Matthew Cassel and Picture Balata

Matt has facilitated a stunning project in the West Bank called Picture Balata.

From the website:

"Outside the West Bank City of Nablus lies the Balata Refugee Camp. Home to almost 25,000 residents living on less than one square kilometer, Balata is the more densely populated Refugee Camp within the West Bank. In recent years, Balata has seen hundreds of deaths and arrests, dozens of home demolitions and the camp is subject to near-nightly invasions by the Israeli Army. It is here the Picture Balata workshop was started to teach youth from the camp about photography.

Picture Balata puts the camera into the hands of the children born and raised inside the Israeli occupation of Palestine. Participants ranging from ages 11 to 18 photograph their situation as they live in Balata Refugee Camp."

For more info check out http://picturebalata.net or watch the video below.

yes, virginia.....sama has proof of Santa.

I know you've been waiting for this. Here is a video from Sama Alshaibi's blog of our ride through Bethlehem.

(I counted 6 santas....and yes, you busted me listening to Journey)

back from the holidays in palestine

I had to temporarily remove "sensitive" material from the blog so I could get in and out of Tel Aviv. Will put everything back plus some more in the next few days.

I am swimming in contact sheets and audio clips.

But for now, know that Christmas does exist in Palestine. In fact, Jesus was born in the West Bank. Here are some skinny santas in Bethlehem. They jump on car hoods to give you candy. new site: http://openbethlehem.org

Turning Our Tongues

New 6+ project:

Turning Our Tongues
Audio Journals from the Young Women of Deheisheh Refugee Camp

"Turning Our Tongues" is a project initiated by 6+ in collaboration with a group of 18 young women aged 16 -19 from the Deheisheh Refugee Camp, Palestine. It foregrounds different ways of journaling, of reflecting on daily life - from the very literal or informational, to the evocative and expressive.

The project developed through a series of workshops, combining the use of intimate journals (writing, sketching and so forth) and the creative interpretation of the journals through short audio works. The audio recordings began as journal entries but progressed through various stages of transformation and interpretation, to include a combination of text and sound. The resulting audio works are recordings of live, choreographed performances ranging from stories and poems, to songs, and fragmented personal narratives. The young artists worked together in small group collaborations to support the performance of each narrative. This project explores the possibilities of working together to develop the power of one’s own voice.

"Turning Our Tongues" is currently being exhibited at the Middle East Studies Association (MESA) Conference in Boston, MA. The web version of the project can be found here:

http://6plus.org/current/deheisheh.html

Academics Missing in Baghdad and Zuzu Gets a Job

Sometimes news from the Middle East hits me in strange places.

Today, many people kidnapped at a Baghdad research institute and Al-Jazeera is going worldwide with the United States' favorite language, English.

Dr. Hameed Alshaibi (Sama's father who was so gracious to us in Amman...and with my lost bag) was a professor in Baghdad. Then he moved to Jordan where he is still a professor, and lives with his lovely wife Intesar and their two young sons. All of Intesar's and most of Dr. Alshaibi's family still live in Iraq. They have lost many family members lately; you can see it in their faces. Intesar still finds ways to go back and visit.

Dr. Alshaibi's brother, a world-famous scholar and translator died not too long ago. He studied at Harvard. He came home to Iraq and accomplished even more. He did not die from a violent act. We lost one of society's greatest minds because of medical neglect. He became very ill, very fast and there were no resources left to help him. The world says "we are bringing you peace and freedom" (which to some that alone is debatable), but we obviously cannot provide basic needs.

Wars, coup de tats, revolutions, genocide, civil uprisings.....one thing history shows is that the academics, thinkers, artists, leaders, and cultural workers are among the first to disappear. Whether it is in a targeted act of violence such as the visible assault on a university today or the quiet disappearance caused by destroyed infrastructure and lack of medical resources.

On another note: our friend Zuzu ("Joseph" in English) got a job!
He is now a cameraman for the new (English) Al Jazeera. It will be launched tomorrow and NPR says news reporters from ABC, CBS, and CNN (of all ethnicities) are already jumping ship to be a part of this cultural experiment. NPR says it is a "coup."

They could have gone with any cameraman in the West Bank, even one with Israeli citizenship who could navigate checkpoints with no problem, so we are very proud of our friend and honored to know him. And maybe next time we visit he'll be able to haul us around a little more easily.

Will it change how I feel about him being a journalist in the West Bank? Not really. When I read or hear the news about a demonstration or violence caused by any inner or foreign regime in the West Bank, I think of the safety of my friends....but then that thought always cycles into, "My friends got work and made a living today!" Its hard to find work in the West Bank. The boys' jobs are dangerous and there have been bullets and fists. But they do what they love; and any friend has to support that. Now they will get a better spot for their camera and mic when Condi comes to visit Ramallah again.

I am reminded that I have to finish writing about the first trip, before the next one.

Getting to the Dead Sea

Today we will go to the Dead Sea.

I will think of Moses. Moses parted the Red Sea. But my friends can't drive me to the Red Sea.


