I'm dressed for a checkpoint – i.e., my most American outfit. Boots, leggings, and a dress. I am covered from neck to toe, but I want to make sure there is no doubt of my Americanness. Hence, the flashy outfit.
As I approach the front of the line, the woman behind me watches me pull out my camera and encourages me to take pictures so that I can show people back home. However, the soldier is keeping an eye on me and I am unable to gather the courage to take a snap of the wires, fence, and crowd of IDF soldiers searching a taxi on the other side of the barbed wire.
Finally, it is my turn. I hand over my passport to the soldier, who could easily be my younger brother. He mutters, "So, you're American."
He then asks, "Where are you from?"
I look at him as if he is crazy. Did he not just state to himself where I was from?
"The U.S.," I respond. That is all he needs to know.
The kid looks at me again and smiles. He asks me if I enjoyed my time in Nablus. I try to unclench my teeth so that one syllable to respond to his ludicrous question may come out.
After a moment of silent stares, he lets me pass. Infuriated, I mumble my way to the taxis towards Ramallah. How dare he treat the eighty year old man in front of me as if he is worthless or going to blow up the checkpoint, and try to be my friend? Does he think I am ignorant or naive?
I'm afraid that one day I won't be able to control my rage and that I will slap one of those soldiers.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Men: Palestinian Fury
Nablus, West Bank
L. pops into the office on the old campus today and asks if I would like to come with her as she speaks to the Director about the harassment she, M., and I face on a daily basis. I ponder all the times I have been stalked, harassed, and felt too uncomfortable to walk on campus without practically sprinting.
"Hell, yeah!" I tell L.
We walk into the office and the Director is all ears; he is horrified, in fact. Within half an hour, L. calls me and tells me to jot down two numbers: the head of security at each campus.
Finally, as we are about to hang up, she tells me to tell A., the man in charge of the internationals. As I begin to tell him, his face seems to cloud over, but I don’t understand why. After I finish my explanation, his tirade begins.
He tells me that all internationals face this and that I should have read the guide (I did, you jackass). I tell him that I have lived in a half dozen countries and I know that this is the norm, but we are on a University campus. It is a different circumstance and these 'boys' are educated. They have no excuse to yell vulgar slurs at us.
He doesn't seem to understand.
A. tells me that instead of looking for a 'cure', it might be better to start with 'prevention'. I ask him what he means by that, but I already know. He looks at me and says, "Well, today you are dressed OK."
I know I am dressed more than OK; I am the epitome of respect. Every single day, I wear a combination of clothing that shows nothing more than my hands, my face, and my hair. Every single day. How dare he imply that I deserve this treatment.
Following this insult, he explains that a Swedish volunteer used the word 'haraam' to deal with these guys. I want to yell at him, slap him and tell him not to patronize me. I know very well how to use 'Haraam aalek', thank you. I just think it is not proactive enough.
---
Not all the men are like this. Most of them are very respectful, especially some of the younger ones that I have been in contact with. One of my students who is my age, he brought me coffee to class. Others are suck ups – wannabe Casanovas – but always respectful. I am just completely insulted by the fact that the man who deals with internationals is such a sexist hypocrite.
L. pops into the office on the old campus today and asks if I would like to come with her as she speaks to the Director about the harassment she, M., and I face on a daily basis. I ponder all the times I have been stalked, harassed, and felt too uncomfortable to walk on campus without practically sprinting.
"Hell, yeah!" I tell L.
We walk into the office and the Director is all ears; he is horrified, in fact. Within half an hour, L. calls me and tells me to jot down two numbers: the head of security at each campus.
Finally, as we are about to hang up, she tells me to tell A., the man in charge of the internationals. As I begin to tell him, his face seems to cloud over, but I don’t understand why. After I finish my explanation, his tirade begins.
He tells me that all internationals face this and that I should have read the guide (I did, you jackass). I tell him that I have lived in a half dozen countries and I know that this is the norm, but we are on a University campus. It is a different circumstance and these 'boys' are educated. They have no excuse to yell vulgar slurs at us.
He doesn't seem to understand.
A. tells me that instead of looking for a 'cure', it might be better to start with 'prevention'. I ask him what he means by that, but I already know. He looks at me and says, "Well, today you are dressed OK."
I know I am dressed more than OK; I am the epitome of respect. Every single day, I wear a combination of clothing that shows nothing more than my hands, my face, and my hair. Every single day. How dare he imply that I deserve this treatment.
Following this insult, he explains that a Swedish volunteer used the word 'haraam' to deal with these guys. I want to yell at him, slap him and tell him not to patronize me. I know very well how to use 'Haraam aalek', thank you. I just think it is not proactive enough.
---
Not all the men are like this. Most of them are very respectful, especially some of the younger ones that I have been in contact with. One of my students who is my age, he brought me coffee to class. Others are suck ups – wannabe Casanovas – but always respectful. I am just completely insulted by the fact that the man who deals with internationals is such a sexist hypocrite.
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