Always open to surprises

Over a year ago, I enrolled my son in Karate classes. I would have probably done this in the States without much of a second thought, but in this environment, I wanted to be very careful that he wasn't learning to fight and was learning more of the personal and spiritual principles of the martial arts. At the recommendation of several friends, I enrolled him at one of the bigger studios in Ramallah where the staff and teachers always greet the students and parents with smiles and a warm welcome. A friend cautioned me that I might witness a little more "contact" than what they'd probably allow in the States, but that the teachers also spend quite a bit of time lecturing on principles. Near the end of the first class that I observed, the teachers took a pair of similar-sized students, secured head masks/helmets on them, and the kids would be free to "fight." After three brief rounds, a winner would be declared. Even after a year, I wince every time I see this part of class.

Until recently, my son has had little interest in volunteering for these fights, and I've always breathed a sigh of relief. Last week however, he felt a sudden spark of boldness and was begging the teacher to choose him for the fight. The teacher finally chose him and when he rose to his feet, I noticed that the student he would be paired up with was going to be a girl. I'm sure there was an audible groan that escaped my throat as I thought, "Oh no, if he loses against a girl he is going to be devastated." Well, my son kicked and chopped valiantly, but alas, after three rounds, the girl was declared the winner. I noticed the dejected look on his face and was curious to watch how his 7 year old emotional maturity was going to handle it. He sat back down on the floor with the group, his face turned downward to the floor. The teacher gave him a pat on the back, and demonstrated how his kicks needed to be higher. After the teacher returned to the center of the room, the girl came over and said something to him. I assumed it was a taunting remark but in retrospect, I'm not so sure. Then, a few seconds later, I see the older boys circle around him on the floor, and start patting him on the back and talking to him. My son raised his head and smiled.

I was completely surprised at what I had witnessed. Here in Palestine, my son is subjected to uninterrupted taunting, teasing and bullying at school and on the playground. Not to mention on the street (last week, a teenager passing him on the street made a swipe at him with a metal pole – I was walking about 5 feet away from him and was just shocked!). I didn't think children were taught how to be sympathetic or how to take even the smallest action of kindness towards another child. It lightened my spirit and gave me a small sense of hope that maybe there is the potential for a different future here for the children of Palestine.

Peace Unto You

The weather has turned cold here, and while I've certainly lived in much colder climates, the houses and buildings are so poorly built that they have no capacity to insulate against the outdoor temperatures. Some days I feel like I have a permanent chill in my bones. I finally figured out the heating system in my house, resulting in relative equilibrium in the temperature between the first and second floor of the apartment. But due to the absence of thermostats and the very high heating oil prices, I can only really run the heat for 3-4 hours per day – an hour in the morning and a few in the evening before bedtime. Flannel pjs and sheets, and extra blankets are de rigueur in this house during the winter. And otherwise, I've been trying to fill my body with warm teas and soups, and other ayurveda appropriate foods. After a month long hiatus, I got out my yoga mat to see if that would help build some heat as well especially to start my day in the chilly morning.

I didn't immediately realize how much my body needed that morning routine. True, something was off – not only was I suffering from the cold, but I was snapping at my son and colleagues, I was going to bed early and waking up in the middle of the night. I figured travel is quite disruptive so I just needed some time to re-adjust. Then on the third day of re-launching my yoga practice, I kicked up into a handstand and when I came back down, I felt this incredible calm and silence in my heart. I couldn't move, I did not want to move. The sense of peace was full.

When I was young, my favorite part of Sunday mass at the Catholic Church I attended with my family was the kiss of peace. Everybody would turn to their neighbors, shake hands and wish them, "Peace be with you." In saying this, I always imagined that peace was something that would come externally from a person, and settle onto their shoulders. And then all their worries would somehow disappear and they would be filled with peace. However, I realized recently that peace is not something that comes from the outside to "be with you." It is something that comes from the inside. It's an inner sense in which fear, worry, anger, sadness are not present. Peace is not something somebody can give you, or make for your, or even, I start to think "negotiate"?

A friend sent me a card a few years back with this quote on it, "Peace is not the absence of noise, trouble or hard work. It is to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart." It is actually kind of nice not to be in the States at this time of year where the mad Christmas rush is all about noise, noise, noise. Here, Christmas can only be what you decide to make of it. The pace at work has slowed which is a nice change to what I experienced in October and November. Our Christmas tree is up, and my son eagerly jumps out of bed each morning to open one more door of his advent calendar to reveal some small piece of chocolate shaped into a seasonal object. I experience a small sense of joy in seeing that wondrous smile on his face every morning, even if the motivator is chocolate. In the evenings, we wrap ourselves into layers of blankets, sit on the couch in front of our Christmas tree and giggle our way through another children's book. Feigning the lagging of the flu I experienced when I returned from France, I convince him to read the book to me, and I feel such a sense of inner peace, that I start to giggle at the silliness of the children's story. The giggle is contagious and my son and I are soon wrapped in peals of laughter. When the book ends I realize that I feel warm, cozy and completely at peace.

Remaking or Remade?

We're in the midst of an office move again. I don't know if it's unique to the organization I work for, but over the past 5 years, I have averaged an office move every 6 months. A year ago I was put into this beautiful corner office which overlooks a flower garden. A few months back, my office mate resigned and I have since had the office space to myself. I find little ways each day to make it my own. I've played with the desk configuration and the window blinds. I have been rewarded by a wonderful, soft sunlight that hits the office at all hours of the day, which seems so important during these short, gray, rain-filled winter months. When the latest round of office moves was announced I was pleasantly surprised to see no change in my current office status. When one of my favorite colleagues came in yesterday morning asking me if I would consider changing offices so her three staff members could sit in one room, I didn't even have a moment to think before the answer flew out of my mouth, "No." Of course its sounds a little melodramatic to insist on keeping the office because of the sunlight, so I told her that I would not stand in the way or fight any decisions which were made to change this decision. Truth be told, I've managed to be productive in so many other office set-ups (including open cubicle space where 5 other colleagues would be talking simultaneously on overseas phone lines) that I can manage to find productivity in just about any space. But I'm not really mentally ready to re-make my office environment at this point.

I find there are several trends that seem to rear up in my life continuously as if they are presented to me as learning opportunities to improve some immeasurable life skill. The ability to face and manage change is certainly one of them. I feel that I've almost reached the level of Zen on that one – colleagues resign (check!), friends get sick (check!), people get divorced (check!). I think there is a bigger wave of change coming towards me on the horizon and I am trying to brace myself in anticipation; anticipation of some seasickness, a lot of discomfort, mixed with a good dose of anxiety, but to conclude with a greater sense of self and peace.

A friend I see not so often asked me for the second time in 2 years, "Do you ever consider that it is time to put some effort into remaking your life since the divorce?" The first time, I thought I misheard her and just kind of mumbled some (probably joking) reply. This most recent time she asked me, I stopped, took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eye and said, "That is what I'm doing, I mean, what I've done." She didn't have much of a reply and I wasn't sure if we were on the same planet.

Maybe it is my own selfish self-reflection, but the energy and effort it took on my part (not to mention the help and support of so many people around me) to manage to continue to build my career, provide for my son, maintain custody of my son, maintain ownership and care of my house, and basically…LIVE….was no small feat in the ashes of the divorce. I already Remade my life in my mind. From friend's perspective, though, I think she sees my life as still "unmade" without a partner in my life to share it with. Funny how this is just the internal debate I have with myself on a daily basis. For somebody, albeit a friend, to express this verbally to me felt like a slap in the face. This whole, "I don't need a man in my life to consider it remade" thing had finally begun to ring true for me, and now I am back tracking to try to determine if this is just another learning opportunity that I have to re-face, or if in fact I need to completely re-visit this belief once again.

Can I not allow for some imperfect or undone or unfinished part of my life to exist without saying it is still a "remade" life? If I made my bed this morning, but there are still some wrinkles in the sheets, do I consider the bed unmade?

Models

I find that people here have a difficult time being flexible with their perceptions of themselves and how they define who they are are, what they do and what their role is in whatever circle makes up their life. I assume its due to the culture which stresses family and group identity over individual identity. And so often I meet people fulfilling roles that seem so outside their natural character, or are in juxtposition to the reality of what their situation calls for. My impression is that they are molding themselves into some model for the role they should be fulfilling.

One model that I often witness performed is the "Boss". In this role, the boss is demanding, oftentimes verbally or emotionally abusive to their staff, and is able to control every action or inaction made by his/her staff. The employees who work for this boss are expected to kowtow to every whim and need of this boss. The classic black and white Egyptian movies portray the typical Arab boss with much accuracy - an grumpy man, sitting behind his desk with a cigarette in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, a stack of papers strewn across his desk, shouting commands throughout the office. In these movies the one thing missing in those offices is the "peer" relationship, ie those employess who you work with who are neither your boss nor fall under your direct supervision, whom in fact you do have to have daily interactions with and get along with. As their is no model for this type of work relationship in the Arab society (ie, either your somebody's boss, or somebody is the boss ofyou), the way colleauges treat their peers can be even more frightening.