Zuzu will take half of us in his BMW convertible. Haneen and Mohammed will take half of us in the white rental car. It is only an hour and a half away. It will be a mini-vacation. We will wear swimsuits and tank-tops because it is acceptable there, because of all the foreigners. We will have delicous food, heineckens, and nargila with our friends. We will rub ourselves all over with Dead Sea mud. It will make our skin look nice. My swimsuit is in my lost suitcase, but I will borrow a tank top from Sama. I will think of Moses.


No one told me it would be so difficult to get there. And that even if we did, our odds were slim to none of actually getting to the shore.

..................................................
Zuzu and Sama

We go to bed fairly early for the Dead Sea. As a group, not all of 6+ are convinced we should go. There are things to do for the show in Bethlehem (like replace my lost equipment) and just deal with jetlag. Yet we all end up at The Office with towels, sunscreen, snacks, and big bottles of water discreetly tucked away. (It is impolite to drink or eat on the street while people are fasting for Ramadan...and I am Southern.)

Leaving Ramallah

We take one street to get out of Ramallah and the traffic has stopped. There is discussion as to whether it is a flying checkpoint or accident or either government has closed down the street for something. Zuzu is an amateur race car driver. He weasels us out of traffic onto side streets. We lose Haneen and the other car. Zuzu is on both of his cell phones at once, the Jawal (West Bank service) and the Orange (Israel service). I can't tell which is which, the phones look the same, but they both ring all the time. Haneen is located, and we approach the first checkpoint out of Ramallah.

..................................................................

I think to myself, it doesn't look that special. It reminds me of the Daniel Boone Tollway in Eastern Kentucky. Just a little booth between 2 small car lanes with a person inside to take your quarters. The only difference is that no money is exchanged and the person inside has a semi-automatic weapon. Also there are some other people with semi-automatic weapons hanging around for assistance.

As we approach I get nervous. It never occurred to me that someone could actually prevent us from leaving the city....that our mini-vacation could be stopped right there by a 19-20 year old. That we would have to spend our mini-vacation hanging out in The Office. In this moment the phrase "welcome to our open air prison" finally makes sense.

I am so uncomfortable pulling out my passport. This is bad. The gun is casually slung around his hip so it is all I see when I look out the window. The closest I ever got to a gun before this experience was peeking through the glass door into my father's gun cabinet as a little girl. He had a few old rifles in there that were passed down through our family. It was always locked. It was dusty on the inside. This is a very big gun. I do not like guns. I'm a little frightened. But I can't take my eyes off of it. Maybe this is the point, to make me afraid.

Zuzu says something about his Press ID and we get through. The rental car may have issues. Haneen and Zuzu's ID's say they are from Bethlehem and Beit Sahour, which are Christian towns. Mohammed's ID says his name is "Mohammed" and that is enough to give him problems passing any checkpoint. Even though his skin is fair and his hair is light brown. Even with his Press ID.

Waiting for Haneen's Car at the Checkpoint

Zuzu has pulled over and I am looking out the back window snapping pictures and holding my breath. They take awhile. Will they get through? They do get through. I think to myself, "Oh certainly this was the hard part. It will be easy and downhill from here."

I was wrong. Actually I thought that a few times throughout course of the day. Each time I was wrong. By the end of the evening I was pushed over the edge into hysterical laughter. But first..................


Only checkpoint #2 is between us and the Dead Sea. As we approach it, you can already see the water on the right.... so close.




We are pulled over to the right. On the left cars are flying by with no guns pointed at them. It takes a few minutes for me to notice they have yellow Israeli plates instead of our white and green Palestinian ones.

A really young soldier with purple/green Oakley sunglasses steps up to the car. Gun slung at his hip of course. He takes our passports and walks away for 15 minutes. Haneen has pulled over in front of us.

A group of soldiers come over and pull us out of the car. They begin searching and questioning Zuzu. Another group goes up to Haneen's car and pulls him out. They do not like Rozalinda's Romanian passport and one leans in the window to get a look at her. She tells me later that he pushed her in the seat.

What's wrong with Rozalinda being Romanian? Actually its similar to America's immigration issues. If you are Jewish, Israel's policy is that you can get instant citizenship. However, this gets murky when immigrants come from poorer countries like Romania and even Ethiopia. The unemployment rate in Israel fluctuates close to 20%. The Eastern Europeans are accused of stealing the lower wage jobs and often end up living in the settlements. Again, very similar to America.

Sama and I are standing outside of the car marked as Americans. The soldiers are searching and having an argument with Zuzu. I contemplate whether my American identity is helping or hurting the situation. On one hand, Americans have the branded identity of being rich tourists and the least likely to make trouble for Israel. Maybe I should be really nice and friendly, even a bit of a flirt and it will give us a smooth exit out of this checkpoint.

On the other hand, Zuzu is a well-known cameraman driving us around in a BMW convertible. Like any teenage boy, I'm sure they desire the sportscar they can't have. But as IDF soldiers, they are in the position to humiliate Zuzu, especially in front of two American girls. Maybe our presence makes it worse. At this moment I am sure of it and stare at the ground.

Zuzu throws his hands up in the air and we get back in the car. Obviously we're not going to get in. We are in the West Bank...but we can't go to the west bank of the Dead Sea.

He is silent and angry. He turns the music up really loud and sits there for a minute.

"Zuzu, let's just go, OK?"

