Beginnings

up on the roof!

2008-09-07T11:54:00.000-07:00

I have this feeling like I've written before about the roof top. Yes, I think I have. But it's a special place. There's a photograph of my grandfather on the roof when the house was being built. The roof is the last part of the structure that gets put on....he was standing there, looking toward where the restaurant now stands. And there was a couple of guys working on it. I guess he was managing the progress. I don't know.

I never met my paternal grandfather, and like so many other people, I sit and wonder what he was like. What is it about my family history that got me to where I am now? Made me the person I am today? I escape to this spot, far from chatter, far from prying eyes (though I'm sure someone sees me, those sneaky bastards). I come here, and I imagine that he stood in this exact spot. That's about as close as I can get to his body, his realness. I ask people about him. What was he like? Oh, he was a great man. Everybody loved him. That's a generic answer, always. So I pry a bit more. Was he quiet, or did he crack jokes all the time? He was a jokester, and that makes a lot of sense to me.

Oh family history. What have you done? Are you sorry for the ills you've caused? Proud of the happiness? Are you even aware of the consequences of your actions? Probably not. Your members now sit in their homes, their small lives, not realizing that that ripples can become waves that wash away possibility, wash away innocence, wash away responsibility.

I'm sad, but nothing can be done to right the wrongs. Nothing but to take what I'm learning
and try to turn the tide.

These water metaphors, though cheesy, are apt in a place where every drop is precious.

Everything gets stolen - land, water, my friend's sleeping bag, my other friend's bracelet that her grandmother gave her. You can take things, occupiers, but you can't take my love, and you can't break our will.

Waiting

2008-08-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

In just a couple of days, two great friends will be here with me in Palestine. They are coming to see me, to see the place, to see the situation, and it'll be life changing for the three of us. We've all experienced imperialism and colonialism on various levels -- me a Palestinian living in the States, Angie a Hidatsa Mandan, and Lani, a Hawaiian. We will have the conversations and experiences of a lifetime.

I haven't been writing. I've been living -

spent some time in West Jerusalem among Jews who can't identify the arabic language when they hear it.

went to Majdal Shams in Golan Heights, Occupied Syria -- a most magical place. We watched the sunrise over hills in Syria while a fog bank came drifting in from the west like a gently lumbering giant.

speaking arabic like a champ, falling in love with this land, and the good and bad in it

wish i could live here forever.....

Light

2008-07-26T08:08:00.000-07:00

On the 18 bus from Ramallah to Jerusalem with a Palestinian man born in Baghdad. He's asking the man next to him - is that a settlement? Is this the Arab part of town? It's his first time in Palestine and he's on his way to Haifa today. He seems a complete man here, a man with a tiny bit of satisfaction, a man who wants to know his land. I understand where he's coming from. We diaspora Palestinians have the same mythical sense of this land. Some folks who live here resent that about us. But it makes me sad to think about people all around the world who are not allowed to live where they want to be.

I get off the bus and head to work. I am filled up with that feeling I always have here - a mix of opposites. I pass a group of women having an intense conversation, trying to figure something out among themselves. There's the guy who sells ca3k and gigantic Jerusalem style falafel, which is stuffed with sauteed onion. I get to Bab el Amoud (Damascus Gate) and for a moment, I get this sense that all is well. It came and went in a split second, as if I had a peek into the past, maybe the future. Two boys kicking a soccer ball back and forth as the morning sun shines down on them. A Franciscan monk stands looking across the street. People are going about their business...the scene wasn't much different than everyday, but in that tiny slice of time

the universe opened up, enter a parallel universe
dark clouds parted
pierced
by a persistent shaft of light

Discovering a favorite place

2008-07-20T14:42:00.000-07:00

On the roof top of the house my grandfather built, I'm (somewhat) far away from everyone. I have privacy, and sit in relative quiet. I come here to think and be away for a little. Plus, up here my phone gets reception and I have a better internet connection.

Men in Palestine

2008-07-15T14:48:00.000-07:00

I’ve noticed some very beautiful things about men here. One thing is that they love kids. It is the norm to play with kids, to take care of them, to hold their hands, to carry them. They also take care of people. I missed the last bus to Ramallah one night so I had to take the bus to Qalandia and transfer to a servees (communal taxi). I’ve never done that before, and didn’t really know the system. I was asking questions about how to do it without making it seem obvious that I was a tiny bit nervous. (I’m always nervous when I do things for the first time, and it was late, and the bus was full of men, etc…) A couple of guys hung around to make sure I wasn’t going to stand in the street by myself. When they saw that another man was also going to wait for the servees, they told him to help me out. But the guy looked slightly shady, so they hung around and waited til the servees came. This in a place whose social fabric is slowly falling apart because of occupation, under- and unemployment, and rising food and gas prices. It says a lot about the people here, and it made me so happy to be Palestinian, and so happy to be home.