I have an employee that works for me who when she does not want to do something that needs to get done and is within her job duty, will stall, drag her feet, and imagine up every obstacle that will prevent her from doing the job, that it often takes a lot of time, positive reinforcement and energy on my part to keep her focused and directing her back to the task at hand. I was noting this characteristic to a work peer of mine and saying, "It's so difficult to keep her on track, but I'm trying to keep her focused." My colleague replied, "What do you mean 'trying', you're her boss, MAKE her do it!" In my opinion, making her do anything would not teacher that she is self-responsible for her actions and reactions, and to gain some professional maturity in realizing that we all have to do things that at work that we don't like to do, and we get paid to actually do both those things we like and those we don't. Modelling and reinforcing that behavior is not really what bosses are supposed to do in this culture, they're supposed to demand and order around in a dismissive manner the people who work for them.

And as I mentioned, the "peer" relationship just does not seem to be anywhere in the Arab management model. Yet often you need something (information, a signature, help) from colleagues who are your peers. People spend a lot of energy in the Arab office setting fending off the peers ("you're not my boss, you can't make me do it") or treating them like they're employees ("I'm not going to do this for you unless my boss tells me to do it"). To say it adds some unique challenges to my work day would be an understatement.

The other type of model that I meet in this oh-so-seemingly modern setting where women work outside the home, go to cafes with their friends, and brag about their foreign travels, is the lazy husband. The husband never cooks, he never cares for the children (and I don't count ruffling the kids' hair as you walk in from an evening of playing cards with your friends as caring for your children), and he can rarely stick to deadline or be depended on for filling any domestic duty that may be typical of a male role (changing a lightbulb for example). They seem to stroll through life with very little sense of responsibility (except bringing home the paycheck) and often this behavior is mirrored in the workplace. Everybody seems to accept this model at face value for what it is, which is a good thing for societal peace. This after all is the only model role for the husband and father that both women and men in this society know.

I mostly keep my opinions to myself on this. Yet I am stunned how these smart, hard-working women don't demand something different from that model. And complain to me they do- the working mother who provides all daily care for her three children, a hot meal on time for her husband at the end of his hard day, and then is expected to be at her uncle's side when he is in the hospital for the flu, as well as expected to gleefully attend every wedding of every relative near and far, on top of the mandatory weekly visits to the closest relatives on both sides of the family. The list of household and family duties never ends. The model of the husband's role in all this is simple - provide the money to buy the food, clothes or gifts necessary to fulfill the above duties....and then.....sit back.

I have to remind myself that I have very little influence over these long held models. I try to be a certain type of model myself but it can be a very frustrating and lonely effort. An Arab girlfriend comments that she could, "never manage alone with her child" in the States, and yet I think she manages pretty much on her own with a ton more obligations that everybody puts on her in her environment here. Sure, she has a husband, but from my perspective his laziness is a liability and burden to her and her kids. Another girlfriend laughs at me when I tell her that I find I need some intensive me and down time every 6-8 weeks when I'm single mothering. Laughing at me she says, "That's not very long!" Do I hear a ring of judgement in that statement? I know I am not starving and smoking myself to death to just get through the stress of my day so I consider that a one-up. It's not ideal, but it is a certain type of model in its own right.

Take One

I love watching movies. I love watching good movies - usually ones that are based on a true story of some ordinary person defeating emotional, physical or environmental impossibilities to achieve extraordinary things. Those movies are tear jerkers, and provide an incredible uplifting message that gives you a sense of hope and wonder as you wander out of the dark screening hall into the daylight.

If I were to make a movie, or write a book, I have a friend who would make the perfect central character for the film. She's a 38 year old Palestinian woman who has three children aged 3-10 years. Her family is from Nablus, a large city in the northern West Bank. Her one brother and one sister, both younger than her, live in the States and were recently married to Palestinian-Americans. Her husband is from Jerusalem. He is a Jerusalem-ID holder while she is not.

The Israelis make it extremely difficult for Arabs to maintain and acquire Jerusalem-IDs, and yet it is so critical to Palestinians to maintain that status if they have it, as Jerusalem is the capital of their future state. And that is the center detail of my friend's story, from which all her woes emanate.

First, is her house. She lives in Jerusalem with her husband, since if he didn't live in Jerusalem he couldn't maintain his ID status. She has applied for what's called a "family reunion" permit that allows her to live in Jerusalem, but the permit is 2 years in the waiting. Instead, she has a permit from her employer which expires every 6 months. And when that happens, she needs to find a place to stay, usually in Nablus with her parents. As the Israelis make it impossible for an Arab to buy or construct new property in Jerusalem, even if they are Jerusalem ID-holders, her home is her husband's family home. Her mother and father-in-law live in the ground floor apartment and she, her, husband and her three children occupy a space of no more than 150 meters on the second floor. The Israelis claim that half of their house is illegally constructed, and every few years they have to get together about $35,000 to pay to the Israeli government so that their extra 75 sq meters (which consists of a bedroom, living room and balcony) are not demolished.

Connected to her house is her second woe - her mother-in-law. Arab mother-in-laws are infamous for their poor treatment of their daughter-in-laws, often making them slaves to their whims and moods. While not unique, my friend's mother-in-law does have a particular talent for insulting my friend for every lifestyle choice (although my friend would hardly consider them choices) she makes. In fact, her husband's brother faced the threat of divorce by his wife after just a year of marriage if they continued to live under the same roof with this lady, so they made the choice to move to Dubai. For two months, the mother-in-law has refused to step foot inside my friend's home, unless of course my friend isn't there, in which case she snoops endlessly. The mother-in-law also shamelessly recruits her granddaughters into service as her messengers, creating another layer of tension to the entire situation. The latest was that the mother-in-law was completely aghast that my friend had left dirty dishes in the sink overnight, despite the fact that because of clashes and closures at the West Bank checkpoints, my friend only arrived back to her home near 8pm, requiring her to compact all the evening duties (dinner, homework, bath time) into two hours.

And that leads naturally into the third woe - her job. She is not allowed to work in Israel, but since she is so smart and competent she easily found a job with an international organization in Ramallah. She has no choice but to work - her husband also works, but in order to keep up with the Jerusalem taxes, fees, and childcare and school costs, she has no choice but to work. Her commute to Ramallah on a good day takes 1 hour each way, in three different modes of transportation, and through a minimum of 1 checkpoint at which there are often delays. Her day starts at 5am and ends around 11pm. She is the executive assistant to a program with 35 staff that spends about $1 million in construction works each month. Her job consists of keeping track of all the paperwork for the contractors, the donors, and most of the program staff. Not to mention, the troublesome internal staff who don't have half the sense of responsibility for their job as she does. She regularly endures the verbal abuses of staff and contractors, but at least she has a kind boss who compensates her fairly for the hard work.

Perhaps her last woe is her husband. Her husband, typical of most Palestinian men, provides no support in any of the household duties - he doesn't cook, doesn't provide any child care support, and lives his life nearly completely independent of any concerns of the needs and ongoings of the children. My friend has spent many nights in the past year in the emergency room of the local hospital with her children - cuts, fevers, a broken limb. My friend has no direct support from her immediate family, and only sees them rarely as her duties are towards her husband's family. In the movie, the husband would be a side character rarely on screen. Oddly enough, if she wasn't married to him, perhaps all the other woes would not be hers either.

What makes my friend extraordinary is that she does this all with so much respect and cheerfulness and a sense of humour. When others would crack, she moves on, remembers what's important in her life, and takes one step forward. Her only weakness is the one cigarette she allows herself at the end of the day.

Yesterday she had some girlfriends over her house for a meal and while we shoo-ed the children out into the garden to pick olives with the neighbor, we laughed and lamented over the irony of life and what it throws us. After dinner, my friend makes a statement about drinking coffee and a round of laughter and hand clapping erupts among the girls. I learn that my friend "reads" the coffee grinds left over on the bottom of the cups of Arabic coffee. So my friend also has some psychic abilities!

We drink our coffee, swirl the left over coffee grounds in the bottom of the cup, and then tip the cup over to drain which leaves a trail of grounds along the sides of the cup which is then "read." The girls hoot and holler as the readings are done. In mine, she sees a high mountain that I've overcome with a lot of tears, a horse running to victory, three people remembering me and talking about me, a man in his 40s thinking of me, a hidden fact that I will reveal in the next two months, and a culmination of white happiness which she interprets as a new marriage. A friend remarks that none of her readings carry any unhappy or sad news. My friend remarks, "No, when I feel the sad feelings coming during a reading, I push them away and I move toward the happy ones."

It says so much about her outlook on life. So, I await the extraordinary parts of my life and my friend's life to reveal themselves so we can complete the storyline of the movie.

The Walking Wounded

There is a lot of pent up anger and unhappiness in this place. People and their families have been abused, imprisoned, and beaten down by so many internal and external forces. When a car cuts me off or the driver behind me is honking his horn in impatient annoyance, I try to remember this and to bring empathy to the situation.