He pushes the button that puts the top down. It slowly peels back, the sun feels hot, and the soldiers are yelling at us to turn around and leave.

Zuzu turns the music up louder and smiles.

Then in an act of pure defiance and male ego, he punches the gas and spins out of the checkpoint and around to the road taking us out, tires screeching.

Jericho as Plan B

After our failed attempt to get to the Dead Sea, we pull into the first gas station we see. There are camels tied to tires for tourists to sit on and pay to have their pictures taken. Far away I can see the Dead Sea. The three guys jump out of the car to have a mini-conference about the situation and figure out what to do next.

Post the horrendous experience I'm ready to throw in the towel and just forget the whole thing. Sama and I defiantly strip down to our tank tops which were reserved for the beach. We girls start to take pictures of ourselves in front of the Dead Sea. "The closest 6+ got to the Dead Sea." It is a joke, and the only way I can feel better.

The Closest We Got to The Sea (taken by Rozalinda)


The boys come back smiling. "No problem. The checkpoint closes at 5pm and since its a Jewish holiday, no one should be there at night. We'll go then....and in the meantime we'll go to Jericho."

They can't be serious. There is absolutely no way we're going to make it through that checkpoint, but I play along.

Another checkpoint. Another exchange of ID's, press passes, and passports. The guard stays in his booth. He has dreadlocks. After a few minutes of questions we pass.

One hundred feet away is another checkpoint, manned by the Palestinian soldiers. They are sitting on the side of the road and wave as we drive by.

The Americans want coffee, everyone wants nargila. Haneen knows a restaurant. Turns out it is closed for Ramadan. But the skylift to the Mountain of 40 Days and 40 Nights (also known as the Mount of Temptation) is open. It holds the Guinness Book of World Records for being the longest cable car lift operating beneath sea-level in the world.

The World Record

Wendy Arrives in Jericho

Haneen, Sama, and Zuzu


There are no tourists. Jericho, the oldest city in the world, seems empty. Like Bethlehem, Jericho is one of the biblical towns who's tourism is slowly being strangled by the Wall and Occupation. Sometimes I wonder if Christians even know.

But like Bethlehem, despite the emptiness there is something special about Jericho you can't put your finger on.


Mohammed

Jericho

taken by Rozalinda


Riding to the top of the mountain we can see the Dead Sea. The western bank of the Dead Sea in the West Bank. Also a bit of the Jordan River, where Jesus was supposedly baptized, but no one can go there because it is a closed Israeli military zone. We crossed over it coming in over the Allenby Bridge. We get to the top and head for the cafe. Only two men are there. One to operate the skylift, the other to run the cafe. We feel strange and there is a frenzy of picture-taking. Pictures of us taking pictures of us taking pictures. All of the men present, our friends and the 2 guys on top of the Mountain of Temptation, must think we're crazy. Maybe its the only way to cope with what happened earlier. We're artists, we do weird things under stress.


Mountain of 40 Days and 40 Nights






Coffee and water. It is getting close to 5pm. The 2 men are getting anxious. It is Ramadan and time to break the fast. We head back down. The emptiness and eerie quiet makes me sad.

We will try our luck with the Dead Sea one more time.

for real?

I am in Zuzu's car with Sama when we leave Jericho. We hand over our ID's and passports again at the checkpoint. The soldier laughs and says, "Wow, so you're traveling in-style," nodding at Zuzu's BMW. "Have a nice time here in Israel."

Its dusk and we turn onto the road where we're hoping the next checkpoint won't be. The gun stand is empty and there are no concrete barriers. I catch my breath as we drive past.

The roads turn to gravel as we drive up to the beach. You can only access the shore of the Dead Sea by going into a beach club. I've never been in a beach club, but I do have a good idea from watching the TV show Beverly Hills 90210 as a tween.

What's fascinating is that there is this sort of teenage drama developing in the parking lot like a storyline in 90210. The sun is getting low, so everything is turning orange and purpley with huge shadows. Our cars' green license plates have already let everyone know we are outsiders and coming from an un-cool place. In the lot bystanders are staring with weird looks on their faces and whispering to one another. We are definitely not the cool, popular kids on the beach. We are more like the unpopular, outcast kids.

And we are treated that way. At the door, the lady takes our entry fee and acts indifferent to our popularity status. The power of money still trumps political conflicts as usual. But inside the posh club we get more cold stares. I'm not sure if its that our friends are Palestinian or that we are obviously Americans who can't speak Hebrew.

As we walk down to get a look at the beach, our friends ask us to call them different names, Zuzu = Joe, Haneen= Harry, Mohammed = Mike. There is only small comfort in this and I question its effectiveness, but if it makes them feel better, I'll do it. The Dead Sea is turning lavender, which means the daylight is almost gone.

Everyone walks up to the club to change into their swimsuits except for Rozalinda and I (mine's in the lost suitcase). Two young men in swimsuits stand by the fence in front of the sea. The pair starts smirking, yelling and pointing to our friends climbing the stairs. They're out of earshot, but I am not. I don't understand what they're saying but they are obviously laughing at our expense. The tips of my ears start burning and my insides get jittery...........like they did when Sama got pulled out of line when we were crossing The Bridge into the West Bank. Its my temper again.

they're standing on my left

First I snap a photo through the fence, then I walk up beside where they're standing. They look like my college students and I turn and face them. I know I'm wearing that catty, defiant look on my face, which could cause a problem but at least I have enough control not to open my mouth. One of them mutters something under his breath. I turn my eyes back to the Dead Sea. Its my favorite time of day when the color of the water almost matches the sky. Only a line of mountains over on the Jordan side separates the two.
The young men walk away.

