Constructing Kasun, Educator

The first step to a second chance.  That’s the name of the conference I attended in my district today.  Hundreds of staff participated in this conference—an event specifically for those of us who work in alternative educational settings.  What is alternative education?  It’s all the education offered for the students who don’t learn the “normal” way, usually for students who behave so badly that they get expelled or sent out of their home base schools.  The keynote speaker, an expert on relationships who has appeared on several nationally syndicated talk shows, described alternative education as “where it’s at” in education today.  After listening to him in the first session, I wondered if he was right.

Let’s go back a day.  Yesterday I met with an incredibly thoughtful colleague in my district who asked me about the Fulbright experience.  Her opening question, after not having seen each other all summer was, “In light of the Fulbright, how have you changed?”  I couldn’t thank her enough for the insight of the question, the invitation.  But, back to alternative education and “where it’s at,” to borrow our speaker’s phrase.  My colleague and I are co-chairs of the metropolitan ESOL teachers’ chapter, and we’re figuring out who will be presenting at the next conference we’re organizing.  We were tossing around ideas and names of people we knew:

“How about Sally Smith [not her real name]; she’s so energetic?” she asked.

“Nah—she’s only doing sessions on how to make shadow boxes [not exactly, but something similar],” I replied, feeling guilty.  “Why are so many people giving sessions on all this busy work stuff?”

“Gosh, do you think teachers get compassion fatigue?”

Ah ha.  She had nailed one of the issues.  In the land of standards, test-based learning, mandated curricula, bells, hall passes, inane discreet pieces of data that kids have to memorize, we’re just too damn tired to feel compassion.  Who wants to hear a session on how to care for kids?  Who wants to think critically about the metamessages behind what we’re teaching?  Can’t we just drill them with the American Revolution, ionic bonds, and cumulus clouds?

Back to our conference today.  The majority of the folks in alternative education know they can’t afford to have compassion fatigue if they genuinely want to help the students we’re working with—the ones who are getting a second chance, and, oftentimes, their last.  So our keynote explained that we really need to be educating kids how to have healthy relationships, that we seldom discuss it, and when we do, it’s under the rubric of sexual education, which he claims (and I agree) is more about plumbing than learning how to love.  He argued that most kids today don’t see healthy relationships, and there are rich questions we should be asking and discussing to help guide them along.

My next session was one on a concept called Restorative Justice.  American Indians had long ago established traditions of restorative justice, and we’re now, in a few places, beginning to use it.  The idea is that when a person wrongs someone else, instead of focusing on punitive action, we need to look at how the victim, the aggressor, and the community are harmed (primarily the psychic damage) and how all parties can heal.  The focus is then on the engagement in resolving the problems.  Some schools are beginning to use this model in working with students, instead of a discipline and punish approach.  It seems to make a lot of sense.  I wondered if restorative justice could be used for Israel and Palestine and other world conflicts.  I also wondered if we had listened more to the American Indians how our country would be radically different.  But I digress.

A first step at a second chance.  In some ways that’s what I’m starting with my new job.  I wrote about this in a lost in cyberspace post last night.  My new position is as an itinerant ESOL teacher, working with immigrant students one-on-one, once a week for an hour, pulling them from their alternative education sites as well as working in my enormous district’s central office.  I also get a peak at new initiatives before everyone else, help out with other initiatives, and get some advanced training.  So far I’m delighted to work with a talented team of strong women who know their jobs well.  I sat in on a presentation that two of them gave today about gang awareness, and I was impressed at their extensive knowledge and the big hearts they have for working with kids who so badly need it.  We all deserve these second chances, if we could only get them.

I’m going to climb a small mountain in less than an hour in order to watch the mountainous rocks at Wadi Rum change color.  I spent the afternoon in the desert looking at mountains, springs and a canyon.  I feel a bit guilty about taking a four wheel drive vehicle to do it, especially after yesterday’s snorkeling in the Red Sea.  Preserving the environment, like in the US, is often an afterthought here.

Let’s step back a day to the Red Sea.  Same crystalline waters you’ll get in from the
Egypt (or Saudi or Israeli) side.  You walk out and see all body parts clearly beneath you, all the way until you can’t touch any longer.  The Red Sea for Jordan is a tiny stretch of land where their only port is located, Aqaba. 

I was hesitant about Aqaba.  I was afraid we’d get the same neon glitz I found in Sharm El Sheikh.  I didn’t want to have people begging me in for kebab or a water pipe along the sidewalks.  Well, no worries.  Aqaba is largely built for Jordanians (as far as I could tell).  The restaurants did something I admire—they fed people, and they fed them well.  The décor at these places isn’t about a full sensory experience where the music moves rhythmically with the lines of paint on the walls.  On the contrary, these places are open-air, utilitarian establishments where bream, hummous, shrimp and beer flow freely. 

The not-so-nice side of Aqaba?  I’m sorry to say that when we snorkeled at the Royal Jordanian Diving Center (so close to the Saudi border we could have walked), part of the reef was littered with thousands of cigarette butts, old tires, and floating Dorito bags.  I felt like a human pariah leering at the fish, feeling badly for those rainbow colored creatures having to navigate around the rubbish of my homo sapien sisters and brothers.  Additionally, where you take the water from Aqaba proper, you have a complete view of a rusty tanker in the bay as well as the other industrial equipment you’ll find at any port.  I guess it’s yin and yang.  Not Sharm El Sheikh glitter gulch, not Eden, either.I couldn’t report in without a few words on Petra.  As you know, Petra was just voted the 2^nd Wonder of the World this summer (sorry I’m missing the reference—just Google and you’ll see it’s true).  Petra was home to the Nabateun kingdom around the time of Christ for about three centuries.  They levied taxes on traders who needed to take their caravans through on trade routes and ruled a fair amount of the geography in the Middle East.  Enough history (according to our architect/guide… I suppose others might have other histories… narratives, whatever).  The point is that they built their ceremonial centers and tombs inside the rocks, including an amphitheatre.  There are hundreds of structures worth looking at, all carved into the stunning red, brown and white stone facades, the labyrinth of rock you have to walk through to discover it all.  We hiked up 800 stairs to get to the monastery at the top (the highest point in
Petra) at midday.  I love midday hikes.  Who needs a sauna?  Once we hit the top, we saw the gray monastery carved into a mountainside atop a small plateau.  We sipped a cool lime soda and listened to a man sing along with the melancholic sounds of his oud (a stringed instrument that sounds like an old sage and a young lover all at once) from a small cave about the monastery.  Then we walked up to two different lookout points where we could see various parts of Jordan and Israel.  What do you say about such views?  Breathtaking?  Awe –inspiring?  Yes and yes.