I have been unfortunately feeling a bit like the walking wounded myself lately with what I've experienced at the hands of others: a colleague screaming at my consultants at the top of her lungs, another colleague insulting my work via email (I kind of give the other colleague more credit doing it face to face even though the delivery method still could have been approved), another colleague creating an entire web of lies just so she wouldn't have to face my disappointment at the truth, a "friend" once more throwing her selfishness and unreliability in my face. Oh, how many times I have to learn the same lesson! I wish life was kind of like how we learn simple addition in school - once you learn the concept, you don't have to face trying to learn it over and over again.

My son's teacher had the mandatory beginning of the school year parent's ("mother") meeting this past week. Even though I can only understand about 50% of these meetings, I still attend to send the message that I take my child's education seriously. Also, I had received a note home earlier in the week about his behavior at school so I wanted to meet the teachers face-to-face. The English teacher was first up on the agenda, and after presenting to the parents all the different teaching methods she's using, she came over to sit next to me to discuss my son's recent antics at school. My talkative son has also apparently been discussing with the English teacher my not-so-professional babysitter who talks on the phone and lays down on the couch for a rest occassionally (an issue which I have been dealing seperately on my own). The teacher concludes confidently to me, "Your child needs much more attention at home!" She gives me a pat on my knee and walks out the door leaving the floor to the Arabic homeroom teacher.

I sit in my seat, numb, fighting back tears. For 5 nights I have not cooked myself dinner because I've been spending all my free time in the evenings with my son, trying to support him through the adjustment of school, trying to plan a rather simple birthday party, and just trying to make sure I have whatever I need to get through the next day.

I looked around the meeting room to see what kind of other mothers (who for some reason in this culture are held 100% responsible for looking after their children's education) were in my company. I couldn't help but notice two mothers in particular. Sitting next to each other, they resembled twin versions of Barbie. They obviously had had a lot of plastic surgery, especially in their faces, their hair is straightened, dyed blond, and they're each wearing *bling bling* 6 inch heals. I notice their perfectly manicured nails and their slim figures.

I'm jealous, so jealous....obviously these women have the time to spend on themselves. Obviously, since they're not getting any special attention from the teachers their children must be getting enough attention at home to be so well behaved. Obviously, these ladies are not working 50 hour weeks, managing a limited household budget, feeling anxiety about the mental health of themselves and their children, trying to provide everything that is needed in an environment where they have trouble communicating their needs, being verbally abused by colleagues and taken advantage of by friends. However, there may be one area that we have in common.....our low self esteem. We are the walking wounded.

Gossip

People here often say that gossip is a "cultural thing" in Arab society, ie everybody does it without shame and the tiniest bits of information expand quite quickly into "truths." Whenever I hear some bit of news, I always dig deeper to try to find the source. People rarely admit to a source but will generally state it is a good one. I have to admit, while I don't make it a habit to be a source of gossip, I do enjoy the game of guessing out the extent of the truth of a piece of gossip.

 

My house cleaner, who I've mentioned before, is always a source of gossip, usually about people I've never met. Usually, I welcome it as an opportunity to improve my Arabic and it feels quite harmless since the people she talks at length about, providing intimate details of their lives, are complete strangers to me. It's kind of like watching a soap opera, but in this case, it is conveyed orally. Today I had a wonderful surprise! I usually don't have much tolerance for my housecleaner's incessant talking beyond 5 minutes, but today was different. It was a day off, I had just sent my son to school, and I was about to sit down with my first cup of coffee when she rang the doorbell. We exchanged a few minutes worth of conversation about each other's families, and then she dropped the bomb….my divorced landlord had gotten remarried…..and the woman is only 36 years old (he's in his early 50s, we think!).

 

But wait, it gets better. In fact, as my housecleaner tells it, they are married but they did not, and are not having a wedding. I don't think there's a word in Arabic which basically states "sleeping together" which my guess is what this relationship actually is. The "wife" moved in apparently with just a single suitcase. Any relationship outside of marriage is just plain unacceptable and incomprehensible in this culture which I imagine is the reason that there is no word for this type of relationship. So, they don't seem to be really married, it would be disrespectful for my landlord to tell the housecleaner that he was just sleeping with the woman. Besides, I have not seen this mysterious new wife coming and going on a daily basis. She is from northern West Bank, which explains my landlord's long absences these days. And the seemingly love affair also explains my landlord's inability to mobilize himself or any other help to fix the myriad of small but bothersome maintenance issues that my apartment is experience at the moment and are in desperate need of some tending to. Although frankly, he was never that focused on that stuff anyways even when he wasn't carrying on a grand love affair.

 

As we sit like teenage girls in full gossip mode, my housecleaner and I unabashedly pull apart the details of how this relationship came to be. My housecleaner frowns as she describes the woman – young with a baby at home, wears tight jeans and small shirts and smokes and drinks openly during Ramadan. "Is this a Muslim?!" she asks me. I explain to her how it was clear to me on several social occasions that my landlord had his eye for one type of girl – the local equivalent of the American dumb blond. We conclude that they are both "majnoon/majnoona" (out of their minds). For her sake, I try to explain, I hope she quickly learns that this man is nothing more than a grey-haired teenage boy, lacking any ability to take responsibility for the smallest things in his life (a whole other blog post!). For his sake, I hope he soon realizes that there are more fulfilling romantic relationships than being with the cultural equivalent of the dumb blond….or maybe not for his sake.

So they're crazy in love and having a culturally illicit affair, beyond the fun of pulling apart the details of their affair through gossip, I do not begrudge them being out of their minds – that is the aphrodisiac effect of love, isn't it? But then my housecleaner starts to make it personal, "Look at you, your son is at least 7 years old, and you, you are so 'sa'ab.'" That's meant to be a complement - Sa'ab is the word people use for children who are quiet, well behaved and conform to the cultural expectation that all children should be seen and not heard. I don't particularly enjoy the fact that my unintentional celibate lifestyle is being compared to a well behaved child. None of this is by choice. And, unlike the Arab culture, I fortunately have no norms that I have to conform to. And yet still, the stuff of adult, mature, romantic, "out of my mind" love still escapes me. I have no great desire to be the sa'ab child in this case.

 

 

Lost

I have a pretty good sense of direction, but there is something about this region of the world that throws that internal radar completely out of the loop. It may be something related to geographical elements - the "ocean" is to the West here. Living on the east coast for such a long number of years maybe can't make sense of this. Or, the endless undulating mountains and continuous paper-cutter settlements that dot the landscape around Jerusalem do not provide any signpost to the actual cardinal direction. Or, most likely, it is just difficult for me to wrap my head around the simple fact that Ramallah is located North of Jerusalem and Bethlehem is South. Maybe it was all those childhood religious classes that somehow made me think that Bethlehem was north of Jerusalem.

In any case, none of this helps me to navigate the circuitous, often one-way, no-turn streets of Jerusalem. And unfortunately, Jerusalem is not a place where one wants to get lost, especially if it is the Sabbath or other Jewish holy day. Yesterday, unbeknownst to me, was one of those such days. Its the season of Jewish holidays, but somehow I mixed up in my mind which days were actually the observance days. This year, the holidays also coincide with the Muslim celebrations of the end of Ramadan. I decided to profit from my 3 day holiday by going into Jerusalem to enjoy a nice walk in a park and dinner. It wasn't until I passed the walls of the old city that I realized that it was a day of religious observance. I drove into my favorite West Jerusalem neighborhood (called the German colony), which is my favorite mostly because its very secular and has a European feel to it. All the stores and restaurants were closed, there were no cars on the streets, and there were lots of families out walking. So I decided my next stop would be Jaffa street - a large, pedestrian commercial area. This is where I took a wrong turn.

I was soon passing men dressed in long black robes with tall, black hats on their heads, walking hand in hand with boys dressed as mirror images with payot hair locks. As the lone car driving slowly (in my attempt to be respectful!) down the streets, I realized I was getting dirty looks thrown my way. So, I made a few turns trying to make a quick escape, and only arrived deeper into the orthodox communities. Luckily for me, many of them put barriers up on the streets to prevent any vehicular traffic on the holidays.

At one intersection, I was faced directly with at least 100 Jewish children mulling around near the traffic barrier. I watched as several people whose appearances seemed to indicate they were tourists, approach the barriers, attempt to take photograph, and were engaged by the children in a lively dialogue. I'm not sure if the children were specifically tasked with the role of providing a double defense to the barrier against possible intrusion of outsiders. I do know that a few weeks prior, I had passed the outskirts of this same neighborhood on the main road leading to the old city, and at 8pm, very young children between the ages of 5-10 years were making a raucous on the road, shouting insults and threatening to throw stones at the passing drivers.

On the other side of the wall this morning, I was dodging Palestinian children dressed in their new, holiday clothing, flocking the streets with toy guns of all sizes - the most prized Eid (holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan) gift.

Scenes like these make it difficult for me to feel at all hopeful about attempts at peace in this region. Jerusalem and its environs is the main battlefield of this war of monotheistic religions. The fact that all sides are recruiting and inoculating the youth at such an early age to their war of beliefs does not give me any hope that generations to come will solve anything as walls of defense go up slowly in the minds of the children. Maybe our politicians need to go get lost in the streets of Jerusalem and Ramallah for a bit.