Dead Sea By Night

The Phenomenon of Haneen and Zuzu Floating Next to Israeli Tourists

When everyone gets dressed and back down to the shore, it is dark outside. The water and sky are pitch black aside from the soft lights of the beach club. Very far away are the lights of the Jordanian resorts. I wonder if they would be friendlier to our little group of Americans, 1 Brit, 1 Romanian, and Palestinians? Its a good question because often Palestinians are treated similarly in other Arab countries. You never know with Americans. It tends to be dichotomous...loved or hated..and its not like any of us Americans have a lot of money to win over any tourism enterprise.

But in the pitch black disguise of night, something shifts. I don't feel nervous anymore. The boys are laughing and even seem comfortable. Rozalinda and I walk up to the club to order Heineckens and humus for everyone. The man behind the counter is friendly and gives us extra bread. By the time we get back down to the beach, everyone is in the sea swimming, laughing, and slathering themselves with mud. Shouting that the salty water stings you everywhere.

The club has cleared out for the most part. The few tourists that remain are in the water next to us, also swimming, laughing, and slathering themselves with mud. Maybe in this instant no one cares.

Its probably fleeting or not true, but in this moment..... sipping a Heinecken on a warm, balmy night...hearing my girlfriends laughing.......seeing Zuzu and Haneen floating next to other Dead Sea tourists..... its a nice thought to believe that no one is suspicious and no one cares that we're here.......its nice to believe for a minute that people from the West Bank can actually travel to and enjoy the West Bank.

Ramadan Feast in Jericho

Heineckens

Its cooling off outside and we're starving.

While Rozalinda and I lounge by the shore for a bit longer, everyone else goes to wash off the sticky mud and change back into their clothes.

The Parking Lot


Haneen says we'll eat in Jericho. He knows people and knows of a good place. We don't doubt it. Out of all of the boys, Haneen seems to spend the most time on his two cellphones and have the most connections all over the West Bank. These relationships are the only way to negotiate life under the Occupation. Some would say its the only way to survive.



We drive to Jericho. This time I am riding in Haneen's and Mohammed's car. There is a new young soldier at the checkpoint. Haneen gathers our passports and submits them for another inspection. This one doesn't go as smoothly as the last. He singles out Mohammed and says, "You can go in, but you can't leave." Its such a weird statement to hear. And why is it just Mohammed? As we drive through Mohammed says, "I should have sat in the middle." I realize that by me sitting in the middle it made it worse for him because the soldiers see them first instead of the American girls. When we got in we should have maneuvered him into the middle. Getting through checkpoints is a mental game like chess. I can't play chess. I'm calm and fine at checkpoints......but I never know what manipulative move I want to make to ease the ordeal for myself and especially my friends. What are the soldiers looking for? Which checkpoint will be "open" today? Should the guys act cool or benevolent? Should I act nice and flirtatious or keep my eyes focused down and avoid eye contact? There is probably no move I can make to ease the experience. Maybe its best just to detach and mumble through it. I'm not good at that.





Mohammed Scopes Out the First Restaurant

At 8pm, Jericho is stll eerily empty. Haneen pulls in across the street from a restaurant. Zuzu pulls in behind us with the top of his convertible down. Mohammed runs across the street to check out the place. On top of the restaurant are lights flashing Happy New Year. Ramadan? Rosh Hashanah? I don't get it. But the place is lit like Christmas. Mohammed returns saying its open. A comment is made from us that its really bright inside.

The boys immediately change their plans. "No, not good enough then....Haneen knows somewhere else," says Zuzu.
Haneen adds "this place has a big Ramadan feast." We drive off.

We end up at a big, empty hotel. There is a security guard at the entrance who of course knows Haneen. We are guided to the back of the hotel and walk past a gigantic swimming pool with kids splashing around. I'm relieved there are people here somewhere. Then we walk into a huge tent with tables chairs, and a man playing the oud and singing. The tent is still empty but the boys say we're early and it will fill up with people breaking the fast. They have a special menu for Ramadan.




Families start piling into the tent happy and laughing, but everyone is quiet at our table. I think we are tired and getting irritable because our blood sugar has plummeted. Today has been intellectually and emotionally exhausting. I am spent and feel a little awkward.

A new singer comes to the microphone with his oud. The speakers hiss and pop. Then he starts to play and sing. It sounds really weird. His voice is all croaky and I think he's slightly off-key, and its not like I'm that familiar with the regional music so I don't want to say anything.

Our food arrives and there is still this awkward silence between all of us with the singer crooning in the background. Finally Zuzu, Haneen, and Mohammed start laughing saying "He is terrible! Who is this guy?" We start giggling then I am laughing hysterically. I have crossed the threshold of emotional sanity where I just can't absorb any more. There have been so many highs and lows today, moments of pure fright and then relief. I am done.

