Down Winding Roads

I've developed a twitch. It happens over my right eye and it happens as I drive away from Israeli checkpoints. It's the oddest thing...or not. Israeli checkpoints have become extremely stressful for me. I have the "right" passport and I rarely get more than a perfunctory nod before passing through. So in comparison to Palestinians, I have it easy. Yet the stress is obviously getting to me and the twitch is now becoming a predictable talisman.

I've never scientifically measured it, but I can assure you that I can't drive more than 10 kilometers from my house without crossing a checkpoint or being stopped by an Israeli or Palestinian police officer. What is freaky is that I feel like I have something to hide no matter who is manning the checkpoint or waving the car down.

Recently, a protest which lead to a checkpoint closure which lead to a 5km long traffic jam forced me to take a 30km detour to reach my house after a very stressful day in Jerusalem. My son was with me in our jalopy, which is so old it lacks some of the usual pleasant diversions, such as a radio. I just couldn't wait to be back to our house, and preferably before dark, as the unlit and winding west bank roads can be difficult to drive past dark.

During that day my car had been opened and searched at various points in Jerusalem (shopping malls, Jaffa St), as well as my personal effects searched (stores, the US Consulate, hotels). The one part that made me look forward to the 30km detour was the fact that it brings me through one of the "easiest" checkpoints between Jerusalem and the West Bank - no passports checked, no trunks to be opened, no nosy questions. But as I approached the checkpoint, my car was waved over by an Israeli policeman. I pulled the car up slowly to the side of the road. As I opened the window, the policeman started to greet me in Arabic. Before he could finish, I looked at him and sighed. "I am an American," I stated with a tedious look all over my face. As soon as I heard myself speak those words, they sounded so laughable - what do they mean in this place where identity is about religion and what side of the wall you live on? The Israeli policeman responded in a hurried voice, "American? ok, just go ahead," as he quickly waved me on and moved to another car behind me. I was surprised it worked, but was happy to avoid any questions. If I had to explain that I lived in Ramallah, things would have gotten very complicated very fast.

On another trip out of the West Bank to Tel Aviv, I was riding along in the car admiring the greening spring hillsides and terraces of the West Bank when I suddenly saw an Israeli solider standing up on a cliff over looking the road. The now sixth sense screamed to my brain, "danger ahead, slow down!" As I let up on the gas and came around a bend in the road, I was suddenly upon an impromptu Israeli checkpoint known as a "flying checkpoint." An army jeep and about 4 Israeli soldiers just set up shop in the middle of the road, checking IDs and passengers. I slammed on my break, and was certain that the squealing noise of the burning rubber of the tires would certainly invite a round of pointed guns at the car - maybe I've watched too many movies. Luckily for me, I must have been so obviously and quickly tagged as a non-threat, being female with a child in the car. When the soldiers walked up, I apologized for almost running the checkpoint, and they smiled and waved me through. As soon as I passed through, my right eye brow began twitching like mad. Ah yes, the checkpoint twitch!

Somebody is writing my life in Fairytales

One of the reasons I've found it difficult to keep updated on the blog recently is that the reality of my life has become a little too overwhelming and distracting. I've been focusing my energy on keeping my head above water. I am fortuned to be surrounded by friends who offer sympathetic ears, kind arms and shoulders to cry on, and offers to occupy my son so I can have the peace and quiet I need to process everything.

Today a good friend came by to tell me that her daughter spent her weekend writing a fairytale about "Donna" - hardly a common Arab name, indicating the stories were based on her daughter's numerous interactions with me. And the tales are apparently quite intriguing- a woman living the "complex realities" of a dream world, and other poetic turns of phrases that seemed far more mature in language than her 10 year old brain. As my friend described the written tales, I started to wish that was the world I was living in.

Sometimes I feel that my fairytale was ripped out from under my feet and tramped on. Then the person who stole and mocked that fairytale, adopted it for himself. And now, he is seemingly enjoying showing it off and rubbing it in my face.

I have to hold onto the belief that the beautiful life I imagined for myself is in the process of being replaced by a life of love and beauty beyond my greatest imagination. But still, I do somehow wish that it could all be a fairytale.

Unveiling

I work and socialize here with such a wide-range of Arab women - conservative Muslims who veil, conservatve Muslims who don't veil, secular muslims who don't veil, and Christians who don't veil but also cover the entire gamut of religious conservatism.

It is always a unique moment for me when I see a normally veiled women without her head covering for the first time. In most cases, I find her much younger looking. And any mental games I've played to figure out the color and texture of her hair almost never represent the reality.

I attended a colleague's wedding a few weeks ago. During her last day on the job before the big day, she announced to me that the wedding would be at a "seperated" hall - meaning men in one room and women in the other. She had made that decision because she wanted it to be a special day during which she would not have to dress as she normally does - meaning, she would be unveiled.

The day prior to the wedding was a henna party. These are women-only parties where traditionally the bride and her closest female relatives have their hands, arms, feets and legs decorated with henna. At this party, there was no actual henna decorating, but all guests were sent home with a small packet of henna and chocolate. I was more excited for the henna party than the actual wedding since it is a much more modern rarity in Palestine, and it would give me a chance to dust off my traditional Palestinian thobe (tunic robe) and do some traditional dancing.

When I arrived at the party, I was met by a room full of women robed in these beautiful array of brightly-colored and embroiderded dresses. The groom was the only male in the room, dancing chastley with the bride. I joined a group of other colleagues dancing around the couple. After a few minutes, I suddenly noticed that several women around me were nimbly undoing their headscarfs. The groom had left, and the women, old and young, seemed quite anxious to undo themselves of the cumbersome scarves. For the first time in over 18 months, I saw the bare heads of my colleagues, and it took me some time to take in the impressions of these first glimpses of these unveiled women.

After about a half hour more of dancing, the electricity suddenly went out. It wasn't a general outage, but appeared to be specific to the room we were in. A handful of women, bride included, located the several fuse boxes, and tried to fix the problem. As the minutes clicked by and there was no obvious solution, I heard russling of clothing around me, and noticed the women putting their headscarves back on. There was fear that a man would be arriving to find the fix. The unveiling was over.