The holy month of Ramadan

Having done my full share of fasting and participating eagerly in the holy month of Ramadan in several countries throughout the Middle East, I find myself particularly vexed by the Ramadan experience here. Here is the list:

Driving - It is difficult to fully put into words how much driving skills degrade during Ramadan, as driving skills are certainly not a strength of Palestinians to begin with. Perhaps it is because minds don't think straight when the body is deprived of food and water (and nicotine!) for a full 10 hours, I try to be sympathetic to this point. Most drivers during Ramadan do not yield way, do not stop at intersections, run red lights, try to pass around traffic when there is no room to pass and generally forgo any civil actions on the road that might have been present prior to Ramadan. A few days ago, I was trying to back out of a parking lot onto a city street. Nobody would yield way and when a store owner came to my rescue to help direct traffic while I pulled out, a full 5 drivers completely ignored him. I have seen at least one accident per day since the start of Ramadan, and many days its 2-3 accidents. I just can't believe the surprise of the drivers who cause the accidents...they didn't think that this would possibly be the result of their irresponsible maneuvers? To compensate for all this craziness, I am driving like an old lady - slowly and with my indicators always on.

Time changes - In a move that seems fully futile, the Palestinian authority changes to "winter time" during Ramadan. That has no impact on the number hours of fasting. And it creates havoc with schedules given that neighboring Israel (and thus Jerusalem where a lot of our business is done) is still on summer time. Since the time change, I have missed 3 time-relevant work deadlines and have had to make extra calls to confirm exact starting times of meetings. I honestly can't believe the time change is worth all this havoc.

Business Hours - This is an inconvenience solely to the person not practicing Ramadan. During Ramadan, businesses don't have set opening hours. Some close the entire month. Most open late in the mornings and then are open for just a few hours before closing for the break of the fast. Some re-open after breaking the fast, some don't. As it concerns the numerous cafes and restaurants in Ramallah, they may open after the break of the fast, but with very limited service. Or, they are open, but only serve a large Ramadan Iftar (breakfast).

The Office - When it comes to the office place, colleagues who normally evacuate quickly at closing hours, evacuate an hour earlier. Male colleagues claim they have to run home to help prepare dinner, but talking to my female colleagues, the truth is that they run home for a 2-3 hour nap while their wives, who have also been fasting all day, prepare elaborate meals for an extended family. (Note: An Iftar meal is deemed sufficient not by the amount of food, but by the number of different dishes) I have one colleague who keeps his office door closed during Ramadan - its public knowledge that this colleague is actually napping most of the day behind close doors. I find myself busier than ever at work and I can't help but think it is because I am making up for all my fasting colleagues. Should I be more sympathetic?

I feel obligated to end on a positive note, as there are many things I do like about Ramadan. It is like celebrating Christmas for an entire month. There is much joy and comfort in celebrating and visiting with friends and family who share in the stresses of fasting, and who also share in the thankfulness of a wonderful meal. There is a lightness to the air in the evenings, when people gather full of renewed energy to spend relaxed in each other's company - smoking a sheesha, drinking tea, listening to music and just "hanging out." I definitely believe the smaller annoyances are a small price to pay to the enjoyment of loving company at sunset.

Instant Coffee during Ramadan

Since I made two trips Stateside in a matter of a month, on the unexpected second trip back for my grandfather's funeral, I was able to pick up a few things I hadn't had a chance to pick up on the first trip - namely, some fresh coffee beans of some of my favorite blends. It was immediately back to work as soon as I returned, so I brewed myself some strong coffee before heading into work the first few days back.

Its Ramadan, so its not polite to drink or eat in front of colleagues who are fasting. And brewing filtered or Arabic coffee would be a special kind of cruelty because the smells drift quickly and thoroughly through the office hallways. So when I didn't have time for brewed coffee these last few mornings (add to jet lag mornings the "back to school" routine, and I'm back to my frazzled self!), I stood in the empty kitchen at work staring at a sad, lonely jar of instant coffee.

A jar of instant coffee brings back memories of cold winter mornings in my childhood home. Whether it was because she was the only coffee-drinking adult at home, or it was a cost savings measure for a family of 6, or she just didn't have the time to brew coffee while shuffling 4 children out the door to different schools, my mother would religiously sip a cup of instant coffee while throwing the last few items into lunch bags or signing various permission slips for school activities.

The only day of the week I saw my mother drink brewed coffee was on Sundays - after the traditional early afternoon, four-course family Italian dinner at my grandparents house. As a young child, I'd be encouraged to take a nap directly after the dinner plates were cleared and I'd wake up a few hours later to the smell of coffee wafting through the air. My great aunt would forbid me from drinking any coffee, slapping my hand and warning, "If you drink coffee as a child it will make you short!" (she never mentioned how my Italian genes might prevent my growth beyond 5'2"!).

My grandmother brewed a perfectly strong tasting coffee. Somehow, I inherited her talent in this regard. I don't have a formula or a specific measure of coffee to water down, but my coffee is never weak and never undrinkable.

So you see, now I'm a coffee snob. I honestly don't know how it happened. It crept up on me slowly. I used to be a dedicated tea connoisseur. It probably started my first year out of grad school when I worked in Geneva, Switzerland. Lunches in Switzerland are always followed by an espresso with a piece of chocolate. Then came years in the Middle East were the rich dense texture of Arabic coffee very slowly grew on me. Visiting the now abandoned Yemeni port town of Mocha on the Red Sea where coffee beans were first imported from Africa into the western world raised my interest in the history of coffee.

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I learned to enjoy coffee for its taste, and not for its caffeine content. Although, admittedly, the occasional times I've decided to take a break from coffee, I do end up with withdrawal headaches. One day a few years back I went into my neighborhood cafe and asked for an espresso. The barrista looked at me and said, "Now? At two in the afternoon?!" That's actually the perfect time as Italians will tell you - no cappuccino after 10am, and no espresso until after noon!

So my contribution towards fasting this Ramadan is to go without brewed coffee. It does feel like I'm missing something. My mornings don't get started quite so smoothly. But I just can't break down to open that jar of instant coffee.

Aha moments

Maybe its the Reiki meditation I've been doing lately, but yesterday I had two big "aha" moments.

The first one, while it sounds silly, was a voice that told myself, "Today, I don't have to save the world. Today, I don't have to solve all the problems of this world." I swear my shoulders dropped a good six inches. What the heck has been on my mind so much lately that I seriously think that I am in charge of saving the world.

The second one was actually slightly more significant and it went something like this, "Hey, I am not 100% responsible for my relationship with my boss! When is she going to realize that relationships are two way streets, will she ever?!" I realize I've been directing so much useless energy towards "making her happy" or "pleasing her" ..... this woman who told me that she expects "perfection" from me and nothing less. Perhaps this would be appropriate if I was a bank teller. But I am not a stepford employee, I am human. And I am not going to risk my health and my wonderful relationship for my son to strive to somehow win her praise of some performance expectation that is beyond my human reach. She also said this week that she wants all her staff working at 150% - surprising to believe that she just returned from a two week management/leadership training.

Both of these self-revelations have left me with a much less anxious internal dialogue. Decisions need to be made. Now is that time. And actions need to be taken. The time is coming.

Cars and bling, bling

Somebody told me once that Palestinians observe only three things when meeting a stranger and sizing them up - their shoes, their watch, and their car. I think I would pass the acceptable line in the first two categories, but as for the third - forget it! I've written here before about my piece of cr@& car. Yesterday the annual registration on it officially expired requiring me to figure out how to officially interact with Israeli bureaucracy once again.

As I've learned is the case with most foreigners who unofficially live in the West Bank (that is, unofficially to Israeli officials who we convince that we live on the other side of the green line), the anticipatory anxiety involved with dealing with Israeli officials is often much greater than the anxiety bore by the actual interaction. So was my case today with my car registration.

First, I had to find a post office to pay my registration fee. No easy task in a city where twisting, one-way streets suddenly lead to unmarked dead ends. The task was made easier when I was directed to a shopping mall just across the separation wall. The bank had the "take a number" customer service method which usually makes things organized, but the number machine was broken. Its actually a typical experience of mine with Israeli bureaucracy - its slightly disorganized and broke. After a 30 minute wait (people do everything from pay car fees to electric bills to actually send a piece of mail at the post office), I was off to the testing center.

The testing center is a fairly new facility located in the shadows of the separation wall specifically to serve Israeli Arabs, it actually surprised me that Israel would make it this easy, but it was. The Israeli Arab workers took pity on me (since we could not communicate in Hebrew or Arabic, as my car vocabulary in Arabic is quite limited), and did everything they could to get my car to pass the tests. My registration was officially approved, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief to realize I did not have to do this for at least another 12 months!