There is a birthday at the table to our right. The poppy version of the "Happy Birthday" song (which effectively incorporates the use of "Cha Cha-Cha)comes on and the off-key singer starts forcibly belting it out with the tape. Everyone is clapping and singing, Mohammed stands on his chair and begins singing and dancing. I am doubled over laughing with tears streaming down my cheeks.

The table shares their cake with the entire room. Mohammed is still singing the Cha-Cha Happy Birthday song. The day cannot get anymore full or bizarre. It is time to go home.

The Final 3 Hours

We leave Jericho the back way to get back to Ramallah. We do not want to take our chances with Mohammed at the previous checkpoint. Haneen says we will take what they call the Curvy Road. It will only take about an hour. I sit up front.

There are no street lights going the back way. It is black outside. There is no moon. The headlights of our cars are the only thing illuminating what is around us. We curve in and out of the mountains. Its like driving in Colorado, except there are no trees in this part of the West Bank and the earth and rocks are alabaster white.

The rental car starts doing this long, annoying beep. Its the sound you hear when your seatbelts are not plugged in or your low on break fluid. Whenever Haneen turns the wheel it stops or starts again. He tries hitting the dashboard but it won't stop.

We come to an intersection with a main road. To the left you can see the lights of a checkpoint. Zuzu pulls up beside us and the boys start negotiating how we are going to get back into Ramallah. That checkpoint is "no good," but Haneen knows a way around it. A shortcut through the north.

We stay on the Curvy Road and start driving through a small town. The car passes under a sign that says "Taybeh Octoberfest." "Wait, are we in Taybeh? Where they make the beer?"
Haneen says yes, and that the brewery is run by a man, his brother, and his wife. These 3 people produce the only Palestinian beer in the world and it is arguably the finest beer in the Middle East. We've been enjoying it since we arrived and I already know that "taybeh" means delicious. http://taybehbeer.com. Its too bad we're leaving before the Octoberfest. I wonder if anyone will be allowed through the checkpoint to go to it. Or will it be like Bethlehem at Christmas...empty.

The beep in the car is relentless. We've made a wrong turn. Zuzu pulls up next to Haneen again and they start arguing over where to go...then Zuzu stops and asks "What's that annoying sound?" We keep driving.

Once again we pass underneath the Taybeh Octoberfest sign. Somehow we've gone out and back into downtown Taybeh. Mohammed keeps singing the Cha-cha Happy Birthday song trying to diffuse the situation, but we're not laughing. We're tired and want to be out of the car. It feels surreal to be lost in tiny Taybeh with Haneen's rental car sounding like the van in Little Miss Sunshine.


He swerves past a big sign to the left onto a gravel road. Beeeeep...beep beeeep.........beeeeeeeep. Zuzu follows us. I see some lights far off on a hill but they look too organized to be Ramallah.



Down the hill comes a big truck with a spotlight. It looks like a jeep and behind it is another one with blinking lights. Haneen stops the car. The jeep with its blinding spotlight is getting closer. Then a flare goes up into the sky. Everything freezes.


Haneen and I curse simultaneously.


While trying to find our way back to Ramallah, we have accidently driven into a settlement.

The flare gave it away. When someone gets too close at night, the settlers shoot flares into the sky to illuminate whoever it is approaching. Then a self-organized militia notoriously comes at you with guns. People have been killed. This is what is driving towards us right now.

Zuzu drives up behind us. We lean out the window screaming the word 'settlers' and they high tail it out of there in reverse with us following. The spotlights stop moving toward us and we get back to the top of the road. Now we can read the big sign on the left with our headlights. It was dark before. It says something in Hebrew.

Zuzu and Haneen are fighting about what to do next. We drive through Taybeh one more time and approach the original checkpoint we had tried to bypass. The beeping won't stop. We pull over for a few seconds to look at the car and see what it is. Zuzu is angry and has passed us. Mohammed starts singing Happy Birthday again. We are almost out of gas.

We can't find the source of the beep. It now turns on and off sporadically. I am shaking from are brief detour into the settlement and just want to get to Ramallah.

But we have to cross this checkpoint first. If the loud beep in the car goes off while our passports are being inspected...the young soldiers will think we have a bomb....and...well..I don't want to think about it. But the needle on the gas gauge isn't really giving us a choice.

As we approach the beep won't stop. I am praying for it to stop. It stops.

Haneen rolls down the window and hands the soldier our passports. My stomach is doing cartwheels and I am holding my breath. The soldier hands back the passports and says "Ok," and waves us through.

The car moves 5 feet and beeeeeep..beep.beep.beeeeeeeeeeep resumes.

I start laughing and crying uncontrollably. Its either laugh until I cry or throw up....because I have never felt so afraid before. The whole day has been so absurd, even dangerously absurd, there's no other way to process it. Mohammed starts singing Happy Birthday again.

Later that evening we are home with friends at Zuzu's and Suad's.. telling stories of this day over wine and nargila. Haneen is still nervous, puffing away, and rubbing his forehead. We are recounting the beep in the car and how Haneen drove us into the settlement and he interjects...."Between the beeeeeeep, Mohammed singing Happy Birthday, and Mary laughing....I almost lost my mind."