A few general words on Jordan.  It’s majestic.  Its deserts are otherworldly.  I imagine myself turning into the hollowed-out crevices of the rock formations here, wanting to bake in the sun and cool under the moon each night.  It’s quiet, alone, peaceful.  It’s hard to imagine there is a world of violence just a hundred kilometers away.  Additionally, there’s a fair amount of money floating around Jordan.  My friend from Beirut explained that there are a lot of foreign donors to
Jordan (multinationals and the US) trying to help Jordan institute “rule of law.”  I was surprised to see a pretty highly developed infrastructure.  Furthermore, people here are optimistic about their futures.  It’s nice to travel in a country where people expect good things for themselves and their children.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, the mind needs a break), I don’t have the kind of data I could supply about Egypt and Israel.  What I’m sharing comes straight from anecdotes and my old friend, the Lonely Planet Guidebook.

Being in this part of the world feels a little odd without the tribe from Fulbright.  I realize we had to disband, but continuing on my journey without them feels a little strange.  Who to call for a chat to try and understand the income inequalities here?  Who to discuss the troubles of the Bedouin with?  Who to discuss what we learned in Egypt—that there are no more nomadic Bedouin when I’m looking all around me at them here?  Who to take my breakfast buffet with and converse about Middle East politics?  Who to be absolutely silly with when things get too serious?  I don’t mean to romanticize them, but they are amazing individuals, ones I hadn’t planned on getting to know so well but now miss a lot.  I guess we all adjust.

***

Here’s a short poem I’m working on from my observations here in the desert:

Desert Wind

Lift the sand from the callouses

Of the Bedouin worker’s feet.

Wick away the drops of sweat

From the shepherd’s sunburnt skin.

Shift the dunes of dark red sand

Toward a solid granite mountain.

Whistle through the leaves of a single fig tree

Nestled against the source of a quiet spring.

Sanctify the small, inconsequential thoughts

Of a lonely pilgrim seeking your comfort.

My travelogue posing as an educational blogspace is almost finito.  I will now conclude everything  I have learned about the Middle East in the following paragraphs.

C’mon!  You knew it wasn’t true.  Instead, I’m offering three sets of exchanges with folks I met in my last few days traveling.  The connecting theme is, if you haven’t already guessed–Baghdad.  Reader beware–I am not an expert on the Iraq war, so these are only observations of my conversations.

Going to Baghdad

At the campsite at Wadi Rum a few days ago, an energetic man about my age approached me as I was writing and asked, “Are you Dutch?”  His face fell a bit when I told him I wasn’t.  He had mistaken me for an airline attendant when he looked at me (curiously, this happened to me twice in Tel Aviv as well… I’m beginning to wonder if I didn’t miss my calling).  He used to work exclusively as a tour organizer for KLM Airlines (recently purchased by Air France).  He made good money, he said, and he loved the people he worked with.  I guess he was hoping to relive a memory at the sight of me. 

In any event, Air France no longer flies routes that the people he worked with travel.  So, thanks to globalization and other forces, he no longer has a job.  He described conditions in Jordan as difficult if you didn’t have the right connections (he used an Arabic word which I translated to the Spanish palancas–somehow it carries more weight in Spanish).  So he sought work in Dubai, and no luck.  Then he went to Baghdad to interview with the American Embassy.  They offered about $1300 US per month plus living expenses (a pittance compared to what Americans would make, and he knows it, but it’s better than the $500 US he would earn in Jordan).

Mario, as he called himself, was perplexed abou whether to accept the post.  He had a private conversation with an embassy driver in Baghdad who described how four Filipinos were killed in the “safe” caravan the embassy assured him he would travel in.  We talked a few times about his job possibilities between jokes he shared about politics.  He looked so serious, and he seemed to be searching my face for some reassurance.  I didn’t know what to tell him.  After sleeping on it, I decided that, statistically, he probably wouldn’t die, but he was sure to know others that would if he stayed on long enough.  I asked him how he would cope, and he said he planned to both lose a lot of weight and drink plenty.  I wished him well.

Leaving Baghdad

Last night at the Amman airport, I had a bit of time to kill and paid for some Internet time.  A younger man in a suit with kind eyes seemed not to understand how to work the computers, so I told him he could have the remaining time on my account.  Turns out he has recently left Baghdad himself, an Iraqi.  His dad he said, was killed by militia there.  I didn’t know what to say.  I wanted to express sympathy and say that I knew what it was to lose a father, but then I thought that I had no idea what it was to lose one that way, so I expressed condolences for the war and his loss.

Mustaffah, as he introduced himself, said he wasn’t bothered and was trying to work for the US military.  He had spent several months under some sort of UN protection in Beirut and was hoping to be trained in the US.  Inshallah (God willing), he said.  I couldn’t understand how his eyes could be so bright with the future he might be facing.

Taking a break from Baghdad

I don’t know the last man’s name, but I spent almost nine hours next to him on my flight from Frankfurt to DC today.  I asked him if he was on the Amman flight, as there were several men in their casual army clothes with high and tight haircuts on my first flight.  Nope.  He had flown in from Kuwait.  “Oh, not so bad,” I offered.  “Nope, I came from Baghdad,” he answered. 

He’s working with the engineers who are trying to rebuild the country.  “Everything we build, the Iraqis blow up as soon as we finish,” he said.  He seemed discouraged and would be returning to Baghdad in two weeks.  He had been in the first Iraq war and has done several tours, waiting out for three more years to finish his 20 year career.  He was exhausted and slept a lot.  He flinched incessantly through his sleep, and I wondered what toll these wars have had on him.  He said his next tour is to Afghanistan.  Hardly any better, I thought.

