Walls and Checkpoints

Today was my first day crossing the checkpoint at Qalandiya to go to work in the Old City of Jerusalem. I was writing the whole way there and want to share.

I walked up the hill to the bus station and got on the Jerusalem bound bus. The way it works around these parts is that a bus won’t go until it’s full. So we sit and wait, not too long, though. It’s 8.45am and people (with permission to go) have places (Jerusalem) to be. We start on our way and this cute hajja (that’s a woman who has gone on her pilgrimage to Mecca, but it’s also a generic and respectful way to refer to an older lady) got on and sat next to me. She was telling me about her grand daughter, and how proud she is of her. She’s studying law at Birzeit University, and ever since the first grade, has been #1 in her class. My favorite part of the conversation was when she told me that she prefers the happiness that comes from graduation than that which comes from marriage. Now that’s a lady with her head on straight.

We got to the checkpoint. People with Palestinian ID cards had to get off the bus and cross the checkpoint (which has recently changed from a makeshift structure to a bona fide building) by foot. The lines there can be crazy, as it’s totally up to the Israeli soldiers’ mood. He can be a power wielding asshole, or he can let people pass without much fuss. I didn’t have the opportunity to see all that, because these days, those with foreign passports and Jerusalem ID cards stay on the bus. Another Israeli soldier comes on, checks our IDs and decides whether or not we can pass. Today we passed with no trouble. The bus crossed the check point and went to this waiting area. That’s where the people who got off the bus to walk through the checkpoint go to fill up yet another bus. The bus we got on was nearly full, so we didn’t have to wait too long. Eventually it took off and headed for Jerusalem. All along the way, we drove right alongside the wall. It’s this towering structure of concrete slabs butted up next to each other. It’s tall, it’s foreboding, and it’s completely psychotic. I can’t imagine what the Israeli psyche must be like to believe in such inhumanity. The way divides towns and villages. This stretch of it was built right down the middle of the street. For those San Franciscans, imagine if a wall was build down the middle of Mission Street. In order to get to the other side, you have to go to a check point, wait in line, go through this unpredictable process. And what if on one side is your house and on the other is your farm land? Or your mom? Or the store where you buy milk? I just can’t tell you how insane it is.

I’m going to diverge a little and tell you a little bit about settlements. Because the wall is inhumane, but the settlements are horrifying. During our drive to Bethlehem from Ramallah over the weekend, we drove through an area that is infested with settlements. With settlements come bypass roads (for only Israelis and settlers), the destruction of hundreds of years old olive trees, random shooting at Palestinians, and a systematic appropriation of land in the West Bank. Settlements are usually strategically placed on hill tops, affording them a view of the land all around. The landscape in these parts is pretty hilly, and what I saw took my breath away – settlements cropping up on multiple hill tops through the area. What completed the picture were the older settlements that spread down the hills. They become full fledged cities. The situation in 50 years will be one where the settlements creep down the hills and the borders will meld into each other. It matters little what’s in the way – land owned by the Franciscan Patriarch, groves of olive trees hundreds of years old (where are the environmental activists??), and never mind if Palestinians are living there. With all the stories of settlers shooting randomly at Palestinian cars I had this strange combination of vulnerability and fearlessness. This place is fully of contradictions and juxtapositions. In Bethlehem, we stayed at the Jacir Palace Intercontinental hotel. What is now a hotel used to be a large home built in 1910 belonging to a man who would open up his home to anyone who needed a place to stay the night. It was kind of like a caravanserai, and it was gorgeously built with local stone, crafted in Bethlehem by very talented stone workers. Here’s where things get funky. We got into our super gorgeous rooms and noticed the balcony. I opened up and the view was of a refugee camp called Mukheyem Azza. Extreme poverty and extreme wealth face to face. Standing there and looking outside, I was reminded of something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then I remembered. When I first began hearing about settlements, the image that was relayed to me was of Settler children in the settlement playing in playgrounds and swimming pools on the hill and looking down at Palestinian kids who had nothing to play with. Standing there, I realized that my conspicuous consumption had a lot more in common with settlements than I knew. Here is a moment where the issue of race and religion matter much less than money and power. The two go hand in hand.

Back to the trip to Jerusalem --
I was a privileged girl holding my blue passport, my ticket to a relatively smooth ride to work. It didn’t seem like there was that much to tackle along the way, but I got to work in a little less than one and a half hours. Before, the wall, before the checkpoint, before the occupation, the ride between Ramallah and Jerusalem took 20 minutes max.

Paris - looking back. Palestine - looking forward.