Home at Zuzu's

the ordeal of arrival

We made it.
I don't quite understand the "no liquids" on an airplane rule. Couldn't they give us lip balm or lotion on the plane? Or at least offer us more water? It was tortuous going so many hours without. Sama and I were so dehydrated In Frankfort we had to refuel with a couple Red Bulls and were using the testers in the Duty Free Stores. Sherry and Wendy met us at the gate and we headed to Amman.


Sama's father, Dr. Alshaibi is waiting for us with Rozalinda. She's having a slight problem with her visa. As a Romanian, she has to apply for a visa every place she travels. As American citizens (Wendy has a greencard) we just pay the fee and don't have a problem. I can't tell if she's tired or frazzled, but someone in charge has taken her passport. One of Dr. Alshaibi's students happens to work there and is taking care of it.

Rozalinda gets her passport back and we head to the baggage claim. Dr. Alshaibi's wife, Intesar, is waiting with the two boys and friends. She is a tall, beautiful woman wearing a nice suit and heels. Her home is in Iraq, and these past few months have been very difficult for her. She is nothing but gracious to us.

Bags start to emerge, all except for mine. My bag along with all of my installation equipment and gifts was lost by United. Either the Germans or the Americans never put it on the plane. Royal Jordanian (in the Amman airport) cut me a check for $70.00(around 50 dinars. 301.10 shekels) on the spot for my "inconvenience." In the U.S. if you're lucky, they give you toothpaste. I have a feeling I'll be winging it with one pair of pants for 2 weeks.

Walking outside to the car and my feet feel different. Beneath them is a smooth white marble, not concrete.....marble.

We pile into two cars, pick up some fresh, just-fried falafel, then head home to get some sleep before we try to cross the bridge.
.

Crossing the Bridge--Part 1

Today's the day we attempt to get into the West Bank. We have a good shot, but nothing's guaranteed since the Israeli government has been turning away many foreigners who work for NGO's or who may be affiliated with the International Solidarity Movement. Therefore we make a conscious effort to not look like hippies. I borrow a nice shirt from Sherry and make-up from Sama. Intesar lets me borrow her suitcase. We are armed with official invitations from a church in Jerusalem and have been coached on what to and what not to say.


Intesar has prepared an amazing breakfast of cheese, fruit (most of the fruit in the Middle East is grown in Jordan, delicious pears and peaches, almost as good as Chilton County peaches in Alabama ), hummus, knafeh (which I developed an addiction to by the end of this trip, along with turkish coffee), and zaatar (a blend of spices you eat by rolling bread with olive oil around in it). Here, brewed coffee isn't as popular as it is in America. Nescafe is the staple. Nescafe grew on me. I like the way the word "Nescafe" sounds. However next time I go, I will bring my own Nescafe. I think it takes 4 cups to equal the caffeine in 1 cup of regular coffee. However turkish coffee is thick, rich, and served in small cups like expresso, only sweeter. I drank it every chance I got.

















Our driver is Bassam. He is a family friend of Dr. Alshaibi. He is borrowing his brother's van and we squeeze into the seat. It is very hot. The mountains around us are alabaster white. We're in the Jordan Valley.




There is a perplexing taxi operation to and from the bridge. Without Bassam we'd have to take a taxi to the first Jordan checkpoint, and then pay for another with special clearance. Later I learn this is how it works on the other side of The Bridge as well. Since Bassam is our private driver, we get really close to the building that everyone must go through who wants to cross The Bridge. Its an easy walk although our big portfolios of work make it a little clumsy.



Our luggage is scanned and we go to passport control to get our exit visas. Strangly enough, the tiny building is empty. I've heard horror stories of the chaos that unfolds inside. Certainly it must be moreso on the other side. Including ourselves there are only 8 people waiting for the bus.


We sit outside in the heat and touch up our lipgloss while waiting for the bus to take us across. We are 5 non-frivolous women traveling together, but it seems that we do this often......putting on a little lipgloss. Maybe it provides one of these little creature comforts or a small sense of normalcy. But I also know we don't put this much effort into it at home. Maybe I'm seeing too much into it, but its one of those small quirks that entertains me. I have many many photos to prove it.

The bus is huge and air-conditioned. Its about a 10 minute drive through no-man's land to the other side. Then the bus stops. We wait...wait some more....I thank God for the air-conditioning...and then we wait some more.

no man's land

A well-dressed American man gets very flustered and paces back and forth on the bus. "So this is what the Israelis do to deter foreigners from touring the West Bank, right?" He is so angry. We stay quiet. Does he not know this is just a minor bump compared to what could happen on the other side of The Bridge? I ponder where he and his wife are travelling. My vote is on a spa at The Dead Sea. Which he can go to because he has an American passport.

Red-faced he speaks to the driver. The driver shrugs his soldiers, then points ahead. About 500 yards away there is a bus like ours on the side of the road. All of the passengers are out on the side of the road. Its a typical bomb check, but evidently it has been going on for over an hour. So so thankful for air-conditioning.

Finally the bus moves ahead. And it is our turn. We are a bus of 8 foreigners, compared to the one before of over 50 Palestinians. The young Israeli soldiers with their guns board and ask us to get off. The driver shrugs his soldiers again. They check our passports and smile. I question whether to smile back. I question this a lot on this trip. Every soldier I encounter is 19 or 20 years old. Often flirtatious. And just like the Palestinian young men we meet, they all dream of going to America. I think the one time it hurt us was our first attempt to get to the Dead Sea. But that will come later. We get back on and drive to the Israel Customs building.