I’m struck by how many lives are affected (even terminated) by this war.  Somehow looking at the “Faces of the Fallen” (all US soldiers killed in the wars) in the Washington Post isn’t the same as hearing the real stories on the ground. 

Maybe you know that Indiana Jones was shot partly in Petra, Jordan.  You can’t go to Petra and not get that little piece of trivia.  So I began to fancy myself the adventuresome type, scaling mountains like an ibex, a newfound spirit of the adventurer.  Please note that you’ll hear more about this in my next post (which is still on my Vista-haunted laptop… I want a pound of Bill Gates’s flesh when I hit US soil again and sort out all the necessary patches and conflicts for my lack of wireless access while abroad).

We spent the day in the desert at Wadi Rum, a mountainous desert area where after looking for just five minutes you’re convinced the world is fundamentally good.  We watched an amazing sunset atop a mountain peak where rocks shifted beneath our feet as we climbed–no matter for the adventurous type who feels she has claimed the desert to herself.  We then came back down for dinner of grilled chicken and lamb.  The camp was great–clean and quiet.  I watched a fire burn for a few hours and then turned in for bed in the tent which had just enough holes to spot some starlight.  I woke in full daylight and got ready for breakfast (this meant putting on the previous day’s clothes and a quick brushing of the teeth).  We were in a hurry, as we were going to take a morning camel ride through the desert.

In preparation for the ride on the camels, I decided to do some research.  I remembered first a conversation I had had with a religious studies professor from the Fulbright seminar who described a book she had read, written by a woman who did research in the desert and had to buy three camels to complete her travels.  “Nasty beasts,” was the description that stuck with me.  So I asked our driver, Isa, about what the camels were like.  “Well, they are very intelligent, and they always remember who hurts them.  Very different from horses.  You’ll see.”  With this I felt ready enough.  Indiana Jones wouldn’t need more. 

We found our guides at another campsite… Two eight year olds in scrappy, torn clothes.  I thought about child labor laws and then remembered it was Friday, a day of rest in Jordan.  Surely these children otherwise attended school.  That was why they knew at least five words of English to be able to convey concepts like, “Up,” and “Good.”  Besides, the arrangements had already been made, and backing out would have put these two in more of a bind upon returning home.  They stood next to the two camels who were waiting for us.  Camels wait by resting on all fours, their long legs tucked neatly under their bulbous bodies.  The saddles are woolen layers of blankets with two large wooden prongs on the front and back of the saddle to hold on to–no stirrups.  I sized them both up and noticed that the white one looked cranky.  Sure enough, the boys told me to take that one.

I did my best Dog Whisperer approach and talked to the camel.  I think even called him Habibi (Arabic for “my love”) to let him know I meant no harm (I figured it knew Arabic after all these years in Jordan).  I put one leg over the high back of the camel and rested myself evenly on the saddle.  Within a few seconds, I was up, about six feet off the ground, realizing this camel was nothing like the horses I’ve with some degree of confidence in the past.  I was confident my dog whispering had done the trick, so wasn’t really afraid.  My husband mounted his camel, and we began.

The first small hill we ascended and descended, and my camel let out its awful cry which sounds like a woman learning she’s been widowed.  One of the boys rushed over and gestured for me to pull on the underside of a strap of the saddle.  This caused a great deal of dissonance for me.  The camel was screaming, angry, I was on its back, I tried to pull, it screamed harder, the boys were both saying lots of things in Arabic in a hurried pace, the next thing I knew, the camel collapsed itself beneath me, and I was still on top.  I was pleased I had weathered its descent so well.  I guess this is where the Bridget Jones inside me started to take over.

Well, I was a little jarred, but not dissuaded from continuing.  The boys gestured for me to dismount, which I did quickly.  They retied and restrapped the saddle in about two minutes’ time, and they gestured again for me to get back on.  “It’s ok, sure?” I asked, not as confident as the first time I had mounted.  The boys nodded their heads up and down eagerly, black tufts of hair on their foreheads like green traffic lights. 

But maybe my camel somehow sniffed out my lack of confidence, or maybe it remembered that I had hurt it.  Just as I tentatively slipped my right leg across the saddle, he bolted upward before I was on the saddle.  My mind raced between pulling myself, willing myself, to the top of the saddle and jumping off.   I knew the jump would go badly, so I tried to pull my flesh toward the top.  I pulled, neared the top at about six feet.  Then my mind knew that the course had shifted dramatically, and I thought in a flash second, “Land as squarely as you can,” for I was in a freefall for the cracked earth (God’s version of cement) beneath me.

Boom.  It was like a nuclear explosion when I hit the ground.  In my head, the world stopped as the breath left my lungs.  I wanted to wretch from the pain.  The camel screamed and screamed, and I had no words.  I thought, “Is my back broken?”  but then I moved.  I laid on the ground for a few seconds, contemplating the pain, then summoned the strength to sit up.  One of the boys came over with a puzzled expression.  My husband was stuck atop his own camel, unable to come to help.  The pain was so intense, but I was glad also to be alive.  And glad that my back wasn’t broken at all.  I stood up and then doubled over from the pain.  The boys were chattering between themselves, and  I assured Rob I was ok.  Then the boys tried to talk to me, and I gave them one of three words I know for “enough” in Arabic, “Halas.”  They backed away.

I stood up fully and let the air enter my lungs again, the pain beginning to dissipate now.  Not only was I ok, but I was going to get better, I thought.  I think the boys could read my face, so they then spoke to me in Arabic, trying to convince me to continue the ride.  Here’s what I imagine they said:

“Come on, it’s ok.  We fall off our camels all the time!  See this bruise on my arm?  That’s where I actually chose to dive off my camel for the fun of it.  Don’t worry!  You don’t look stupid at all!  If you get back on, we won’t tell anyone how ridiculous you looked, all arms and legs in the air for those two seconds before you hit the ground.  Besides, think of the story you’ll have to tell.  You can’t make this stuff up!”