My stay in Europe was so full, I hardly had the time or the energy to digest it. I simply let life happen to me and kept on walking the city streets.

It was great to be in Paris, everything was a visual delight -- from the way that people dressed, to the cakes in the windows, to the meats at the market, to the piles of couscous and lemon-sugar crepes, the antique markets and stores full of old maps or old photographs. Men and women are constantly looking at each other, hungry for a visual delight. It adds an extra layer of fun when I decorate my body with clothes and jewelry.

Katie and Viktor hosted me in their tiny sublet, and to them I am grateful! Poor Katie was in the midst of dissertation hell, working like a crazy woman toward her goal of completion. She's such an amazing friend, colleague and scholar! And Viktor was also great. We spent a day in the Marais trying to go to these galleries that happened to be closed because of some obscure Jewish holiday. We ate delicious peaches and veal and chocolate loveliness. We drank cucumber something or others and got all loopy. They wished me good night from their window as I lay outside the house sleeping (the appropriate parties will understand what the hell I'm saying).

I loved Paris -- so much so that I'm going to try to live there. There's this word in Arabic -- nassib -- it means fate. There are a number of indicators that I should stay in Paris, the first being that I don't yet have a return ticket to the US. The situation makes me feel like I'm living to the rhythm of the universe, following my intuition about things. I'm not anticipating the path that life will take me, but I am expecting the unexpected (whatever that means).

We'll see how it goes. I'm putting the thought out there in the universe. Universe! Give back to me! I feel like it's the logical next step in my life. Life abroad. In Paris there are libraries with books in English, which is the most important thing because I need to write my dissertation. And the artists are near. And there are exhibitions of Arab art all the time...for now, it's my place.

I was stationed in Paris and visited a couple other places in Europa including Brussels, Nimes, and London. First - Nimes. I stayed in Nimes for a night to attend the opening of an exhibition at the Carree d'Art Contemporaine called "SCENES DU SUD II - Méditerranée Orientale". Both Tarek Al Ghoussein and Walid Raad had pieces in it, but more remarkably, Tarek was going to be there. Another nassib situation, in my opinion.

It's interesting to think about the political and social implications of the concept of the Eastern Mediterranean as a community. And we must think of the exhibit in that way, for if there's one thing I've learned studying contemporary Arab and African art, it's that no exhibition exists outside of power and politics. France has a lot to gain by consolidating this geographic unity. Nonetheless, the exhibit was very interesting. It was heavy on video, but I liked that very much. One beautiful video was by Jumana Emil Abboud called The Pomegranate. The video closed in on a pair of hands removing pomegranate seeds from its pod and then trying to put them back. The process produced red squirts and splashes of pomegranate juice. It evoked memories from my childhood when I would obsessively remove pomegranate seeds one by one, staining my hands and marveling at the cells that so perfectly wrapped around the seeds. The video is alarming in its visceral appeal, but it is also meant to evoke the situation of Palestinian refugees who've been extracted and don't quite fit. Or maybe it's about the worry over what will happen if and when people do return?

Hassan Musa picked me up in Nimes and there began a three day conversation about politics, art, identity, language, community, agency, salad made from veggies growing in the garden, empire, and family relations among a multitude of other things. It was a very important trip for me on many levels. Aside from the energizing effects of being around such an amazing couple, there was something happening on a completely subconscious level. The first night I was there, my throat started hurting. I went to be shivering, vowing to fight off whatever virus was coming at me with a vengeance. I struggled with it all night and woke up with a full blown flu but I couldn't spend the little time I had there laying in bed moaning. After all, the whole point of my trip to France was Hassan. So I battled it, the whole time knowing that the fever was a physical manifestation of some emotional and mental purging. That weekend was the one where I began to conceive of the idea of living in Paris. I also made some relationship changes that were more freeing than I expected. But I feel like there's more to it than just those things. I haven't quite figured it out, but I know that eventually it'll all come together.

I came back to Paris for a couple of days and then headed to London. My first stop there was Ascot, and I happened to be there for the Ascot horse races. Let me tell you -- that was a cultural experience if I ever saw one. The day I arrived was Ladies day, where women came dressed in their fanciest hats. It was one of those events where you go to see and be seen. The races are neither here nor there for many people. I figured that out one day as I arrived at the Ascot train station from London and had to pass through throngs of drunk bastards on their way home from the races. It was pretty hilarious to see women taking off their inappropriate shoes and men in top hats and tuxedos slumped over.