Over the Bridge--part 2

Before we left in the morning, we were on the phone with Zuzu (which means Joseph). He and a friend were going to pick us up in Jericho after our travel across The Bridge and take us to his home in Ramallah. He had gone to Bethlehem to get something done to his papers. The Israelis detained him. He was probably going to have to stay overnight and Suad, his wife was on her way down from Ramallah to try to help him. But he probably would not be able to pick us up to say the least. If we get through, we will go the long way...mini-bus to Jerusalem....then mini-bus to Al Qalandia checkpoint. Then a cab to The Office, where Zuzu and his assistant, Mohammed work. The taxi industry in Israel and Palestine will make a lot of money from us on this trip.

There is a crowd of people pushed up against a barricaded area. Most of them are Palestinians. As foreigners, they take our passports right away. The Arab men who have orange vests on our putting luggage onto carts to go through inspection. At first it is strange to me that these men are working for the Israeli government, but then I realize its work....and its hard for Palestinian men to find work anywhere these days.

A young woman is standing high on some sort of kiosk behind the barricade. The passports are carried over to her and she begins to scrutinize them while chatting with her friend. She too is very young. 19 or 20 years old, and this is a part of her required service. Most of those doing their service at the Allenby Bridge are women. At the checkpoints, there are no young women, only young men....with semi-automatic weapons.

There is alteration between giggling hysterics with her friend and deadpan seriousness when she calls our names to match them with our faces. She gets to Sama's and whispers something to the young woman standing next to her. Sama is one of my dearest friends from grad. school. She is now Assistant Professor of Fine Art at the University of Arizona. She has an American Passport. However, her passport says she was born in Iraq. (her mother is Palestinian and her father is Iraqi). When I was far away from my own family in Denver, her mother, Muha, would invite me over to her house for many holidays such as Thanksgiving and Easter. She designs and makes the most beautiful clothes and delicious dolmas. Dr. Alshaibi, like his daughter, is also a professor and took care of us in Amman both going in and out. Sama has made the journey in and out of Israel a few times, and I am familiar with her stories of getting pulled out of line with varying degrees of harassment. I feel this sisterly need to protect her, which is so silly of me and probably irritating to her. I am naive to think I can protect her, and am sure she doesn't need me to protect her. She has prepared us for all of the things that might happen to her in trying to get over The Bridge. We even had to make a Plan B for if she was denied entry. For some weird reason I don't want to let her out of my eyesight. Ok...I probably can't do anything for her, but there's this big part of me that wants to see what is and what will happen. Maybe I am an American addicted to spectacle. Or maybe I just really want to see and attempt to understand.

We work hard to negotiate keeping our bags with our equipment on us. Sama hands me her bulky, complex bag with the 35mm and new 3-chip video camera. "It will be easier if you carry this in, because they're going to question me and want to search it." Of course it will be easier for me to carry it. I am a tall, fair American with a fresh passport with only a Jordan stamp. My parents are also educators, cook great holiday meals, and always host my friends with the same generosity. My father was born in Tennessee and my mother was born in Kansas.

When our names are read and passports handed back, we move to the left, bypassing the crowd of people still trying to get their bags taken. I am hot on Sama's heels. She goes through the initial passport check first and is immediately pulled aside by another young woman with a walkie talkie. She is IDF. Sama is questioned about what we're doing there and why would we go through Amman instead of Tel Aviv. We've rehearsed this speech, but I am glad that only one of us has to give it. We use the summer war in Lebanon to our favor instead of Rozalinda having problems with her visa. Sama says the IDF agent was really nice to her.

I'm pulled to the side having the camera bag searched by another young women. I stand as straight and tall as I can. A new young women is fumbling through the equipment. She can't get it all back in and blushes. She seems afraid of damaging something. She says I can put it back in if I want. I sling the heavy blue bag back on my shoulder.

I'm confused on where to go next. This whole place seems so disorganized and disorienting. The next big room is for getting the Israel visa. We're prepared to be questioned by another young woman, but we present our passports as a group (2 white Americans and 1 white Brit really help 1 Romanian and 1 Iraqi/Palestinian/American get through). We also have the letters from Jerusalem. We are through and stamped.

But there is one more final passport check. These lines are looooong. To the right is a mass of people who have been pulled to have their bags searched. The metal bars force us to go in single file. Wendy is up front and I am in the back. The young woman up front seems irritated.
I've taken great interest in watching these young women move around. They have so much power over everyone trying to get through. But they're just teenagers. While waiting in the last line, I notice how the girls have made their uniforms trendy, with tight low-waisted pants and big belts. One walks around and talks on her walkie-talkie while listening to her ipod with one headphone in and one headphone hanging out. My photography students do this in class sometimes. It always irritates me. Another girl chats on her cell-phone while managing the chaotic mass of people in the back right. Another girl keeps walking by one of the few men working here. She giggles and flips her hair, he flirts back. Then he turns around and yells at someone in the crowd....then turns back around and keeps flirting with her. This is some weird kind of Twilight Zone stuck between the OC and One Tree Hill and any movie about persecution or people trying to flee their country, except these people are trying to get back into theirs. I know its such a strong (and maybe wrong) comparison...to think of persecuted people in places such as Rwanda, South Africa, or even during the Holocaust....but I can't help it. There's these lines and lines of desperate, marked people crying.....and then this flood of teenage hormones controlling it all. I'm getting overwhelmed and wide-eyed, standing in this line, surrounded by tense frustration and giggling flirtation.

