How do you spell Hope?

"How do you spell Hope?" my son yells out. He's drafting an email to a friend and can't figure out the spelling. But I think its a good question. It sustains a lot, and the absence of it, breaks a lot.

My neighbor had a housewarming party yesterday, a variety of people were in attendance from the aid community. All ages, backgrounds, nationalities. I start talking to a couple who live in Jerusalem and are telling me stories of inefficient bureaucracy that dominates their life in Israel. They say they feel burnt out on that inefficiency, and they've lived all over the Middle East. I ask how long they've been here and they tell me 3 months. Another young woman arrives at the party and a friend congratulates here on surviving her stay here so far - she's going on 5 months and doesn't think she'll make it until 6. I'm in for another 10 months...is it really that bad?


It makes me feel guilty to say this, but its easy to live in isolation and suspended belief that everything around me is normal. Its just a matter of getting to know places and people, and I'll feel right at home. But around every corner is something new. Something odd, something strange, something that will defy all logic. Realizing that nobody seems to have any power over changing or influencing the situation, it is somehow easier to think it doesn't exist.


My son spells hope by counting the days until we take our Christmas break to the States. Or by promises of a new toy as a part of a bribe for some good behavior. Hope for me is a reconstitution each day of what I believe my purpose should be for the next 24 hours. Sometimes its to get through the day with enough energy not to collapse. Others, its to orchestrate a multi-location circus of logistics among which the actors are continually changing. A day without a surprise, or without a change of plans is very very rare. The feeling of powerless breaks down my hope.

Welcome

Historically, Arab culture is one of the most hospitable cultures in the world to foreigners. The word for "welcome" in Arabic is "Ah'lan" and is used in a variety of ways.

 

If somebody gives another person something, before the other person can say "thank you", they are told "you're welcome". It always throws me for a bit of a loop, "Here's your coffee, you are welcome" " Well, thank you!" "You're welcome"

 

At a recent work meeting, we had some visitors from a partner organization. We were discussing which projects we had and where they were. One is in a town near Bethlehem, and one of the woman from the partner organization said, "Yes, I know where that village is, I'm from Bethlehem." And my colleague replied, "You are welcome." The subtext being.: "You are a visitor here in Ramallah, and so I welcome you." I had to suppress a giggle – they are both Palestinian, Bethlehem is 25 km from Ramallah, and this woman has probably lived in Ramallah for 10 years. But apart from religion, the most important identifying factor is the town you are from. And so, you must always welcome an outsider.

Happiness

I'm always amazed at the happiness and opportunities for laughter that the people around me find, every day, every minute. When I hear some of the personal stories, I wonder how they find these moments. Almost all have lost family members in tragic stories – parents shot and killed in front of their eyes, brothers pulled from houses at night and never seen again; sisters imprisoned who can only be visited when specific permission is granted. At first, I thought these were all stories of exaggerations. But as I get to know these people better, hear more details of their lives, it's obvious that they cannot be. Its easy to separate myself from it in confidence that my passport and birth protect me somehow.

 

The other day, I was having a conversation with some colleagues where we were each discussing our favorite "mural" that has been drawn on the Israeli-constructed "security wall" (known on the red side of it as the "separation barrier"). It was if we were discussing the latest style of shoes – laughing, joking, comparing. In retrospect, it seemed like such an absurd conversation to be having. Whenever I pass the tall, stark gray wall I get this sinking feeling and I can't take my eyes off of it. The Berlin wall, the apartheid wall, the big eyesore, or affectionately known as "the wall." A recent addition nearby the office is most amazing. At a point where we can pass across it, there is a clear view that shows how it literally winds down the middle of a small neighborhood street. From this perspective, I can't keep track of which side is in or outside the wall. It's a bit like walking down a secular street in Jerusalem, or Haifa, or Tel Aviv – you can't tell who is who, but the feeling runs deep that somehow you should be able to know the "differences" by the look of people.

