on my Jerusalem trip and still have to write one for Syria so stay tuned.......
I think I’m finally learning the true meaning of being a “big fish in a small pond”, because right now I feel like the tiniest damn fish trying to swim without gills in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It’s one thing to feel like you’re failing in some area of life, but it’s another to completely suck at that which inspires you and what you want to spend your entire life doing. I realize that I got into Arabic and Middle East/Islamic studies late in my college career, but I have worked like crazy to make up that lost time and catch up. I guess what I’m trying to say is that this isn’t just another case of Suzanne’s perfectionism gone into overdrive, but a terrible fear that I will have to pursue some boring and meaningless career in some area that I don’t really care about.
I told my dad a few days ago that what I would really like to do is work in a Palestinian refugee camp, specifically in Palestine. Of course he suggested that I just work in a camp in Jordan where *insha’allah* I wouldn’t get killed. But for some reason I have this totally irrational obsession with Palestine and I am absolutely DYING to visit. I did technically see it when I was at the Dead Sea and at Um Qais , and just the little bit that I saw was spectacular. All my favorite scenes of Jordan totally resemble the images of Palestine I’ve seen on television. And besides my love of the landscape, the Israeli occupation of Palestine is one of the few issues that can really fire me up, because to me it is one of the most blatant violation of international law and human rights in the history of mankind. Every afternoon I watch this show on Al Jazeera International (that’s right, the one in English) called Witness that focuses primarily on human rights crises around the world, and one of them featured Palestinian families whose backyards were literally being cut off by the Israeli apartheid wall. I was actually crying during the scene where this mother escorts her kindergarten-age son beyond the end of the wall in the process of construction to view the stars over Al-Quds before his only image of the outside world becomes a gray concrete mass imposing on his ability to pursue a real life outside the prison that is the refugee camp.
Anyway, my friend Allison’s friend who came through Irbid for a night talked to me about her experience in a refugee camp in Palestine where she’s working now in a theatre that I believe Palestinian youth use as a creative outlet in the bleakness of camp life. I was totally fascinated and would really like to research more about that particular position, especially since I interned at a theatre in Spain when I studied abroad. Specifically I would like to work as a part of effort for the advancement of education opportunities for Palestinian youth whose families simply lack the resources- financial or otherwise- to give their kids hope for using education as a means of improving their devastating situation. So if any of you readers have any suggestions for something that even remotely fits my aspirations, PLEASE comment on my blog!
So now let me take a few moments to describe the most spectacular experience of my entire life- my trip to Wadi Rum. I can’t believe I almost made the mistake of visiting Damascus a second time and almost missing this opportunity because there is no way I would ever replace the experience I had last weekend. After enjoying a touristy, overpriced lunch of dry chicken and miscellaneous pasta salads, we embarked on the real part of the trip- a trek through a desert of rippling red sand and great stone monoliths emerging as testimonies to the existence of something out there greater than ourselves. We rode a “jeep”, that is, in the bed of a rickety little truck in the last days of its ninth life, to various sites including Lawrence of Arabia’s spring and former home and a number of locations ideal for rock climbing whose peaks had amazing views. I tended to spend more of my time with the guys on the trip (well, at least the first day since on the second I got really sick) since they wanted to take advantage of every climb and view possible. Obviously I don’t have the stamina that these guys do, as all of them are in amazing physical shape, but I did my best to keep up in my cotton skirt and Teva sandals. My favorite nook was probably a rock I climbed alone from which you could yell into the valley below and hear your voice echoed at least five times. Being the weirdo that I am, I used this opportunity to practice my ululation, one of the many bizarre sounds I have somehow managed to master.
The best part about this particular place was not, however, its conduciveness to making an ass of yourself in the middle of the desert, but rather that, on that rugged peak standing high above the sand-powdered valley below, I could for the first time enjoy the silence that exists between my ears. Even in small town life, you don’t realize how seldom you are able to hear the sound of nothingness, of a whiteness so pure and clear that for once all the jumbled thoughts and images in your head seem to fizzle out into nothingness. And suddenly you become a part of that landscape that has embraced you, and no longer are you trying to stuff all the erratic parts of your self into a neatly packed cubby in one society or another. For in nature there is no culture, no need for the rationalizations of relativism and scientific theories to explain away the inexplicable and the mystical. For the first time, even in my jaded little head, even in my ears packed numb and deaf with the gauze of rationality and the experiences that seem to disprove any existence of a being that might actually care if I exist, I thought I heard the voice of God whispering- for God’s voice is not heard in church or even calls to prayer, but in a virginal silence of peace and clarity.
Of course we did the other touristy activities like staying over night in a Bedouin camp where we enjoyed a fantastic meal that was cooked in a vat underground, and camel riding the next day, but to me there was nothing more amazing than enjoying the solace from so-called civilization. For the first time since I was a child- before bright orange streetlights appeared in our neighborhood that would forever put out the natural bulbs that lit the sky each night- I was able to look up see the Milky Way and Mars and Jupiter and shooting stars. I could sink my hand into the sea of sand and feel the earth run through my fingers, unfiltered and untouched by mankind’s tools of modification and destruction.
I tell you, if any of you gets a chance to visit Jordan, of course you shouldn’t miss Petra, but Wadi Rum is a like a secret haven, and stepping into its desert valley is like closing your eyes and falling into the place of dreams, where your mind no longer tricks your thoughts into a disappointed, cynical, and diluted consciousness.
It is places like this that make the Middle East the destination of so many spiritual voyagers and adventurers, and unfortunately, the object of so much conflict and opposition. I can’t wait to see what Jerusalem is like…….
Monday, July 23, 2007
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