But the best part about Ascot was staying at the Lovel Dene house. When I contacted Trish to ask her if I could stay with her, I didn't expect to be staying on a proper English estate, complete with a pond, boat and summer houses, amazing vegetable garden, flowers, fields, and in the neighboring lands, the most amazing forests of oaks and pines. Jigga, the benevolent overseer of the place, opened up her home to me like the gracious hostess she is. I felt so blessed to be there, and every time I looked around me, I was continually shocked at the beauty.

And did I mention the llamas? Yeah...this was probably the last thing I expected to see in England.














I then transferred to my friend Manuela's place in London proper. We were staying in the borough of Hackney, and let me tell you -- it couldn't have been more different than Ascot. But my stay with Manuela was just as important. We talked for hours and hours about power and our place in the world and politics and spirituality and religion. It was overwhelming, but made me feel that somehow, I had an understanding that could help me live the life of a better human in this great big universe. And Manuela is great. She and I grew up art historically together. We both studied with Judith Bettelheim at San Francisco State University, and have a very similar approach to art and our studies. I've always compared myself to my fellow students at Michigan, feeling like I lack something important. But being with Manuela affirmed for me the reasons why I love art, and the questions that drew me into this crazy process called graduate school.

Today is my first day back in Ramallah. I'm sitting at my cousins' restaurant, surrounded by people eating lunch and smoking the erghileh. Oh god I want to smoke! I'll resist as long as I can. I think I'm going to start the internship on Monday, but I have yet to arrange the day. I'm happy, healthy, and so very excited about what life has in store.

Men in the World

Today I discovered something vastly important.

Yesterday I met two men -- one an Algerian living in Paris without papers, and the other a Palestinian who is in Paris with his family (and has been for over 30 years). Both harbored some kind of longing.

The Palestinian man longed for a proper Palestine with a government free from corruption, that cares about the people, and that will fight for the right for Palestinians to return if they wanted. He was clearly angry - angry at those who left Palestine, angry at those who betrayed Palestine, angry at those who sell their land in Palestine. He is likely angry at himself.

The second man I met was Amin. At first his story was that he was born in France to immigrant parents, but he later told me that he had come 9 years ago and was living there illegally. He wants to marry - 'life alone is not a good life' - he's a 32 year old man who has been single for 5 years. The problem is that he doesn't have stable work. How can he provide for a family without stable work? He wants to be a pastry chef and have his own business.

These encounters made an impact on me, because it made me think about what it's like to be a man in ghorba? (Ghorba is an arabic word that derives from the same word for 'west,' which basically means “not home.” So a person living in ghorba is living somewhere that is not home) I imagine that it would somehow make that man feel impotent in some way or another, for he either doesn't have access to the resources necessary to take care of his family, or he is disconnected with his homeland and therefore feels an absence.

Thinking about men in this way is very important for me because it means that I’m open to being empathic to their situations, taking them as fallible human beings who are vulnerable, have dreams, sometimes get disappointed, sometimes disappoint. And to prove yet again that our work is indeed personal, I made the connection between my empathy for these men to my dissertation choices. I am working on three male artists, all in various states of relation to their homelands. One is willingly in diaspora, the other goes back and forth between home and ghorba, and the third cannot go back because he has the wrong passport. What will I learn from these different men and the ways they deal with their situations? I realized today that writing the dissertation will be more than an intellectual and academic challenge. It will be more than an emotional challenge in terms of its impact on my self confidence. I think and I pray that it will be an undertaking that will help me get through and over those major blocks that have thus far stopped me from going where I need to be.

Frustration

Today I was walking along the river Seine, looking at the old apartment buildings and feeling quite lucky to be in Paris. Then I happened upon the Eiffel Tower and felt a mini surge of excitement. I drank shitty, overpriced coffee there because I had museum fatigue and could go no further. As I walked away from the Eiffel Tower, across the river and towards some famous building or another, I got pissed off and vowed that next time I'm in an amazing place, it will be with someone I love a lot.

Rather than take the millionth self portrait, I'd like to have someone in the picture with me. Khalas. Enough is enough.

Synchronicities and art

Today I went to the Third Line Gallery and had a conversation/experience that made me feel like I am doing the right thing, and in the right places. I decided that I need to write a little something about what's happening in terms of the work I've traveled to this side to do.

One of the great things about my experiences so far are all the coincidences. For example, I'll be meeting both Walid Raad and Tarek Al Ghoussein in other unexpected places during my trip. If all goes as planned, Walid is going to be in Ramallah in July, and Tarek will be in Nimes at the same time as I. This wasn't planned, it's just what happens when the stars align and you're doing the right thing.