Buried Pots, Buried Lives

There is obviously a deep connection to one's land and one's past here in Palestine. The first time I flew over this area I wondered how people could be fighting over what is, from 15,000 feet, a seemingly brown, barren land. I have a theory that as Americans, we do not have such a deep connection and affiliation to land because it is so vast and plentiful, and so are the natural resources that come along with it. In Palestine, however, livable and arable land and natural resources are so less plentiful, and that is perhaps the reason why connection to land runs much deeper.

Similiar to the generations of Palestinians who have never lived on the other side of the green line, I now hear daily the stories of those generations who did and the lives and things they left behind. A colleague's father was born in a town called Lod, which is located near Ben Gurion airport, and is in full view from my apartment. It can't be more than 40Km from where I am living now and is clearly a burgeoning Israeli town. In 1948 he was 5 years old. Sensing the build up of conflict, his father took him into their backyard one day, and engaged his son's help in burying their most valuable family assets - china, silver and a grandfather clock. His father told him that they could not take these things with them, but if they remembered the site where they were buried, they would return to the home after the war and uncover their items. The next day he was whisked to Ramallah to stay with some aunts. As days and months passed, he and his family were registered as refugees and he was enrolled in a UNRWA school. He never returned to Lod and he never unburied his past.

This man now in his 60s still refuses to eat oatmeal or cereal. It was the food that was fed to him daily in the UNRWA school. He refused at such a young age to admit he was a refugee and to admit he was in need. He comes from one of the biggest Christian families in Ramallah. He owns a home and has raised a family of 4. He is one of the luckier refugees who doesn't live one of the hundreds of camps that still dot the West Bank and Gaza cities where multiple generations have been raised, but have never called these places their homes.

My son's babysitter is a college-aged boy. When I met him I asked him where his home is. He didn't miss a beat when he answered, "Lod." But I knew immediately that he couldn't actually live there. I repeated back to him, "Lod? You mean Lod by Tel Aviv?" His reply: "Yes, that Lod, that is where my family home is....or was." He was making a clear statement to me, a passing through, easy-life, expat.

The conflict is about something that runs deeper than the 12 foot seperation barrier between the West Bank and Israel. It is about something that runs deeper than the Israeli government's knee-jerk reaction to refer to all Palestinians as terrorist. In fact, it is a concept and connection to land that I do think Israelis feel with similar depth. However, I do not think it is a concept that many western politicians even begin to grasp.

Contrasts Remarked

I find some amazing contradictions of life in the West Bank. I noticed one today. It doesn't rain here at all between May and October. The winter is the rainy season. In this dry season, the air, filled with a fine sandy, dust, and the land, provide a stark brown background for any remaining greenery that strives to survive. And yet, because it is summer, it is the season in which the trees become full with their green leaves, helping to sway their branches in the hot wind.

In the winter, it can rain for 7 days straight, and at the end of that rain, the sky will open up, and suddenly below that sky will come a sparkling, green carpet of growth that suddenly adds a new dimension to the landscape. And yet, during this period, the trees are completely barren of any colored growth. I never noticed this contradiction until now...a contradiction I could not be fully aware of until I live a full year of seasons in this climate.

A couple weeks ago I made my second visit to Gaza. The government-in-charge wears full clean, neat and I'm guessing fairly new blue uniforms. And throughout the streets there are children running through the dirty, dusty streets completely bare-footed.

I watched a young child of 7 sketch a picture in crayons of a boat on the ocean. Two red and black missles are falling from the sky. The boy explains in his timid voice, eyes focused downward, that the two scary-eyed stick figures have jumped into the water because they don't want to be killed by the Israeli missles. I ask him in Arabic if this is something he has seen or heard about. He replies, "It's what I've imagined..." and after a slight pause..."and it scares me." Israelis are firing daily on the fishing boats that serve as the only possible livelihood for so many young Gazan men.

A half hour later, I am visiting a summer activity camp in the neighboring village for children aged 8-13. The camp takes place in a youth center which appears to be an untouched oasis surrounded by flattened homes and businesses. On the drive in, I can only think about what these people have witnessed and what they have lost. I spend an hour observing a theatrical performance for the children. Young men and women are acting as the facilitators and, without a complaint, they dress themselves in full, thick customs and put on a show about a Panda, Bunny and Chicken who are working together to convince the Panda's parents that it is OK and good to have fun. The skit is cute, and full of innocent one-liners. The children are in stitches, laughing non-stop with big smiles on their wide-eyed faces. After the skit, the children are invited to get up and dance with the animals. The children rush the stage and dance with such enthusiasm and life. I have to fight back the tears. How can children who have witnessed so much find the hope and ability to throw off the memories and fears which must haunt their sleep? I've been through much less and seem to struggle much more.

Back on the West Bank, much less serious contradictions again attract my attention. The people who care so much about their land, litter endlessly despite the fact that there are plenty of garbage dumpsters and cans on the streets with regular twice weekly pick-up. The people who get so angry with the senseless loss of life of their fellow citizens, also smoke without second thoughts.

Contradictions I believe are a normal part of life which no logic can justify or erase. But perhaps the biggest one of all is the ability of these amazing people to find such a normal range of feelings and life experiences in such an otherwise very abnormal situation.

Brides get the best flowers in the summer

Every week or so I go to one of the florists in old Ramallah and buy a bouquet of flowers for the house. For about 2-3 weeks, every time I go in to the store, the bouquets are kind of lifeless, and a somewhat ugly blend of nameless flowers. I've walked out several times empty handed and disappointed. I couldn't figure out what was going on until I passed by the store on a Friday, and saw the bridal cars lined up with people scrambling to decorate the hoods and trunks of the cars with elaborate rose bouquets. Throughout the Arab world, this is what they do for weddings - decorate the cars with flowers. So the mystery of what has happened to the choice flowers at my florist is now solved. Yes, wedding season has begun.


Engagement season has also now begun. Single Palestinian men of a certain age who spend the majority of their year working abroad to put their education and skills to work in countries with much lower unemployment rates - such as the Emirates and the States, will return to Palestine in the summer to begin a mating ritual. Prior to their arrival, the female family members will begin asking other family members, friends, neighbors, etc. for lists of eligible "good women" to match with their sons. The simple fact that these men have a visa or passport status in a foreign country gives them a considerable edge over their domestic counterparts. And, a woman can increase her eligibility status if she as well has a foreign passport. The men will spend their few precious vacation weeks meeting with the women on the family-authorized list. And when they find one who suits them, a quick engagement celebration will most likely be held before the men return to their jobs outside the country, and continue a virtual courtship from abroad until a wedding date is eventually set.


The significance of the engagement varies throughout the Arab world. It is on one hand a show of support on both the families part to this relationship. And thus, it is a sort of permission to "date" in a society where it is generally unacceptable for men and women to be together freely in mixed company. So from that point of view, it is perhaps less of a commitment than what we typically think of an engagement in American society. However, in some countries, the engagement is given such significance that the reputation of the girl and her family is ruined if an engagement is broken. The girl is astrocized to an extent equalling the humility wrought upon an Arab woman in divorce as well.


I have the fortune to have 3 wonderful girls working for me - they are bright, smart, eager, energetic, and just simply great people. One is married and the mother to a pair of twin children. The other two both informed me of their engagements this week. Neither of them seemed overly enthused when they made the announcements, but I chalked it up to their timidity in mixing their professional and personal roles, as neither of them had spoken to me previously about these men in their lives. I wanted to know all about them. Come to find out, there was not much to know.


In the first case, the girl is getting engaged to a man she's worked with previously and they've been talking to each other for a year. She's going to get engaged to him, but she openly admits that she is definitely not sure if he's "the one."


In the second case, my colleague is a US passport holder. She has most of my male colleagues continually shaking in their boots because she is so damn competent. She tells me that the reason I've heard nothing about this love of her life is that she just met him yesterday. He's in from Dubai, searching for a wife, and after a 2.5 hour conversation, they agreed to get engaged. "Oh, so this is one of those 'permission to date' engagements, right?" I ask, rationalizing it all to myself. After all, the way she's explained it, I'm about to lose my best staff member to Dubai at some undetermined future. She makes a grimace as if I suggested some unpleasant work task that must be done today and responds, "Kind of, except we're also planning a wedding, for next March." GASP!


As I try to recover my breath, I ask, "OK, so what is it about this guy that after 2.5 hours you know this is it?" "Well, lots of people had been suggesting we meet. He didn't want to meet me because he said he was not interested in a woman with Master's Degree but then....." Her monologue continues and I hear about 5% of it after that point because my ears are suddenly blasted with screaching and screaming bells and whistles warning her to "stop, stop, stop". But of course, I know vocalizing it all will do no good. So I shake my head in support, with my own rather unethusiastic grimace plastering my own face. In the 2.5 hour conversation, they've made all their plans for the future, and since they have the same vision of what they should be, the road ahead will be paved with roses. The best roses in Ramallah, I'm sure.

Permits and other essentials

Permits are an essential part of life for most West Bankers, as well as those Palestinians holding Jerusalem IDs. The Israelis seem to make it a constantly moving target, changing rules, types of permissions, and timelines for permissions on a regular basis. Even after 9 months, I am learning something new about this world of permits. While I don't require a permit, most of my local colleagues and friends do.