Their arguments were persuasive, but the source of wanting to ride again came from the way I was looking at my camel.  I both hated and feared it, and I didn’t want to leave the desert with that kind of feeling toward camels.  I know it’s foolhearty, but I chose to continue.  My husband and I traded camels, and we made our way through the desert for the next hour.  I even took my camel without the help of my guide, climbing dunes and circling mountains, looking down of sundrenched sandy valleys. 

We ended up at the Dead Sea in the early afternoon.  My back was sore, and I have a perfectly centered bruise marking the exact landing of my fall.  We set up spa treatments here at the Movenpick, and that proved to be the best remedy for my fall.  This is the best spa I’ve ever been to, a complex of pools and water treatments with a pool on the hillside that looks straight at Israel and the Dead Sea.  From the edge of a pool, I watched the sun set on the mountains of Israel (the opposite experience of seeing the sun rise on Jordan about a week previously), and felt that, again, all is well.

I’m trying to find a positive way to describe the dissonance I feel from today’s experiences as I transitioned from Fulbright participant in Tel Aviv to tourist in Amman, Jordan. I rode along the highway in Tel Aviv and looked for one last time at the garbage dump that has been rehabilitated to a land mass and remembered Al Azhar Park in Cairo as well as the goofy comments from one of the Fulbright seminar participants who claimed that she heard one too many times about the dump. This was on the heels of counseling a young Israeli hotel worker who helped me with my bags that he should do what he can to try and make the relationship with his girlfriend in Guatemala work (after also recommending my favorite town ever for vacationing to him—San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico).

At the airport I got to have the conversation I had practiced with a friend about the Lebanese stamp in my passport. “Why did you go to Lebanon?” “To go to a good friend’s wedding.” “And what was her name, and do you know anyone else there? And do you have any other activities there?” I tried to act natural while finding myself feeling like some sort of criminal who really had something to hide. I remembered my friend’s admonition that making jokes about military activity would land me in jail, so I practiced my poker face. Not surprisingly, I was selected out of the line for a second security screening.

I waited in line and watched individuals take from two to ten minutes in the special screening. I was escorted to a side screening table. Imagine Macy’s the day before Christmas, and you’ll get a sense of the level of activity in that place. We started with the first of four bags (two of them handbags). Inside a large plastic crate I looked at the contents of all my electronics equipment, a morbid, threatening spaghetti of cords, each piece touched once, twice, by a special wand which I gather was testing for radioactivity. I thought, well, this shouldn’t take too long—just a couple more minutes.

The minutes drug on as we started the second bag. “Don’t touch the bag I’ve just checked at all,” I was warned. Eventually three others took turns looking at the contents of my next bag. They were not happy that I hadn’t told them in advance about the books I had been given in Egypt as gifts. I was supposed to have declared them, apparently. So we searched through the first large piece of luggage. I took out every item of clothing and separated out my books. All those Arabic sounding authors and titles related to Egypt and Arabic. Pages were touched, flipped through. I couldn’t resist and asked if they’d like some of the recipes in the Egyptian cookbook I had bought. The one long-haired woman who seemed to be in charge of my investigation smiled back, so I hoped I might finish the check, which had drug on for over an hour, soon.

After the fourth painful bag (couldn’t I get a chair!?!), I was told I would get another check. I was escorted by my female investigator (mercifully, she was female), to a sort of changing room. Luckily I was wearing very thin clothes which provided easy access to all body parts. I was told to take off many components and then frisked in ways I didn’t imagine possible. I stood there wondering what the folks who have been profiled upon entrance to the US must feel like and reminded myself that it was good to go through this humiliation to be able to empathize with them. What else could I say to myself to offer any comfort? So, after this hour and a half of interrogation, looking, touching, I was freed.

I took my Royal Jordanian flight, the only female passenger of ten on the way to Amman. The male flight attendant sat next to me and described his four marriages all over the world. I hoped he wasn’t campaigning for the fifth. Maybe I shouldn’t flatter myself. Upon entering the Amman airport, I noticed the long gazes with which I was greeted. Like so many parts of the Middle East (excluding Israel), folks are constantly checking each other out. I reminded myself that it was time to get used to a new culture and that I needed to suck it up. My friend from Beirut (she flew in) hugged me at the customs boundary and whisked me off to her hotel. Somehow I didn’t have a hotel reservation (oh boy), and she luckily didn’t mind sharing her room with me. I also thought my husband was coming in tonight, but was wrong (it’s tomorrow).

So we went to a Western style bookstore where I looked at hundreds of political titles. Naturally, there were several titles related to the Arab-Israeli conflict. All of them sympathetic to the Palestinians. I picked them up, read their first few pages. One book was full of political cartoons—insulting, many of them—correct only insofar as the author’s narrative was concerned. All I could think was, “Whose narrative is it today?” We walked for miles through Amman, and my world spun around me as I realized these streets look so similar to Jerusalem and not Cairo (I had expected the reverse). I’m just managing expectations here. We’re listening to Arabic music videos, interrupted briefly by the Muslim call to prayer on the broadcast, about to have dinner at a Lebanese restaurant.

I came here for so many reasons.  I wanted to understand the Middle East in a post 9/11 world.  I wanted to learn about religion, identity, history.  My cup is full.  I’ve had some amazing moments, maybe even some of the best in a lifetime.  I’ve also been challenged in ways I hadn’t anticipated.  It’s a lot to come here and try to understand a young country, struggling to form its national identity while facing the constant existential crisis of a world where many in it argue against its very existence.

I’m overwhelmed.  I’m saying goodbye to a group of people I’ve started to refer to as “the tribe.”  They’re fifteen individuals with such vast backgrounds, and I regret not having described them more here.  The conversations I’ve had have been rich and fruitful.  After talking with these people, learning their stories, sharing the struggle of trying to make sense of this experience, I’m ready to start a kibbutz where all our families join up with these people.

Sorry for all the generalities.  You might like some particulars.  We went to the Dead Sea just three days ago.  It’s surreal to get inside the clear turquoise water that has the consistency of baby oil and see the mountains and desert all around you.  It reminded me of a science fiction novel that C.S. Lewis wrote.  We were advised to stay in for only about 15 minutes, as the water isn’t good for your skin.  It was so hot–hot as bathwater– that, despite my love of water, I had to pull myself out.  The next morning I went in to see the sunrise and was relieved to find the temperature of the water had fallen through the night.  We also visited Massada, a UN World Heritage sight where Jews made their last stand shortly after the destruction of the Second Temple.  The views are spectacular… white and brown jagged desert mountains.  We later hiked through some of those mountains. 