 

This week I was roaming the streets of downtown Ramallah, and I saw a Jewish couple walking down the street. I could tell they were Jewish by their dress. I was completely in shock, and noticed that everybody was watching. They were across the street from me when a man stopped them, offered his hand, and must have said something funny or, as I like to imagine, welcoming, and they smiled, laughed, shook hands, and moved on. Apparently, this cross-border traffic was much more frequent before the wall. That the populations within Israel moved much freer across boundaries and the polarization wasn't ingrained as much as it is now. If people can't mix and mingle freely, without such stark physical barriers, would not much of what exists today in form of low level conflict be absent? A question in "if" history, perhaps.

A series of questions

I am very uncomfortable with how people choose to categorize others here. I went to get my son's pants tailored (shortened) today. If my son had a non-Arab/Muslim name, I'm sure I'd avoid half, if not all, the questions that strangers feel no inhibition to ask. Or maybe I should just pretend I don't understand as much Arabic as I do.


The seamstress began her line of questioning with the benign, "Do you have any other children?" A common question in the States. When I answered "no", she then asked quite bluntly, "Why?!" I have no idea how to say "divorced" in Arabic, I should learn it, it is always a conversation-stopper here. But no, not with this woman! I tried to describe the word through other basic words in my Arabic vocabulary. She finally got it. Then the next question almost knocked me off my chair..."What religion are you?" "What religion was your husband?"


A friend has recommended I develop a "script" for these conversations. The thing is, the conversations almost never follow a patern which I can follow. But, I have been imagining ways I can add an element of surprise to the conversation....what if I told them I was no religion, or Buddhist - I wonder what reaction that would cause in this mono-theistic-centric culture. I just am not comfortable with religion being the identifying lense through which all are categorized here.

Give me a Hand

I think it is the absolutely absurd when a Muslim man refuses to shake a woman’s hand. Perhaps it’s one of those religious customs I habituated myself to in a more conservative working environment, but now that I’m mostly in a fairly liberal work environment, and that I’ve come to know many facets of Islam, I just think it is one of the most empty and rude gestures to refuse to shake a hand. I think all the gesture does is show the man’s narrow mindedness. A colleague refused to shake my hand the other day when I was thanking him for his hard work. I don’t understand what the withholding of a hand is supposed to avoid – a sexual invitation, the “dirt” of a woman’s body? Please! But this is a country full of meaningless religious gestures….in my all out, no hold back, honest opinion. I prefer the more mundane gestures of showing somebody you think positively of them.


Yesterday, Friday, the only day of the week both my son and I share as a weekend, a friend called us at 8:30 am, and told me she was making crepes, and if it was OK, she’d be at my house with her two boys in 5 minutes to have breakfast with us. I was still in my pjs, there were dirty clothes literally scattered throughout the house (since I was finally getting around to doing laundry after 2 weeks), and emptied packing boxes blocked my front entry. Without hesitation, I told her to come right over! After we ate, we went to my upstairs sunroom and terrace (with the view into valleys of olive trees and down to Tel Aviv) and sipped our coffee as the boys amused themselves with my son’s toys. I told her how glad I was that she called so spontaneously because it’s a custom I miss. It’s a common custom that I think has to do with a combination of being in the Middle East, where these drop bys are expected and usually welcomed, and the fact of living in a small expat community where everybody has a fair idea of where you are and what you are doing at any given time. Life in the States can be overscheduled and these opportunities for sharing mundane moments are more widely-scattered.


This friend, who I met only 3 weeks ago, is a single mother to 2 boys – 4 and 7. Her singling mother days are coming to an end, and even though I just met her, I am madly jealous of this fact. At least, for the moment, it feels nice to know there is somebody nearby who I don’t have to explain the ups and downs of my recent life. Yesterday, she offered me a hand – I could go out and run errands while she watched the boys, give me a break. But because Friday is the only day I have fully with my son, not to mention not much is open on Fridays before noon to “run” to, I declined. There’s lots of things I could use a hand with – trying to find reliable after-school care for my son, getting through these 8 loads of laundry, remembering my son’s bathing suit on the days he has swim class (big woops!), or basically, just listening to my string of rambling worries about how things will settle out here in the next few months.