I have a couple American friends who are married to Palestinian men. Their children hold American passports and Palestinian passports. Until the age of 16, the children are allowed to travel with their mothers through all checkpoints and the Tel Aviv airport without any special, additional permissions. One of my friend's 6 year old sons has recently become aware of the complexity of the permit issue, his curiousity begetting endless questions.

Add to the permit issues, the equally complex ambigous permissions of checkpoints and border crossings between the West Bank and Israel/Jordan. For example, there are three border crossings between the West Bank and Jordan (all border crossings are controlled by Israel). Palestinian-Americans (US passport holders who have Palestinian routes) are only allowed to use one of those crossings. Or, take the various checkpoints between Ramallah and Jerusalem - one for settlers (and other "special people" - foreign passport holders, work permits). Another one for VIPs, but which seems to be open to about anybody depending on the whim of the Israelis soldiers. And the last for all others.

The other day, I was convoying out of Ramallah to a horse ranch. Among 10 of us, each of us had a different set of permit/visa/passport issues. We decided to use the "special people" checkpiont, seeing if we could manage to get through by putting the American blonds in the driver seats. It worked by us all showing the one identity card we all held in common - a US Government ID.

After I showed my card and passed through, my friend's son piped up from the back seat, "Mom, does she (pointing to me) have a permit?" "No, she doesn't." "Then how did she pass through?" "We showed a card that says who we work for." "oh" Yes, "oh". No further questions, but I of course was very curious about why this child would mark me into the category of being a permit holder? Has he learned that its West Bankers that have a permit? Does he assume because my son has an Arabic name and he went to the same school with him, that we are Palestinians? Or is his understanding of the permit much broader and his questions were an attempt for him to narrow the category of his understanding (ok, check the box, she is not a permit holder?).

No matter how annoying I find the procedures, all the thought that has to go into anything before heading out the door (I actually forgot my passport when we went to the horse ranch- you'd think after 9 months of this place I'd know enough not to leave the house without it), and the time lost in dealing with Israeli procedures (I faced 40 minutes of questioning by Israeli officials at 2am when returning recently from Paris), I try to keep my compalining in check in front of my Palestinian friends - they by far have it worse than I. And, at the same time, whenever I do hear my friends complain about the craziness of all this, it somehow makes me feel better that they themselves realize how highly abnormal everything is.

And that is why when people talk about "peace", and "security" and all this other BS, I have to resist the desire to stand up and yell, "Have you seen, have you witnessed, have you felt what these people go through on a daily basis in the name of all it?!?" And yet, the international community seems to shake its head in some common diplomatic, "ah yes good point" when Israel talks about the multitude of conditions it adds to each new endorsement of the "two state solution." It is amazing to me how a people who established a State in the name of ensuring that human rights were never again violated against an ethnic or religious group, can turn around and defy all standards of human rights on another ethnic/religious group. At least twice the Palestinians have stood up and said "enough is enough", and yet who hears them over the barbed wire and concrete encircling the West Bank?

No envy. No Fear.

I'm not quite clear what inner strength is. Neither am I clear what courage is. If I have to think about a definition of those, it confuses me, as if the definition should be something fully tangible.

I had the wonderful opportunity recently to catch up with a beautiful friend whom I lived for two years during an overseas stint with over a decade ago. The stark differences in how we each remember our experiences gave me an incredible opportunity to reflect on how paths are so individually tread. Even ten years on, her reference point is that overseas post. With a husband and two small children, she is seeking every opportunity to return, to connect, and I wonder, to relive? As for myself, that post was a reference point best left in the past, and my future is seeking challenging opportunities in which I can learn and grow. I feel no great need to connect to that past, except if it helps to better inform my future.

If people tell me that I am courageous, I block it out – literally, it will go in one ear and out the other. I am not courageous when my knuckles turn white from grasping the armrests on a turbulent airplane ride. I'm not courageous when the questioning from Israeli authorities leaves me trying to mentally jump through an obstacle course of lies. I am not courageous when I know I have to do things differently at work to get a different result, but I prefer the less energy-draining path of not thinking about a way to take on my problem and find a solution.

Inner strength to me assumes a block of ageless granite which can withstand winds, rain, storms, and heat without a single chip, bend, or watermark. Maybe my age marks are not so visible, but there are plenty of internal grooves and marks (samskaras). I try to remold them – is that the elusive inner strength? I hardly feel like a block of granite. I feel more closely affiliated to a fledgling bird that has been dropped from its nest. Inner strength eludes me when there is still one more heated conversation I need to have with the Ex to help him more fully understand his fathering responsibilities. Inner strength eludes me when I know that getting out of my shell is much better for me than hibernating in it. Inner strength eludes me when I have to pull myself out of bed some mornings.

I thought I would envy my friend – husband, beautiful home, children – everything I wanted. Everything I think I still want. But I did not feel envy. I felt an odd sense of contentment at my fly by the pants life decisions that brought me to the footprint I occupy today. My friend told me that in a recent conversation she had with a mutual friend of ours that they decided that age has made them more "bitter" – I'm sure I audibly gasped when she said it. Bitter is definitely not an adjective I'd ever like to own. Realistic - YES. A little less optimistic – YES. Bitter – NEVER.

There was one day a few years back that I woke up and literally felt my vision had changed overnight, as if somebody had taken off the smudged, rose colored glasses I was wearing. I felt like I've heard people describe their vision after getting Lasik surgery. Literally, the blue of the sky was starker, the contrast of the green trees against the sky was more vivid, and the outlines of houses and buildings were sharper. I can't describe what happened to spark this sudden clarity in my eye sight, which had an equal impact on the clarity of my thoughts. But because of that, I am sometimes fearless. And it is as if the ability to see clearly, trust clearly, know clearly, is the antidote for bitterness, and maybe fear and envy as well.

Enter: The other side of the world

Entry and exit into Gaza is only possible with an Israeli-issued permit. The "permit" is not actually a piece of paper or any substantive form of any tangible item so far as I can determine, but is a simple permission in some system that puts a name onto a permissable list. Entry and exit into Gaza than requires a second bureucratic step known as "coordination" made possible by Israelis. One day last week a member of the US Embassy security team phoned me out of the blue and said, "you are admitted to enter into Gaza on Sunday." It's not an invitation I could lightly turn down.

Directly prior to my leaving, I fortunately ran into an American friend who had entered Gaza in the past few months. She offered to give me a rundown of the procedures for getting through the border crossing (no simple procedure when it comes to any of Israel's border crossings) which I can summarize as "just keep walking, keep going through the turnstyles, there will be nobody around, you won't know where you are going, just follow those who offer help

With those helpful instructions running through my head, I pulled up to the Erez terminal on a bright, hot Sunday morning. Erez terminal is quite a sight - from the outside it looks like a clean, effecient, spanking new airport terminal. Except it is completely empty, there is no movement, no sound, no voices. I hand my passport to an Israeli soldier seated in a triple-glassed booth and then I wait for 20 minutes in the glaring sun waiting for my name to be called. When it is, I proceed through a metal gate and toward the entrance of the terminal, following the simple signs with arrows that say "Gaza". After a border guard grilled me with questions inside a glass booth, my passport is stamped and I make my way through a series of turnstyles (through which only fit a person and one small piece of luggage), then down a narrow, grey, silenced corridor which ends at a cement wall. In the cement wall are two large steel doors.

When I managed myself and my small bag through the final turnstyle, I was standing in front of the two large steel doors suddenly feeling as if I was at the moment in that Jim Carry movie, "The Truman Show" when Truman realizes that he's reached the edge of the set and he is being watched. Security cameras sit high on the wall. And suddenly, one of the steel doors opens automatically, ashuring me through to the other side

A smiling Palestinian greets me on the side, takes my bag, and leads me down a long, open aired cooridor where he passes me off to another bag handler who accompanies me a kilometer down a gravelled, pot holed road toward my waiting colleagues. I handed over some money for the baggage handling and I was then officially on Gaza territory. One additional checkpoint is left - a few cement barriers in the middle of the road where Hamas officials take down my name and the name of my organization, then welcome me to their country.

Its a country that has seen many changes, where current events change the landscape of the Strip in unpredictable fashion at a continual interval of every 3-5 years. Its immediately evident that this is the most populated piece of land on earth - miles and miles of cement buildings reach to the Meditteranean shores. The poverty is also immediately evident - in the smell of rotting sewage, in the site of a young, shoeless man limping down a street, and in the sounds of the donkey carts limping slowly down the paed streets with their human loads. And finally, it is evident who is in charge - the green flags scribbled with Arabic hang from every available light post, building and tree. Bearded men in clean, crisp navy blue uniforms bring a discipline to the streets that is definitely not evident in the West Bank

I watch and observe this place that seems like the other side of the world, if only because the journey was so strange.

