Tales from Palestine # 3,4,5,6

Nablus, Palestine
November 5, 2007

Five Palestinian girls live in our three bedroom flat with Maria and me. We are all the same age, with similar aspirations and dreams, but the eternal flaw is that their country will never let them forget. I come home later than they do, and as they sit around the TV watching Grey's Anatomy or listening to Amr Diab I am always welcomed back with loud greeting and questions of: Why are you so late?

It's 8 p.m.

In a span of ten days, and ten days only, I feel like they are my sisters. As soon as we enter the flat, no one speaks about the plane hovering above us, waiting to take our pictures and figure out who we are. No one flinches at the distant sound of gun shots or explosions. Instead, we talk about Tamer Hosney and how his music is so romantic or we discuss Islam while we drink Argileh or moan about how this conservative city is ruining normal interaction between male and females or they teach me to dance debkeh. This is the other side of life that I am grateful to infiltrate – to feel that some semblance of life is remains available to this generation, because quite frankly, this will be the lost generation.

I say this not for dramatic effect, but because someone has already pointed this out to me, and it would have been simply a matter of time before I came to this understanding myself. Since the second Intifadah and the siege of the city six years ago, martyr posters and messages are still tacked on all over the city walls and brains of the youth. Rival Islamic groups fight between themselves, not only with the Israelis, about how to find a solution and in reality, how to fight. Death is something that is life to them, ironically. Fear is drilled into their thought process and anger is rarely flashed across faces or weaved through words. They seem to cope by keeping themselves busy, in a whirlwind, to evade the exhausting activity of thinking about how unjust or abnormal their lives may be.

It seems to be the only way.

---

Maria and I sat at a hotel in downtown Nablus, which was only opened up again six months ago, and after a little while, we heard the echoing of loud gun fire. No one sitting on the terrace outside flinched, and surprisingly, neither did we. A little boy ran scrambled around the balcony with all the energy that only a two year old may posses while in the other corner, six women in hijabs continued their conversations. No one wanted to be bothered by this slight obstruction of relative peace. Finally, I put my coffee down, looked over at Maria, and said, do you realize how normal that sound has become?

As we stepped downstairs, back onto the streets, we were cut off at the next intersection by a band of Palestinian men, probably best described as the 'Palestinian Authority.' Maria looks at me and we both recognize instantly the reason for the sounds of gun fire from the old city. While we walk behind them, Maria says, in more of a statement than a question: I wonder how many people here see them as traitors.

It seems that I have arrived at a historic moment: the Israelis are planning on handing over the city to its owners – the Palestinians. For this reason, they are training hundreds of the PA to take their position here. Yet, no one seems excited or hopeful at this piece of news because they have been promised this many times over and have been brutally rebuffed an equal amount of times.

The entire city is crawling with the PA and Palestinian police officers, but there is no sense of safety in there air. What difference will it make to have them roaming around the streets of Nablus in hoards of ten and fifteen? Yet, I still think people feel sorry for them. When we went for Kannafah the other day, a pair of PA was stopped by an owner of a coffee shop and he insisted on giving them something to drink as they patrolled the street.

---

Here, people seem to spill out their life stories before you've had a chance to even learn their names properly. Not that I mind, but I think, as a Westerner, I am used to instantly establishing a bubble for my personal space, whether it is my ideas or my physical surroundings. Also, I think most of the younger inhabitants of this city are eager to meet someone their age, but from a different culture, a different form of life, to learn what it is to have a life 180 degrees away from this scenario. Probably, they just want their stories heard.

Every morning, at the university, I am bombarded with offers for a coffee break, a lunch break, a soda break, a walking break, any chance to get out of the office and talk. The kids admit their fears of marriage, of never being able to put into practice what they have learned, of love, of never fulfilling their full potential under this oppression, of seeing the world, and in essence, the fear of not being able to live.

Y. tells me, over our respective cans of juice and diet coke, why she chose to wear a niqaab instead of just a hijab. Although her mother or her younger sister does not wear the niqaab, she has chosen to do so because she feels that the current situation of Islam is a distortion of the original religion. As her own personal effort, she is reverting to the original practices and culture of Islam to respect her love for her religion. She then asks me what I am most grateful for, and I am uncertain of how to answer such a question. I ask her to tell me first. She, unsurprisingly in retrospect, instantly responds with: Allah.

I want to know the reason behind these assertions, and her response is truly beautiful and unbelievably wise for her age. She explains to me that although there are hundreds of people in this world she can trust, can ask for help, and can understand, that when she is dead, the only other person in her coffin will be God. He is the only one who will be with her for eternity.
In accordance to her beliefs and her religion, she has a point. Admittedly, for an outsider, a beautiful one, as well.