I’m wondering what the personal implications of the trip are for me.  I was blindsided by the personal work I had to do to make sense of Israel—just hadn’t expected not having the framework to understand it.  The debate we hear in the US is so limited.  I’ve learned that somehow we have to build means of recognition of the dignity in each person, in each group of people.  I return to that Koranic idea of wanting for one’s neighbor what one wants for oneself.  I listen to the stories here and the way people don’t often dialog and admire those who have the courage to talk with people who represent groups who are often considered a real threat.  We must talk; we must share our stories. 

Yesterday during our morning lecture, a policy analyst and professor described some of the recent history of anti-Semitism in Europe and the Middle East.  We could argue about who in the world is more discriminated against and how and why, but for now I’ll stick to anti-Semitism.  I have little doubt that it’s very real and a barrier to the recognition of the dignity of Jewish people and robs away the dignity of those who perpetuate its lies.  I asked our speaker about whether or not he could find a causality for anti-Semitism, and he explained that he gave that up about fifteen years ago after seeing dramatic and disgusting depictions of Jews, including a recent political cartoon published in a respected British newspaper perpetuating the sick notion that Jews would drink the blood of Palestinian children.  There were other examples of strange manifestations he cited as well, and I am inclined to agree that there isn’t a way to find a causality.  Again, I have my American eyes, so historically young and open, and I was sickened to listen to the accounts of anti-Semitism.  On the other hand, I remember the bizarre conversations I had when I lived in Mexico where I was trying to disabuse people of some ridiculous notions they had about Jews, and I wondered why I was surprised.  Like so many others, I only see as far as I’m willing and able to see.  I have tried as much as I can to leave my eyes wide open.

I expect to add one or two more reflections about the experience, perhaps while traveling through Jordan for the next nine days.  I’m about to have my last dinner with “the tribe,” and I try to make peace with leaving them, leaving this land, leaving part of me here. 

On Monday, we spent most of our day at the US Consulate in Jerusalem learning about Palestinian issues. Prior to that we visited Al-Qasimi Academic College of Education in the Arab town of Baqa El Garbiah. About 19% of the population of Israel is Arab—Muslim, Christian, or Druze (a small sect that is a sort of offshoot of Islam with communities in Syria and Lebanon as well). Just to be clear, those 19% are living within the country of Israel, independent of the West Bank and Gaza (Palestinian territories). The territories have about 4.5 million people, in addition to the Arabs who live in Israel. Al-Qasimi College has about 1600 students, 99% of them being women (an d almost all are Arab, with the exception of exchange program students). They have a model of multicultural instruction where they work with other colleges and universities in sponsoring exchanges, dialog days, and other activities. Their project is to create a sensitive balance between cultural heritage and participation in the 21st century, according to the professors we met. Instructors are both Arab and Jewish. They are working at creating a culture of dialog. Some of the professors discussed some of the difficulties they experience as Arabs living in Israel. They said many Arabs ask questions such as, “Am I Israeli [since this is a Jewish state]? Am I an Arab?” These questions are both painful and probably lead to changing answers depending on the history of the day. Several of the faculty members expressed that they feel they are discriminated against in Israel due to lower funding for their institutions, among other things. They also said they still feel “wounded and injured” by the history and the continued treatment. One member said, “OK, I’m here, but not a Jew. Who am I?” I tried to imagine what it would be like to be an Arab living in Israel, and I can’t say it would be easy. Afterwards, at the US Consulate, we listened to presenters who described what Israel is doing to Arabs as “soft ethnic cleansing,” presumably to try to maintain a high percentage of Jews in the state, as I don’t believe the presenter elaborated. Another presenter also explained how the Koran has claims to the holy city of Jerusalem, just as Jews and Christians do. Several statistics were presented from an Israeli organization which seemed to indicate state-sponsored discrimination (see www.btselem.org). Afterwards we heard a presented from the UN Office for Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs titled, “Occupied Palestine Territory—Humanitarian Situation.” Note the title; seldom do Americans refer to the territories as “Occupied Palestine.” The speaker provided a presentation full of well-documented maps and graphics demonstrating many of the difficulties Palestinians experience in daily life. Because Israel has been building an enormous barrier, Gaza and the West Bank (the territories) have largely been cut off from economic activity, the ability to make it to school or other public spaces with ease of passage. What was most surprising to me was the strange interplay between Jewish settlers (who live inside Palestinian land often for political reasons, but also sometimes because it’s cheaper to live there). Those settlements are mini enclaves of security with special roads that the settlers are allowed access to. To date, approximately 450,000 Jewish settlers live throughout the West Bank. Suddenly, when you see the map of barriers and settlements, you realize there is no easy solution to what to do with in 149 settlements in the West Bank. Obviously, something needs to change, as the Palestinians are subject to 539 checkpoints currently. We also heard from a man who has helped write an innovative textbook comparing the Jewish narrative with the Palestinian narrative, starting in 1920 to the present day. On each page, the left side presents one side, and the right presents another. In the middle is a blank column where students are supposed to synthesize and write their own narratives. This speaker described how it often takes students seven to ten years to finish their degrees because of the political instability. He also showed a series of about eight slides depicting young Palestinians being turned away from checkpoints by angry looking Israeli military forces (usually quite young), obstructing their safe passage to school. I think I heard one woman in our group gasp out loud at the first image. I wasn’t surprised by the images and also realize that Israelis could present their own shocking images as well (perhaps the remains of the work of suicide bombers). I was surprised at the last slide he presented, which read something to the effect of, “If you have a heart, explain to others so the world can know what Palestinians go through everyday.” I was surprised by the simplicity of the presentation—hard to look at images (which are also about six or seven years old now…though he certainly could have found new ones where Palestinians are suffering at the hands of Israeli soldiers) and then a simple message appealing to our emotional response. Finally, a US Consulate specialist and an USAID employee discussed the government perspectives on the situation. As it stands, the US Government is advocating a two-state solution for Israel and the Palestine. The questions which remain at this point are: 1. Who do you trust to broker peace? 2. How can you ensure security of Israelis? 3. How do you deal with the settlers in the West Bank? 4. How you do help the Palestinian territories rebuild? I’m sure there are other questions as well.