TV Portraits

I'm not a big TV watcher, TV in general bores me, and I'm not even talking about news channels whose coverage is so "un-news" worthy that it leaves me yelling at the tube when I do watch it. Even though weeks would go by in the States when I wouldn't even turn on the tube, my TV watching habits go into over-drive when I'm overseas. The Arab satellite channels aren't that bad. There's a couple stations that show syndicated American shows, usually the "best of the best" - CSI, Law & Order, Grey's Anatomy, Gilmore Girls. And then you've got the talk shows - Oprah, Dr. Phil, etc which are broadcasted during what we refer to in the States as "prime time" hours. I can't quite figure out what the Arab Sat channels consider prime time hours, but it seems to be 9pm-1am. During those hours, they also broadcast Turkish soap operas dubbed into Arabic.

If I felt required to defend my TV-watching habits, I would say that it is an excellent medium for improving my Arabic comprehension. Especially any of the arab soap operas and movies - the romance is always forbidden - usually by the girl's parents, and usually because it goes against some pre-determined social standard for marriages (class, family, rivalry). I can actually concentrate on the Arabic language when the story line is so standard and predicatable.

And yet, despite all of this, what has really held my attention over the past 6 months is actually the commercial breaks and what they say about women's roles in Arab society.

My favorite one that took me months to figure out is a 45 second commercial clip. It opens with a woman sitting in the back of a luxury car dressed in her black Abaya being chauffered somewhere (setting - Saudi Arabia where women can't drive and thus are chauffered everywhere). The look of concern and worry on her face is attention-grabbing. That was what originally drew me into the commercial...."oh my gosh, this poor woman, what is so important that she is fretting with such concern?!" The commercial flashes to a digital clock in the car which says 11:59am. Scene change - inside a house where an unscarfed woman is putting a dish into the oven and glances at the clock...11:59. Then you hear the two women talking rapidly on their cell phones, "Where are you? It's time!" "I'm here! I wouldn't miss it!" The luxury car pulls into a driveway, the scarfed woman dashes out, into the house, the two women run breathlessly to a couch, sit down, and turn on the TV.....to watch a daily shopping channel. When I figured out the narrative of the commercial I was completely disappointed....all this worry so she wouldn't miss an hour of home-TV shopping?!

In fact, based on TV commercials alone, arab women engage in a limited number of activities - shopping, cleaning the house, taking care of the children, and cooking for their husbands....oh, and also worrying about their weight. You never see a woman in the workplace. You never see a woman doing something good for her community or children's school or country. You never see a woman dashing her children about to outdoor sports or education activities. The only time Arab women seem to be enjoying something for themselves alone is when they're shopping.

As I watched so little TV in the States I can't objectively say how much this differs from American commercialization of consumer goods. But I will not deny that the commercials on Arab TV fascinate me and make me feel as if I'm a voyeur into the life of the Arab version of the Stepford wife.

Rationalized Perspective

The first three-four months of this year were kind of crazy. I'm sure it was a mixture of everything at work, tear gas, cold, gray rainy winter days, etc. I was definitely desperately in need of the R&R I took in April. Decompression. I spent it in the company of family and friends, relaxing, watching mindless TV, and catching up on the more mundane, but significant developments of people's lives. And I drove - 2 trips back and forth between DC and Rochester, NY. It wasn't as bad as it sounds, it was somehow what I needed.

I had mixed feelings about returning. It would have been so nice to extend the vacation, just chill out. I didn't want to return. But the center of my life is now in Palestine - work, my home, my Now. My Present.

When I returned it took just two days to realize in complete clarity why it was difficult to come back. Life in the States is so.....Easy. Life overseas, in Palestine is so...frought with complications. Who wouldn't want things to be easy? Easy is....well...easy. Easy is predictable, easy is unnerving, and easy is sometimes boring.

But that's OK, I rationalized that making life feel easy here, in Palestine, is "just a matter of perspective." I can either tell myself that I am living as if in imprisoned "behind a wall" like everybody else. Or, I can tell myself that I'm chosing to live in a city that's just kind of like a suburb of Jerusalem. And geeze, its easy, if I want to go to the big city, I can just jump in my car.

With this new rationalized perspective, I also decided that I needed to go out and live my rationalized perspective. So, I decide I'm going to go out and enjoy this "country" just as I would as if I was in the States.

The weather turned suddenly hot here this week, and I really have zero tolerance for hot, dry climates. So I had this yearning for water. Within a 20-40 minute drive from Ramallah, there are several oasis, where underground rivers make temporary detours above ground. So, a friend and I make plans to take our 5 children to this oasis for the day which is just a "drive down the road."

As we're convoying our way out the driveway, my friend rolls down her window, "Hey, just so you know, we're going to drive through a Settlement to get there. Ok? Are you ok with that?" "Yeah, sure no problem!"

Fifteen minutes later, we pull of the main road, and drive up to a checkpoint/barrier. My friend explains to the guard that we're together, and we pull on through. So far so good...a little wierdness, but hey, I can still rationalize my newfound perspective, right? Kind of like I'm entering a "gated community".

We arrive at the park entrance which sits at a T intersection. Down the long part of the T a long line of West Bank cars is waiting to get in the Park, the driver of the lead car is out on the road waving his ID in his hand and arguing with the park ranger. We drive straight on through down to the oasis.

The crowd at the oasis is obviously mixed - Israelis of all sects, Palestinians of all sects. Everybody watches each other...closely....trying to identify each other? I'm not sure if its obvious who we are - two American women with 5 arabic-named children.

We spread out our picnic blanket on the bank of the river, and the kids jump into the water. Its really an enjoyable time. My friend keeps making these remarks about how the smell, the climate, the nature remind her exactly of California. I wonder if she is rationalizing all of this now.

After the kids climb out of the water and we've filled ourselves on labneh sandwhiches, the crowd is winding down and we start changing the kids out of their wet suits. A Jewish family appears around a bend in the path headed in our direction. In the lead is a young girl, maybe 13-15 years old. An age I think where a girl would "know better." She is stalking around us, but I don't think much of it, just figure she's waiting for her family to catch up. Suddenly, a tree branch lands squarely between myself and my friend's son whose shirt I am trying to pull over his head. I turn around, the girl shoots me a dirty look, and walks off.

My new rationalized perspective evaporates.

On the way back to Ramallah, I drive the boys along the 3km of Wall where "The Longest Letter" has recently been completed. (check out: http://www.sendamessage.nl/the-longest-letter/) I read the letter to them as I drive. This is not a place where justice reigns. I think its important the kids learn that.

An angel

I've been having serious car problems for well over 3 weeks. I tell myself that's what I get for buying a very used car. Yet, ironically, my car didn't start having problems until I brought it to a mechanic for an oil change. After the oil change I was told the water pump would need to be replaced, but it could wait. 24 hours later the water pump was broke along with all the cylinders of the engine. The only thing good about major auto repairs in the West Bank is that it's cheap.

Upon entering into areas "C" on the West Bank (administratively controlled by the PA and security controlled by the PA....apparently, but that is another blog entry for another day), there are plenty of signs warning you that you are entering area C. One says no Israelis are allowed in. Another warning is translated as, "Warning you are entering area C. If your car breaks down in this area, it is illegal to hand over to Palestinian authorities for repairs." I couldn't understand what this message meant. I mean, for all I know, the PA government does not own some grand scale auto repair place. I thought it had something to do with terroism issues. But, no, come to find out it is because the stealing of cars in and outside the West Bank is so rampant, and the theives bring the cars into the West Bank, rip them apart, and sell the used parts. And thus the reason car repairs are so cheap.

But, to make a long story longer.....

My cylinders were repaired, and within 24 hours of that repair being completed, I run over a pothole that could have swallowed my VW Golf in one piece. That cost me $6 for needing to replace the power steering fluid hose which broke.

Another 24 hours passes and a distinctive thump develops under the left hand wheel. The thump becomes even louder. I try to bring it to the cylinder repair man, but he's booked for the day. So I'm instructed to drive slowly home and bring it back tomorrow.

On my way home from the office, I'm certain the car is about to collapse on its chasis any moment. At a T intersection, a car pulls up on my left and tells me in Arabic that there is a problem with my tire. I wave him off and tell him, "yeah, yeah, I know." Another kilometer down the road, the guy has pulled over the side of the road and is standing outside his car, and waves me down. I'm pretty annoyed at this point but tell myself, "heck, let me entertain this guy." Before I can even step out of the car, the guy has the hubcap pulled off. The tire is missing 1 lugnut, and 2 more are so loose they can be pulled out.

The guy tells me his is a car mechanic, "I own a big garage. If you want, you can follow me, I'll fix your car. If not that is ok, but this is big problem, very big problem." I'm skeptical, very skeptical. Is this guy trying to rip me off? I'm convinced every Arab man that sees a western woman is just waiting to rip her off. With nothing to loose but the entire chassis of my car, I follow the guy, and 2 hours, $100 bucks, 2 cups of tea, and a half hour worth of conversations about family, my car is fixed.

Today an angel took the form of a car mechanic.