Glimpses

2008-07-15T14:47:00.001-07:00

On the bus on my way to work in Jerusalem:

A man puts bunches of mulkhiyeh (called ‘celulot’ in the Philippines, ‘jew’s mellow’ in the US) while his young son and I exchange curious glances.

Layers and layers of indecipherable graffiti covers a wall.

Kids push a small red car while one stands on the bumper for a ride.

A young man is asleep on a recliner set outside of a store that may or may not sell furniture. But I think it does.

At Qalandia – just as a truck passes a couple of soldiers at the checkpoint, one of the soldiers lifts the rifle and holds it in both hands. I took this as a deliberate act to show the young boy in the passenger seat of the truck that he has power.

the 80 year old hajja

2008-07-04T00:52:00.000-07:00

This morning when I was crossing through Qalandiya, we went through the normal process of figuring out who has foreign passports and Jerusalem ids and those with Palestinian ids . The driver discovered that this old old lady didn't have permission to cross through, but was on the bus anyways hoping they would let her cross because she was so old. Everyone got distressed because it meant we'd get delayed and likely have to watch her get kicked off the bus and returned to Ramallah by foot, etc. It would be physically and emotionally tiring for her, and emotionally tiring for the rest of us who would have to witness such inhumanity.

We braced ourselves and waited to see what would happen, praying to God. These two really kind looking soldiers got on the bus and the woman asked the hajja "hold old are you?". She replied, 80, but it's likely that she has no idea. Regardless, she's super old. The soldier let her pass, and we all breathed a sigh of relief, people saying "Allah karim" , and talking in excited voices. I felt this deep sense of sadness. Occupation is so part of our daily lives, that people have come to accept what is permissible and what is not. This old lady wouldn't let it stop her, though. She wanted to get to Jerusalem, so she tried and made it through.

I let the soldiers see the tears well up in my eyes. They were tears of sadness, but they were also strategic. They seemed kind and empathic people. Maybe they'll take what happened and continue to be kind. I understand they don't have power in a larger sense, but it's the everyday experiences that determine the quality of life. They couldn't look at me, averted their eyes.

Walls and Checkpoints

2008-06-30T12:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-19T09:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-09T14:13:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-06T16:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-03T13:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-02T01:14:00.001-07:00

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.

Palestine, part one

2008-05-26T09:21:00.000-07:00

I came to Ramallah yesterday, and it's been beautiful. One of the first things I noticed is the major shift between how I felt in Amman and how I feel here. Crossing the border turned my frown upside down, and I began to question what it is about Amman that's so wretched? I came to this conclusion -- being that 60% of the population is Palestinian (and they're primarily there because of '48 and '67), being that the terrain and weather are quite similar, one feels like it could be Palestine. In fact, when I first arrived, I felt quite happy because I felt a familiarity. After being there, though, I realized that it's not Palestine. On so many profoundly overlapping levels, Palestine is so close, yet so far. It's just across the Jordan River, just across the Dead Sea, and people used to cross back and forth all the time. Borders are inhumane, and the attempt to render a border impenetrable goes against what humans ought to do - move freely across lands. Somehow, Amman's not-quite-Palestine-ness has generated a thick bitterness that makes the air there heavy.

I got into the country with relative ease. I paid an extra $100 to pass the border at Allenby Bridge as a "VIP." This meant that instead of getting off and on buses, waiting for them to fill up before they'd leave, wait with the throngs of much more assertive people than I for luggage, etc., I was marked as 'privileged.' And in some senses, I am. In others, I'm not. I still had to wait 2 hours while the Israeli's checked to make sure various things (I wasn't intending to stay forever, I don't hold a Palestinian identity card, etc, etc...), but 2 hours is much better than the 5 I waited last time around. I think the extra $100 made the trip much easier.

I had a funny conversation with one of the soldiers while I was waiting to be let it. He came to ask me the same questions I was already asked three times. He was a nice enough fellow who spoke English without an accent:

Kathy: Where are you from?
Soldier: Canada
Kathy: Oh, I live in Michigan, quite close to Canada.
Solder: I'm from Alberta, a little ways away.
Kathy: Well, you have a nice country. Both of them.
Soldier: (Smiling) Thanks! Well, that should be enough.
Kathy: Okay, great! Hook me up! (i.e. get me the fuck out of here quick style)

I love it here. The bus took us from the border to Jericho where you then catch a shared taxi to your next destination. The trip to Ramallah took us through these windy roads on mostly low lying hills, but other times quite steep and scary. They were dotted with makeshift homes built by folks who live in those unforgiving hills in corrugated metal structures (unbearably hot in the summer, and bone chilling cold in the winter). They tend to their goats and chickens, and live what must be a pretty isolated life. I mean, it's close enough to Jericho by car, but I didn't see many there. We drove the roads, through the hilly town of Taybeh (home of the delicious Taybeh beer and its brewery), past illegal Jewish settlements, underneath Jewish-only bypass roads, till we finally got to Ramallah.
(above, an illegal West Bank settlement)

I just love it here. How do I explain it? I felt like I could finally let out a sigh and relax. It's such a profound feeling, such a lovely comfort to feel at home. It's near unbelieveable to me.