Another cool thing: Walid recommended that I read Jalal Toufic's work. This is no ordinary feat. I once tried reading his book Forthcoming, and nearly shot myself. For the most part, I had no idea what he was talking about. While I was in Amman, I was checking out Darat al Funun to see what was going on there and lo and behold! Jalal was scheduled to give a talk there in english that night. So I made my way there and

(listened to him try to explain the difference between what he distinguishes as two different kinds of disasters: a surpassing disaster and a relative disaster. A relative disaster is one that has definable boundaries, no matter how large or small, in terms of its reach. A surpassing disaster is one whose impact cannot be known until the symptoms begin to appear. A good example he used was Christ's crucifixion. Now comes the interesting and confusing part: one symptom is the withdrawal of tradition. A population that is sensitive enough to realize what has happened will be unable to use a book for example. It might be physically there, but something prevents its use. It is not until artists, thinkers and writers begin to excavate this lost tradition that it can be reclaimed, but it will never be the same.)

Needless to say, I need to sit quite a bit more with Toufic's ideas and 1) see what it's all about and 2) figure out how I may be able to use it in my dissertation. The lecture itself was quite entertaining because of the response the audience had to his characterization of certain disasters as surpassing while others remained relative. Out came people's political allegiances and faiths. Though he kept explaining that the theory wasn't about his personal feelings about the Nakba, for example, people were still pissed. Plus, many people were confused about it. Therefore, Jalal spent nearly two and a half hours explaining this one concept and a related idea.

Today at Thirdline:

First off, I thought that I was going to leave Abu Dhabi 23 hours after my arrival. Thank god this was not true. Otherwise I'd be on a plane waiting for take off as I write. Lovely M asks me - so I think you'd really love to go to the gallery in Dubai, right? And I was so happy! I wanted to go, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to get there. M only learned at the last minute that she was going to be able to take the day off. I called the gallery and learned that yes, they did have some of Tarek's photography, and that yes, I could come and check it out. We made our way to Dubai (by the way, this can at times be a major pain in the buttocks because of the traffic and construction, etc) and got to the gallery relatively early. I had a great but short conversation with Haig Aivazian about the work, Toufic, and some other things. It was sooo exciting to talk to someone who knows the scene. I need to do it more often. As they unwrapped mounted photograph after mounted photograph, I stood there with my pencil and notebook in hand, ready to get down to some hardcore formal analysis. He said, "Yeah, you're lucky. We just got this work back in about a week ago." You know, had I been more together when I was first in the Emirates, I wouldn't have seen the photographs.

It made me wonder about my approach to life on this trip. I've certainly been proactive in
terms of organizing meetings and such, but not totally. I've left some things up to whatever/whoever makes things tick, and for the most part, life has been working quite well. This is encouraging to say the least. A lucky duck, I am. A happy lucky duck. Though in the back of my mind, I'm starting to worry about the dissertation itself.....when do I start writing??? And more importantly when I start, what do I write?

Petra

I went to Petra a couple of days ago. It was a beautiful experience on many levels. First off, I had to go alone. I was completely freaking out about it because I’ve never driven in another country, let alone navigate the crazy streets and ridiculous roundabouts of Amman. With the help of Jali, I made it out of the city and headed south. The ride was pretty straightforward, and I was accompanied by the music of Tamer Hosny, a tape that was left in the car. I remained stressed the whole way there, mostly because I didn’t know what to expect. But I got there fine, got into the hotel in the town of Wadi Musa, made some friends, and began my adventure.

After the ride, watching the sunset over the mountains was the first in a number of dramatic experiences. Far into the distance, the horizon looked like the ocean, but that’s the California in me. Sunset was characterized by men on horseback, kids on swings, and folks gathered around bonfires. Later, I went with some people from the hostel into the one of the many valleys. We drove until we were well away from Wadi Musa’s city lights. I couldn’t see the large orange mountains that surrounded us, but I could feel their powerful presence, and every once in a while, a car would pass by and partially illuminate the scene. I lay atop the car and gazed at the millions of stars that graced me with their presence. I made a wish upon a shooting star.



The next morning I got up early so that I could see Petra in the morning light. By then I felt pretty confident, pretty comfortable. I passed by a number of tour groups and politely turned down offers to take a horse down into the siq (canyon). I made my way alongside small facades carved into the mountains, imagining what the place must have been like when there was an abundance of water running through. When I made it to the siq, I was completely overcome, and truly overwhelmed. Being surrounded by that much rock, geological history, and human will filled me up. At one point I turned a corner and felt like I had been there. Being of hippy inclination, I understood the feeling to be of real significance. But it’s possible that the feeling was induced by the many pictures I’ve seen of the place. Or maybe it was a familiarity with earthliness. Maybe I had been there before in some terrestrial sense? I finally got to the treasury – the most famous image of Petra, but it was totally crowded with tourists. So I kept going and decided to spend time there on the way back. My destination was the monastery.