Yesterday we began with a lecture on Israeli media.  The lecturer, well-known in circles of folks who study political science and elsewhere, explained several interesting phenomena to us.  First, he said that the Palestinian Israeli conflict is an existential crisis which unites all Israeli Jews—something that is probably obvious but not something I had been able to articulate myself.  He also shared that few Palestinian views make it to Hebrew news.  What a tragedy that Arabs and Jews are largely divided by language barriers.  I understand that Hebrew, a dead language prior to the state of Israel, has miraculously emerged to unite Jews in Israel, but Arabic would have been a lot more practical in terms of being able to get along with the Arabic speakers in the region.  As an advocate of multi-lingual education, I wish there were strong Arabic/Hebrew programs in all schools (and I know there is multilingual instruction, but not on a large and effective scale… and we could certainly point fingers at the ineffectiveness of language instruction in the US… but that can be a later blog post when I’m out of the Middle East).

Our speaker also described class structure as well as distinctions among Jews regarding their original geographic origins.  Some of the class distinctions are blurring, and, surprisingly, the ultra-orthodox Jews are the lowest of socio-economic classes, according to our speaker.  The ultra-orthodox Jews believe the men should spend their lives studying religion, and their wives have many children (eight kids on average).  The state has been supporting them, but it is a large tension as that segment of the population continues to grow.  The speaker described several other cleavages in Israeli society, including the twelve often-changing political parties and the ineffectiveness of the government to govern when the prime minister can basically be thrown out when the parliament sees fit to call for another election.  He compared this system to that of Italy’s, where the government isn’t highly effective but where its civil society manages to fill in the gaps.  He said Israel has over 40,000 civic organizations and has more protests per capita than any other country on earth.

After sorting through these helpful details that help me construct a frame for what I’ve been observing, I took my trip into Jaffa (see previous entry).  I went with several women from our group, along with one of the Israeli administrators (she couldn’t be more accommodating and helpful).  I found myself first inside a winding marketplace full of dimly-lit stalls of Middle Eastern jewelry and clothes imported from India.  A lot of women here wear these great peasant-style skirts and loosely-fitting blouses, so I decided it was time to see if I might find some of the same clothes for myself.  The folks who work in the markets here aren’t nearly the hungry sharks I encountered in Egypt, so I find myself having to encourage them to help me out in terms of picking out items that I might like.  I found a few long skirts that are made of a shiny fabric with great prints and bright colors; they’re also reversible.  Then I met up with our group a half hour later at a large sculpture that looked like a circle of train tracks in a common plaza area where folks had set up their wares on the cement.  It was a flea market where you could find old tools, old clothes, antiques, photos, anything, really.  From there I walked down the street with the group and passed up a bakery and a nut roaster.  The bakery sold bread that looked like the Lebanese bread I liked so much, topped with a pesto of sesame seeds, oregano, cumin, and other spices.  The nuts were fresh, and I enjoyed some lightly salted peanuts and cashews.  These nuts are really only second to the Lebanese nuts I’ve eaten. 

I split from the group and walked up the hill to Old Jaffa, revisiting sites I had already seen, including the wishing bridge where you can see Old Jaffa, Tel Aviv, and the sea.  I walked downhill toward the artists’ quarter, an enclave of stone buildings containing apartments where clothes are hung to dry and studios where artists paint, sculpt and sketch.  I went to a few galleries before they closed for the Sabbath.  I found a photography exhibit called, “Imagenes de Mexico” (right, Images of Mexico) by a man who had spent some time in Mexico in the 60s and more recently since the turn of the century.  He digitally enhanced some of the photos (especially the black and whites from the 60s).  I felt the earth shake as I looked at pictures of my other beloved country, Mexico.  High-cheekboned faces stared out from embroidered headscarves as they carried goods to market and tilled the lands.  Part of me felt like, “Wow, nothing changes.  Here I am in a distant land looking at images of that country where part of my identity formed, and it resonates so strongly here.”  I actually didn’t like the techniques he had used to enhance the photos.  It was against the Mexican aesthetic which I’m used to, but then I tried to dismiss my criticism and think that aesthetics only belong to those of us brave enough to create with them.

Afterwards I met a sculptor in his studio.  I had been admiring the way he used pomegranates (not only a favorite fruit of mine but also an ancient sign of fertility).  He’s an older Iraqi Jew who fled as a refugee with nothing but the clothes on his back as a boy with his parents.  He was also displaying some paintings from Muslim Iraqi artists he works with, and he told me about an exhibit I might try to see in New York in his gallery there.  He works with mothers of both Arabs and Jews who have lost loved ones in the conflict, and in his latest project , he had Arab and Jewish artists use ceramic plates to make images for peace.  He said that in Jaffa he spends time with Arabs and Jews, eats with Arabs, and says he has no problem getting along with Arabs and that a lot of people feel this way.  He also goes back into Iraq and Middle Eastern countries on his US passport, and I was heartened to hear a voice like his. 

I decided to make my way down the hill past the closed shops toward food, as it was getting on 2:30 or so and I hadn’t had lunch.  As I happened upon a bar where I spotted beer on tap, I approached the bar that overlooked the Mediterranean from the hill.  The bartender was also the owner, and he let me test both of the Belgian ales he had on tap (Belgian ale—I felt like I had won the lottery!).  Once I decided which one I liked better (the honey ale), he poured me a glass.  I looked at the water and was inspired to write a few poems—the kind I’ll probably never show anyone, just thoughts about some people I’ve missed and was surprised to be thinking about.  Later, the bartender brought me labneh (a cheesy yogurt) and some pretzels, and we talked at length, and for once we avoided politics altogether.  I found out that he married a Brazilian woman.  They had met in London in the early 80s.  The bar owner was there in order to take in the music scene, where he saw David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Bob Marley, and Pink Floyd,  among others.  Anyway, he met his wife, and five years later when to Brazil where he ended up with her again.  Economically they couldn’t make it, so they went to Israel together.  After five years and at least one child, she finally converted to Judaism, and they married.  I got to see the pictures of the bar owner from his days in Brazil, and it reminded me of my days on Mexican beaches, camping and taking showers inside palm shacks.  We had a sort of kinship, and I was sad to leave, but the beach awaited.