Ys. suggests that we walk down into the cemetery as we make our way towards the city center, ad however uncomfortable it is to see the fresh tombstones from just days before, I agree. He starts telling me about his life, how he fell in love, but that it is too hard to fathom a stable future because there is no certainty that he will be able to get a job, provide a house, and a strong support for his future (insh'allah) wife. For these reasons, all of which are outside of his control due to the lack of jobs and money in this country, he is certain that her father will say no, and as a sign to his unflagging faith to his culture he says he will not marry her without permission. Without waiting for a response, he hurries on to tell me that he has contemplated and tried to commit suicide. After a few moments of contemplation (and discomfort from the cold American side of my emotions), he asks me if I have ever been in love. I pause to mull over his eagerness and impatience to find a job after college, to buy a house, just so he can ask for permission to win over her father, all with a great chance of being rejected.

No, I say. And we walk on.

---

J.'s family allows me to come over whenever I want. I knock on the door a few times, always with something in hand because I know better than to enter a house in this culture empty handed. Besides, as most people say when they find out that I am Indian, Palestinians and Indians have the same blood, and it's what we do in our culture, as well. Her mother always smiles and says, Ahlan, how are you? Her brother always teases me about my head shaking and then continues on to setting up a time so that we can have a political/cultural lecture. His little girls run around and cautiously take the chocolate I bring for them every time, not really wanting to talk to the strange girl who speaks a language they don't understand, but always asking about me after I leave. I feel like family, especially when I sit in their living room, stuffing my face with food and teas and coffee with J., not feeling the least bit uncomfortable. As we watch horrible B-list movies on MBC 4, her brother tells me about his five years in prison. The next time, he shows me pictures. On my very first few hours in the West Bank, he opened the balcony door and told me to slowly look outside, but warned me to be careful. We stared down at the ghost streets of the city center, and he told me to check my watch. Barely ten, but not a single person willing to walk down the street in fear of snipers and sudden death.
I want to experience every bit of Palestine.

---

As a foreigner, I have been an extremely fortunate one, mostly because I am able to blend in. For a city that has not been able to promulgate tourism (due to the aforementioned siege of the city), there have not been many Westerners, especially, in this prison of a town. Therefore, when we walk down the streets, it is Maria who is usually stopped by children and adults alike with: Hello! Where are you from? Welcome, welcome to Palestine. I, on the other hand, just get impatient looks when I am asked a question in Arabic and am only bale to give a blubbering, broken reply. They ask again. And I look equally confused and stupid as I did the first time. Finally, the person gets the hint and says, You are not Arab? You look Arab. My response is the same, Yes, everyone thinks that, but I'm not. I'm from India (believe me, it's easier this way than explaining my true country of birth). Ahlan wa Sahlan.

What's strange is that even after this piece of information, I feel like an honorary Arab or Palestinian (the same thing happened almost every time in Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon, as well) because they same to treat me differently than most foreigners, simply because we share similar looks and cultures. In this way, I am grateful, because I am offered a bit more unhindered insight into their opinions and stories.

---

Around 7:15 each weekday morning - that's Saturday to Wednesday for you out in the West – my six flatmates head out to the bus that will take us to the old and new campuses. Ever morning we engage in a silent struggle. As soon as we hand our 1.5 shekels to the driver, L. turns to look at H. and me because the three of us are the most stubborn, most willful. We nod and she leads the way to the seats in the front. Almost always, we are some of the firsts to enter the bus and within minutes, the male professors are giving us dirty looks and telling us to move to the back of the bus. Pardon me, but I do not want to reenact Rosa Park's fateful sit-in. The first day of classes, the girls, who are teachers at the university by the way, obediently moved farther down the bus. However, that night at home, we discussed the situation and decided that we had every right to sit wherever we wanted. The next day, some of the male professors gave us their best 'I'm a male professor in a male-dominated society so be the submissive women we have trained you to become' look, but the girls ignored their looks. By the beginning of this week, one of the professors made a speech that all the female students should sit in the back and leave the first few rows for the male professors.

Fine. We are stubborn and independent but not disrespectful. But the situation goes to far when H. rushes onto the bus as it is leaving, in front of a few professors, and plops down in the second row. One of the professors gets up, asks her to sit in the back where there is an empty seat next to a girl (there is no need for segregation like this, either, L. and I bemoan), but H. says no and stares steadily at the seat in front of her. This is too much.

Without thinking, I start my ranting: Where does he get the right to tell her where to sit? He let a male student sit in the front. What does he think he is doing – does he think this is what the Q'uran says? I then ask L. in a loud voice if the Q'uran demands that women have to be submissive and inferior to men. She looks at me gleefully and shakes her head no. I keep asking myself rhetorical questions on the bus ride along the lines of, I am impressed by the Arab culture of being disrespectful of women. I hope they train their wives and daughters to be oppressed and inferior, especially if the country is going to be ruled by men like them. As soon as we get to the new campus, the professors within earshot practically jump off the bus after shooting us dirty glares and L. and I laugh and say goodbye for the day.