The Look

There's a look that comes over men's faces in this part of the world when a woman starts trying to make a point beyond any mere statement about the weather or what is being served for lunch. When I see that look come over a male colleague's face, I know that I am no longer being heard. I may in fact be sitting there speaking Chinese at that moment. And at the point, I have to clearly resist the desire to give the guy a good shake. Even more annoying is when that look comes over the man's face, and then he begins speaking, interrupting me in the middle of the dialogue, and he usually repeats the same point that he was making before I started speaking.

To be fair, it is a phenomenon that sometimes happens with women, but much less often.

The odd thing is, I don't know how to respond other than to basically speak over the man and keep asking him to let me speak, repeating myself until he complies to my request.
This type of conversation usually begins when we don't agree on how to proceed with some task at hand - the latest case was a survey. For me, a conversation is about each of us expressing our point of view and then coming to a consensus on how to proceed. But for the man, its as if its a conversation for everybody to agree with him, thus the reason he turns off his ear drums and just keeps repeating himself?

The most frustrating thing for me is the waste of time it takes to go through the process of getting the man to a point that he will actually 1) listen and 2) understand what I have said. I repeat myself, he repeats himself, I repeat myself, I am interrupted, I wait for him to finish, I try to re-phrase what I've said, I am interrupted, I then interrupt him, and on and on. Is there a better way to do this?

Oh Really?

My son had a birthday party to go to on Friday. One of my favorite mother-duty past times is trying to dodge birthday parties. Usually, I don't have to try too hard - they're at times when I'm unavailable to drive him, I can't read the Arabic writing on the party invitation (ok, this one is a bit of a cop out, I can usually dicepher the place and time at least), or my son doesn't like the child anyways.

But this time, I couldn't dodge the birthday party bullet. It was scheduled for a Friday afternoon (the time of week when nobody does anything), and it was for one of my son's favorite (only?) friends from his class. Then I started hoping that this was just a drop off party and I could get some free time to myself. I tried, literally, to dodge the party at the drop off. But my gut told me at the last minute that I was being completely rude, so I ran into the house to say hi to the parents and of course was greeted by the tug on the arm and the "where are you going so quickly, you must stay." It's not that I don't like these people. I do. I just didn't feel like socializing. So I stay.

One of the reasons I really like this family is that the father is a teacher, has an obvious love for children, and is also visibly involved in his son's life and home life. It is such a rare thing to see in this part of the world, and I always want to know more about how these random people happen. The mother works outside the home at a full time, busy public servant job. So I am even doubly surprised that she has the luck to be married to such a man.

I start conversing with another woman at the party who has three daughters aged 6-16. She talks about her daughters and their work at school. Then she mentions an event she has going on with a cultural organization. She's lived and studied in the States. So in my somewhat culturally inastute attempt to make small talk, I ask her if she works outside the home. She tells me that at one time she did work full time outside the home. When she would return in the evenings, she had no energy to cook or help the kids with homework. Her husband was resentful that her work outside the house was taking away from her household duties (ie, there was no hot dinner on the table when he returned from work), so he refused to help her around the house at all. In order to "protect" her marriage, she quit the job. Now her daughters are older and she has just been offered, or more accurately, begged to take a part time job doing what she already does as a volunteer. She said she could not make a decision before getting the approval from her husband, which had until now had not yet been forthcoming.

I don't know what got me angrier about this story - her laments about how exhausting working outside the home can be (my goodness, try being a single mother!) or her accepting that her husband's resentment was good enough to put her desires in second-third place. Ok, I get it, its a cultural thing. In a recent UNICEF report, I read a statement that said, "Arab women derive their identity from being the caretakers for their family." It's so obvious, and yet, it had never occured to me that in fact is the case.

I guess it is also why a single colleague in her late 30s asked me recently, "Is it better to be single or to be married?" I was speechless for an entire minute while I pondered this question. This is a strong, capable, independent, generous, intelligent woman. I can't imagine how she would think one is better than the other. (I also couldn't imagine why she would think a divorcee would have an accurate answer to that question) I tried to explain to her my opinion on the subject. It is not the being single or married that is better, it is what you make of yourself and your happiness when you are either.

Mothering

I've been exhausted lately. I find it hard to wind down at night, and I wake up in the morning hardly feeling rested. The crazy period at work is hopefully over for some time. And I'm in what seems to be my annual spring funk, so down on myself and whatever it is I'm chosing for this thing called life. None of this makes for good mothering.

Last night I was too tired to make my son supper - I told him he had to make his own. He made himself an almond butter and jam sandwhich. Then his father calls on skype, and my son proceeds to tell him the entire story of him having to make his own dinner because I refused to lift a finger. Now my poor mothering skills are public knowledge to the person I am most vulnerable to attack by.

After my son went to bed, I microwaved some popcorn for dinner and watched a sappy romance movie on TV (on a Saudi channel so all the good kissing scenes were cut out), and then went to bed bemoaning the fact that my life is so lacking in romance. Its a good story line when I'm in a funk, keeps me there even longer!

Around midnight, I'm deep into REM trying to figure my way out of some pseudo-realistic work problem and my cell phone jingles its notification for a text message. A text message at 10 minutes after midnight, it must be a good one! Still, I hesitate in my semi-dreamlike mindframe. I finally reach over and open the phone. The message reads, "Happy Mother's Day" and the sender is Omar's babysitter. I register it somewhere as a sweet gesture, although at the same time wonder it its strange that it arrived at such an odd hour.

My son's babysitter has been a lifesaver - always reliable, always keeping my son happy, and taking my sometimes erratic schedule all in stride. I have many things in my life right now that are lifesavers that I know after 37 years I shouldn't take for granted - a good babysitter, a trustworthy and good housecleaner, a kind and normal landlord, a safe and beautiful home, friends who don't judge, a job that pays well, a car that gets me from point A to point B, a healthy and relatively normal kid. There were plenty of times in my life when I lacked some of these, and a few key periods when I had none of them. And still, I feel like the world's crappiest mother on Mother's Day.

Language

I swear if I went to live with the lady who cleaned my house, I would be fluent in Arabic in about two weeks. She talks loud and fast and constantly to me. I understand about every other word, and sometimes I don't understand a single word she says. But she keeps talking away, and I keep nodding. At first, I found this extremely annoying. I had to ask her to stop one day. I said in my very basic Arabic, "Listen, I do not understand the word you are saying" Come to find out she was telling me that I needed more toilet cleaner. I consider that phrase to be one on the "near fluency" level, and thus did not feel any less competent.

The thing that can be frustrating about learning Arabic is how much the dialect changes not only from country to country, but from person to person. In Palestine, I am amazed at how much it varies. I don't know if its that my comprehension is getting to the a point that I can pick up quite well the variations, or if it is specific to the country and work environment which I am in.

It took me months to realize that the reason I couldn't understand a colleague was because he has a speech impediment, like a drastic lisp. There is also the "country bumpkin" language which pronounces some beginning and middle sounds of letters completely different than the formal arabic. I'm also becoming quite fluent in language around governance issues (elections, councils, ministries), but put into another context - like an informal gathering of women, and I am completely lost.

Being lost in a language can be very difficult. Its like having your mouth and ears suddenly sealed shut and having to get by in the world. It can be tiring.

Principles

I'm a relative new comer around here. It is not unusual to meet expats who have had some kind of relationship with Palestine for a decade or more. Most of course left during the second intifada, but eventually made their way back. There is an emotional connectedness that they have to this place, the environment and the politics that I admit, I lack to a degree.

What grabs my attention is how principled a lot of these people are about the politics and how they react to them. They boycot products, people, newspapers, books. Sometimes I feel a weakness because I lack this principled approach to all that happens around me, but I like to justify this weakness by saying that I am not a person who has the ability to be so black and white about the world. Or, I just wonder if sometimes people become so principled about it all to help them feel as if they have some control and power in an environment in which it is difficult to empower anything.

Throughout the Arab world, you find a large number of people who refuse to drink Coke products. The reason? Coke is produced by an Israeli company, apparently? I've never had the will to really look into the issue. Its true, there is a large coca-cola bottling company near Tel Aviv. Yet, in Palestine itself, people drink coca-cola products by the gallons on a daily basis, and the whole distribution chain inside the West Bank is Palestinian run. Palestinians raise their eyebrows when they hear that their Arab brothers and sisters refuse to drink Coke. Honestly, its making almost zero difference on the life of people here who are more concerned about the daily hassles of checkpoints and the wall.

I recently attended an NGO discussion about an operational approach that the US government put in place to get the humanitarian goods funded by them into Gaza. The operational approach actually makes things a great deal more effecient for those US-funded humanitarian partners. But, there are those principled humanitarian partnes (several of whom I used to be employed by), raising up protests because its all "American" and all wrapped up into the politics. I could be naive, but I just don't see it. Plus, we have a new administration whose made some pretty solid statements. True, its difficult to trust these statements after the past 15 year policy toward Palestine and the ability of the US Government to turn a complete blind eye to the human rights abuses. But honestly, if the ability to get humanitarian goods into Gaza is going to make my life easier, why would I protest it? I'm sure the people who are suffering in Gaza couldn't give a care how the goods that are to save their lives came in, just as long as they received them hastily.

Not sure if its obvious - but I'm kind of burned up about this issue.