We present our passports one-by-one. The young, exasperated, sighing woman looks through them and lets us go. She looks at Sama's and with a big display of rude sarcasm says, "sorry, you must get searched." So the 4 of us are technically in Israel now, and Sama is in the back with the crazed crowd still in No-Man's Land. Neither in Israel, Palestine, or Jordan, just still in Customs. We need to weed through the stacks and stacks of suitcases to find ours, but I still don't want to take my eyes off of Sama. I want to see her and what happens, even though there's nothing I can do. My presence won't change anything or hurry it along. I'm powerless. Wendy stands by the metal railing separating geographic Israel from No-Man's Land, us from Sama, who has disappeared into the crowd of people in the back. The rest of us try to find our things.

Suitcases are everywhere. Its a room the size of a gymnasium full of suitcases. It takes 20 minutes to find everything including our precious art portfolios. Lucky we remembered to tie the same green ribbons on all of them. I'm surprised at how spread out they are.

I go stand by Wendy. We see Sama's head bobbing up. She looks very calm. Her name is called and she stands in front of the table waiting for her bag to be searched. She and another young woman (who's job is to search her things) stand there for 20 more minutes, face to face. Sama is still calm and stoic, even though she is being made to wait an unneccessary amount of time with people pressing at her back. Finally the young woman begins unzipping. It is done in 3 minutes. Sama exits, and is now on the other side of the metal rail in Israel/Palestine with us.

Getting to Ramallah

Out of the Customs Building, we negotiate a mini-bus to Jerusalem. There we will negotiate a mini-bus to the Al Qalandia Checkpoint. There we will then figure out how to get to The Office in Ramallah. Since Zuzu is now definitely stuck in Bethlehem over the night, we are constantly on the phone with Mohammed.

We pass Jericho and see the Dead Sea far far away.



The bus center in Jerusalem is right next to the famous Jerusalem Hotel. We decide we need to take a coffee break, celebrate that we made it, and regroup for a bit before we head to Qalandia. We can't take too long because since its Rosh Hashanah, the checkpoint will close soon after 5pm.

The Jerualem guy says, "Ohhh Americans. Don't worry. We love Americans. We just don't like your President."
Glad we are keeping good company, that makes six of us.

We thought we were in a mini-bus with permission to go through the checkpoint, but instead the bus pulls over. We are unsure if this is an operation that will require us to pay someone else, but we take our gear and go. It takes tricky maneuvering to get our stuff and the artwork through the heavy turnstiles. But we and the art survive it. No one checks our passports going in. However there is a long line of people trying to get out.

We regroup yet again and try to figure the best way to get to The Office. Mohammed is waiting there with Haneen, who is another journalist and editor. While we negotiate with a van, the ugly grey wall is everywhere in the distance. It encloses the entire city of Ramallah, like a prison. Driving and playing in Ramallah, you don't feel it. But when you get to the borders you see it winding like a snake. Its even more obvious in Bethlehem. I'm confused as to whether its purpose is to keep Palestinians out of places or to hold them in. But its there.

Miss Universe and the Middle East

Tonight...(ding! ding!) Miss Israel and Miss Lebanon will face off in the Miss Universe Pageant on NBC.




Read more on The Journal

note from the US gov't

Regarding getting US citizens out of Lebanon....

"We will help you get out, but you are responsible for reimbursing us for expenses."

Crushin' at TICTOC --Manifest Urban Arts Festival

Lauren and I found out yesterday that "Crush" was accepted into TICTOC.


More on TICTOC:






TICTOC is an ongoing performance art and installation project created by [C]Spaces. Focused on presenting international, national and local artists working in the live arts, TICTOC provides ongoing performance and workshop opportunities to Columbia College Chicago students interested in exploring this discipline.

The provocative, insightful and whimsical performance works fill the streets and buildings of Columbia’s South Loop campus.
This year’s TICTOC artists challenge our notions of contemporary rituals, vice, stamina; asks what the ideal man, relationship or race may be; makes political paper portraits, shreds, threads and strings up the patterns of our day. Enter the crush confessional, be seated at the electrified picnic, belly up to the edible paper bar, listen to erotic stories and join the unusual knitting network. TICTOC artists fill the streets and buildings of Columbia College Chicago. Join in anywhere and everywhere!

http://manifest.colum.edu


This will take place May 12th all over the Columbia College parts of the South Loop as a part of the school's Manifest Urban Arts Festival. If in Chi-town, you should come down. There are way too many events to see, but at 7pm there is a Mardi Gras-style parade called Spectacle Fortuna which involves big puppets and is completely based on street spectacle. We end up in Grant Park listening to Buddy Guy.

Fortune Telling

Can someone read my palm for me?