The most remarkable aspect of my trip to Petra were my meetings with some Bedouins. I thought I was going to have to deal with aggressive people trying to get me to buy things or take a ride on a donkey, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Once I said “no thank you” (and especially because I spoke in Arabic), people were okay with letting me walk on by. Most often, I was invited to drink endless amounts of the yummiest sweet sage tea. I sat around and engaged in talk about people, life in the mountains, Palestine, who married who and what kids they had, etc.

I was on my way up the mountain, over steps that at once trailed the mountain and led to the monastery (also carved into the mountain face) when I met this kid named Ahmed. He was going up with another fellow who had two English kids on donkeys while their reserved parents followed. I chatted with Ahmed and his partner as we climbed up, taking my time so as to make it through the day and its heat. I don’t know how long it took to climb up, but it must have been something like an hour. After a while, I realized that Ahmed was just going to chill with me the whole time, and that was fine by me. I chatted with another fellow nicknamed ‘Cave man’ who sat perched at the portal of the monastery and then made my way up toward the High Place of Sacrifice on the summit of Jabal al Madbah. From the mountain top, I could see all the way over to Palestine and the Negev desert. The wind blew around all the tourists who made the trek up, flapping the Jordanian flag in the wind. I sat for quite some time talking to Atef, the guy who runs a shop that sells silver jewelry made by Bedouin women with the support of the Queen Noor Foundation. Whenever people would get to the top, Atef would point to the various spots – Palestine, the sacrifice platform, and a mosque marking Aaron’s tomb. I hung out with Atef for a while and decided to buy an overpriced bracelet, especially after he so graciously gifted me a pair of beautifully crafted silver earrings. He and I connected and he invited me to stay overnight to sleep under the stars. I wasn’t quite sure about all that, so I said thanks, that it was a pleasure to meet him, and made my way back down the mountain with Ahmed in tow.

Most Bedouin men in Petra follow the tradition growing their hair long and lining their eyes in kohl. I asked another fellow what that was all about and he said that as long as they didn’t tie it up or manipulate it in any way, long hair is not deemed haram. I don’t know about the kohl, but it made for an attractive drama that I was quite drawn to. When I was walking down the mountain, I came across a group of three young men who were sitting down to lunch. I knew one of them from earlier. They looked like a bunch of sexy rocker guys with their long hair, cool looks, and unwillingness to smile. I understood why they were so reserved when an older German woman stopped to take a picture without asking and without the slightest idea that her action could make people feel on display, objectified, disrespected. One of the fellows, Ahmed, said, “excuse me, but you do not have permission to take my picture. We are simply trying to enjoy our lunch. Would you like it if you were disrespected in the same way?” It was cool, because though she seemed nice enough, she was clueless.

Another cool person I met was this sharp old woman. Again, it was on my way up to the monastery. She was sitting under shade selling jewelry, her fingers and hair orange with henna, tattoos marking her forehead. She sat cross legged with a cigarette and a cup of tea. She was wrinkled like those who’ve spent their whole lives in the sun get marked by time. She was the ultimate in coolness and she invited me for a cup of tea. I told her I’d sit with her on my way back so I could take advantage of the sun, which was still relatively low in the sky at that point. On my way back, Ahmed and I sat with her. There was another kid with her who was a bit of a spit fire and fancied himself a man. He couldn’t have been more than 14 or so, but he was smoking cigarettes in that awkward way that people who aren’t enjoy it do. So we sat and I learned about this Spanish woman who got married to a Bedouin man and gave birth to a daughter. Apparently, there’s lots of Bedu-Euro marriages, which I found pretty interesting.

But Petra was more to me than starry nights, stories of interracial marriage, friendly invitations, and gifts. Jordan was the first place in this voyage where I needed to rely on myself to get around. Renting a car and driving it out of Amman to a destination 250 km away by myself gave me the confidence boost that I needed. I’m still nervous whenever I go somewhere new, but I know have concrete proof that I can do it. And I do so successfully. In all honesty, though, I never do anything totally alone. Jali hooked me up by allowing me to follow him through Amman until I got to the freeway. And Mosleh, the man at the hotel in Wadi Musa shared wonderful places that I wouldn’t have seen without him. My experience in Petra would have been nice without the Bedu, but not nearly as memorable. And here I am again! Grateful for people in my life, and the people that I come across as I trek across life’s path.