I walked north from Jaffa to Tel Aviv and made it to Fleischman Beach after just over an hour of walking along the lovely Tel Aviv boardwalk.  I entered the water among a bunch of young men who actually had surf boards in the four foot waves.  To their credit, they were actually catching waves.  I rode in a couple of waves and felt like I was encroaching on some sort of brotherhood so pulled myself out of the water and fell asleep on the beach.  I ended up meeting four of my colleagues from the program and had a decent meal with a spectacular view from the roof of a restaurant overlooking the sea.

After our lecture this morning, we have the rest of the day to ourselves—a small gift given us, as I think our advisor recognizes that we’re getting fatigued (or maybe he’s just getting embarrassed by our behavior as an audience?).  Today I’ll be in the old part of Jaffa, a small city that is now part of greater Tel Aviv.  It’s historic, and, most importantly (for my purposes) has a small artists’ village.  I guess I’m craving getting away from the political and being immersed in what I’ll call a higher pursuit—art.  Thank God for artists.  And the artists here are great.  Paintings, sketches, fashion, architecture…  The colors and designs make you want to go swimming, learn to sing, befriend strangers.  Afterwards I’ll go back into Tel Aviv proper and meet up with some colleagues at the beach.  We have dinner reservations to sit outdoors, overlooking the Mediterranean.

Last night we heard six members from a larger orchestra sponsored by Bar-Ilan University (our sponsoring university here in Tel Aviv).  They play the traditional music of many of the countries from which Jews have immigrated, including Morocco, Egypt, Turkey, Armenia, and other countries.  As we listened to a love song from Iran played on the traditional instruments of the region, I found myself wishing I could grab my husband’s hand and share the moment with him.  The connection here is what I was thinking about—art transcending the mundane.  They seemed to love their music and communicated that love through their care for their instruments and the way they played together.

That was two paragraphs without mentioning conflict.  I tried to avoid it, but it’s almost inescapable.  I keep wondering how Israel continues to grow as a country, how its people can be such inspired artists…  I guess like people everywhere, they learn to manage and even thrive, despite the circumstances.  One or our speakers said that Israelis are so good at living the present moment because they don’t know if they’ll see the next day. 

We began yesterday’s lectures with a speaker on conflict in the region and the particular Arab Israeli conflict.  The more I hear and read, the more I picture an impossible octopus.  The head would be the geography of the Middle East, and the tentacles are ever-increasing, with new ones sprouting as each new tension arises.  I spent the first part of the morning reading in the social sciences library at Bar-Ilan, examining the academic journals I could find related to Palestinian and Jewish issues (political and social, particularly).  I found a broad spectrum of publications from both perspectives and was further confused by what I read.  Again, the octopus.  One writer portrayed the anti-Semitism still found throughout the world and its effects on policy.  Another showed cultural reasons for anti-Semitism in the Middle East.  Others showed the way Palestinians suffer at the hands of Jews (historically and in the present).  I made some notes and will attach what I read below.  Warning:  This wasn’t scientific, and my citations aren’t perfect, but, if you’re interested, read through to the end.

If I can go back to our first speaker, he couched his argument in terms of the lack of development in this region.  He compared the number of books translated in Arabic to those translated to Greek.  The Greeks, a smaller country than the entire Arabic speaking world, had more books translated last year.  I take this to mean that the Arabic-speaking people don’t read much?  We also heard about the relegation of women in the Middle East and that a society can’t thrive without equality between the sexes.  Extend this further, and you find Israel among a sea of countries that don’t share the same values?  It’s problematic, for sure. 

Well, I’m finding this post is meandering quite a bit.  I’m also afraid that some of my reflections are getting redundant, and for now I’ll exercise the free will to make it on time to our lecture and then head out to Jaffa.

Shalom.

***

“Hatred of the Jews as a Psychological Phenomenon in Palestinian Society,” Daphne Burdman, Jewish Political Studies Review, Jerusalem Center for Public Affairs, Fall 2006, Vol. 18, Nos. 3 & 4, p. 51-64.

A well-documented article which argues that because Arab societies have different means of childrearing, including unpredictability toward children, abusiveness, traumatic events (including circumcision during years when children are aware of the procedure) in addition to a collective identity, Arabs tend to project their internal conflict and hatred toward Jews as scapegoats.  This often happens in the case of a leader, like Saddam Hussein (who, according to the author, had an abusive childhood), and then the people can identify with that leader who refuses to accept blame and casts himself and his nation as the victim.  Through education, Islamic education, and other means, the cycle is perpetuated.  In the West, the author explains, the individual who grows up in an abusive environment will perform individual acts of criminality, not collective ones.

 “Malaysia:  Anti-Semitism without Jews,” Moshe Yegar, Jewish Political Studies Review, Fall 2006, Vol. 18, Nos. 3 & 4, p. 81-98.

I didn’t read the entire article.  Outstanding points…  Islamic countries bind themselves together, even without a history of relations with Israeli or Jewish populations in anti-Semitic ways, including refusal to trade or negotiate as well as expanding propaganda.

“Palestine Voices:  The 1948 War and Its Aftermath,” part of a 36,000 word “life history,” as recorded in the oral history of Um Jabr Wishah, Journal of Palestine Studies, Vol. XXXV, #4, Summer 2006, p. 54-62, University of California Press for the Institute for Palestine Studies.

This account shows the Jews forcing Arabs from the land during the 1948 War.  She describes the sympathy she received from the Egyptian Army and how the Jews were bombing villages so that no one was left in them.  She had to live in a tent for at least two years, where she lost two of her boys to illness and almost lost her third son because their tent collapsed on him.  She described how a Jewish soldier wanted to know the sex of her baby, which she lied about and said was a girl.  She said the Jewish soldier said he would have sliced its throat had it been a boy.

Journal of Palestine Studies, same issue:  A literature review, photos from 100s of sources (only about 15) showing the “situation on the ground,” including Palestinians with toddlers crying at checkpoints, Palestinian prisoners in raids in their underwear being marched into custody, teachers protesting suspension of foreign donor aid and in support of Hamas, crying Palestinians evicted from East Jerusalem homes by Jewish settlers, Fatah gunmen demostrating in Ramallah in support of PA Pres Mahmud Abbas

“From the Hebrew Press” section of the Journal of Palestine Studies, same issue:  Eli Ashkenazi and Jack Khoury, “Poll: 68% of Jews Would Refuse to live in Same Building as an Arab,” Ha’Aretz, 22 March 2006. 

34% agreed that “Arab culture is inferior to Jewish culture,” 57% disagreed.

Poll released by Center for the Struggle Against Racism

Inclination toward segregation rises as the income level of the poll respondent drops and also as the level of religious observance rises.

Palestine-Israel Journal of Politics, Economics and Culture—

Seemingly balanced points of view of Jews and Arabs—Vol 14, No 1 2007 discusses Jerusalem as a divided city, 40 years after 1967 war

Israelis commonly use this expression.  In Hebrew, it’s “Leat, leat.”  It’s used to express encouragement to take time with things, to be methodical, to not make the mistake of being rash.  Something like, “We hope to make peace in this land slowly, slowly,” or, even, “We should study the Talmud slowly, slowly.”  They also say, “Quickly, quickly,” to describe when more time should be taken but isn’t. 

I’m on a bus looking at the Sea of Galilee.  Slowly, slowly.  I was just inside it up to my knees.  I took a picture of my shoe-clad foot in the water just in case anyone has doubts (it’s a land/water shoe and has also proven useful along a rocky Mediterranean shoreline).  My feet are still wet as we head away from three Biblical sites.  The first site was the Church of the First Feeding of the Multitude at Tabgha.  It’s run by Benedictine monks—a former Byzantine church that lay in ruins for centuries and was reconstructed in the first half of the last century.  I talk about time here in centuries, as do the Israeli Jews when thinking about their history—again, slowly, slowly.  We saw the rock where Jesus ate fish and bread after the miracle of the multiplication of the bread and fish.  A Byzantine mosaic just before the rock (it’s beneath the altar as well) commemorates it in typical tan, white, light orange and brown tiles.  It’s a quiet space, one where I found myself imagining who I would be among the 5,000 who were fed.  Would I have been complaining because of my hunger?  Would I have been humbled to be in the presence of Christ?  Would I have helped pass baskets of bread?  Would I have been feeding my own children? 

From there we went to the Church of Peter, where Peter was named as the founder of the Catholic Church.  A few yards behind the simple stone Franciscan church, the rock where Peter was told to establish the church extends beneath the foundation of the building and near the Sea of Galilee.  You walk along the rocks of the shore and see straight through. The water is fresh water and also a major source of Israel’s drinking water.  A few schools of minnows happened past, sometimes larger fish that looked like bluegill swam along the shore as well.  Some of my colleagues walked into the water as well.  You couldn’t help but imagine what it must have been like to see Jesus walking along the water.  And I couldn’t help but feel humbled by the fact that I just sank.  Of course I didn’t expect to walk on the water, but you recognize the weight of your flesh, your human nature, as you step into the waters.  And that weight isn’t always a burden, just a reminder of being in the flesh, a flesh calmed by cool waters in the staggering heat of the land here.

Right now we’re driving through the Golan Heights looking at some Israeli settlements.  This land is contested and was fought over by God knows who.  It’s great wine country; apparently the Israelis discovered this as they looked at the terrain and noticed various altitudes a soils suitable for vineyards.  We’re about to go to the Golan Heights Winery.  I’m going to ignore the fact that we’re in contested lands right (some of which still have uncleared landmines, according to our academic advisor) now and try to refocus on “Slowly, slowly.” 

Yesterday we went to the Church of the Annunciation in Nazareth.  I didn’t expect it, but my knees went weak as I imagined Mary receiving the angel’s news and the courage she must have had.  I also thought of the saying of the Cairo Marriott (ridiculous, I know, but stick with me here):  “Yes is the answer, what is your question?”  Life is daily existence and how the sacred reveals itself, so why not the Marriott slogan?  I thought about that, “Yes,” and what it means.  It’s the acceptance of following your path, your circumstances, of understanding the questions we’re asked and embracing them in “Yes.”  I smiled to myself at these little revelations, partly thanks to the Cairo Marriott, and I also contemplated Mary.  I could go on about my respect for her, but I fear I’m crossing the line of the pedantic/pious and can’t risk representing myself that way.

We walked out at 6 pm, and the bells rang and rang.  It was a moment of grace.  I felt like those bells were bathing me in some kind of blissful peace.  I left the gates briefly as the rest of the group entered a market to shop and then decided to return to the church.  I had to beg to get back in; it was only time for the faithful.  The man at the gate said sternly,  “It is closed,” he hesitated, “to tourists.”  My eyes welled with tears.  “What about Catholics?”  He looked me up and down, “Only if you want to pray.”  “Ok, if you’d just let me,” and with that, I entered. 

***

I spoke with our academic advisor—he says he has seen a couple of my posts and that there are some mistakes.  The same problem occurs in my Israel posts as you’ll find in what I described in the Egypt posts—mistakes, misinterpretations.  I asked him to post comments—so hopefully he can correct some of the misinformation (though he’s certainly not obligated to and has plenty of other more valuable work to do).  In any event, please recognize that my interpretations are subject to subjectivity.

This is my last entry of the day.  I’m listening to Egypt’s most famous singer.  I just want to hea r her voice to help me digest the scenery—golden grasses, lines of cows lining hilltop ridges, olive trees, reservoirs.  Somehow I want to make Egypt and Israel intersect in my head.  Maybe that’s not right.  I could extend it and say that I’d like to see all the countries intersect, all traditions, all peoples.  I guess that’ the dreamer; idealistic, naïve, but impossible to dispel. 

Slowly, slowly.