I came directly to the Zarour grocery store and began meeting everyone. My cousin Diana was running the store while Ghneim was on break at the house. I made my way across the street, feeling as if I had never left. My aunty Jane was beaming with her white smile and silvery hair. Ghneim welcomed me with his smart ass comments and a sweet hug. Diana with her double kisses and big smiles. It's good to be here. My aunty Mary visited me, then I met up with a bunch of people at Zarour BBQ (super delish chicken for those of you who ever make it out here). Again, I felt like I never left when I saw Muna and giggled at her silliness, evoked by the excitement of having Tamara (her daughter, my sister) and I here together. Issam and Summer were also there, with their two beautiful kids, and there was Nihad with her kids, and Nader the musical maestro, Elizabeth and her kids, Ghneim and I.

Then to Ramie's birthday party, which was a house full of happy kids running and screaming, a table full of food and cakes that Jane (15 years old!) made, adults in the living room chillin', eating, drinking turkish coffee.

THEN (same day, yo)! I was invited by Summer and Issam to a get together. It was great to meet like-minded foreigners, Palestinians from the Diaspora, and Palestinians involved in film, art, development, green energy and so on...We got into serious discussions regarding the proper size of fruit for sangria, but in the end, we were happy to have the delicious drink, and it made everyone properly loopy and encouraged fun conversation about music, politics, life in Palestine, life in London and whatever other words were shared. Got home super duper late and didn't hear the end of it from my dear cousin Ghneim. : )

As I said, I love it here.

Mountains and Sea

2008-05-19T04:19:00.001-07:00

My trip to Jordan has afforded me some very interesting day trips, including my favorite place, Ma’in Hot Springs. The place is being built up to accommodate for more tourism, but to me, it was just fine (actually though, the bathrooms sent Tamara and I running out screaming). The springs were unbearably hot in some places. They are nestled in a mountain range between the Dead Sea and Madaba, and the drive into the valley was quite tortuous. The landscape was very dramatic, filled with rocky red and orange mountains. I imagine it’s gorgeous at sunrise and sunset. We drove into the resort area and made our way for the waterfalls. Going down this path, they became visible as we walked closer, and I got really excited because there were people just standing there underneath the powerful pounding water, unable to move. They looked pretty funny, so Tamara and I made fun of them and found a place to sit. After I got over the freak out of being half undressed in front of people and deciding to wear my skirt with my bathing suit, I got into the water and marveled at the warmth of it. It’s strange because even though the day was quite warm, it didn’t bother us to be in warm water. I think they channel through some cold water into the fall. I slowly made my way underneath the waterfall and was totally astounded. Tamara, Mohsen and I looked at each other stunned at how powerful the water was pounding down on us. It was a strange combination of feelings. First, the water felt therapeutic. Then, being under a mad rush puts you in a kind of a hypnotic state. The water falls down rather steady, but every once in a while, it pounded extra hard as if another spring joined in. All you can do is stand there and give in to the power of the falls, and I willing did so.

The drive there was pretty great, too. First we passed through what is referred to as the Grand Canyon of Jordan. I didn’t realize how mountainous Jordan is. We passed through this little town built along the mountain road and I thought about the relationships people have to the mountains in which they live. I thought about the Berber girls in the High Atlas Mountains in Morocco, and the Bedouins at Mt. Sinai in Egypt. I thought about the folks in the Northern Sierras who make their money during tourist season and close up for the winter, getting snowed in and all. While I lumber up the mountain like an elephant, unsure of every step, kids in rubbery slippers bounced from rock to rock. I thought about the animals people encounter, and the people animals encounter. I think mountains breed a special kind of being.

Then we got to the Dead Sea and I gasped because I could see Palestine just across. I felt sad that the days of going back and forth between Jordan and Palestine with nothing but the road to worry about were over. Tamara mentioned that she never sees boats on the Dead Sea, it probably has to do with its salt content. Or maybe it’s something to do with security? I don’t know. But it is sadly symbolic that the horizon toward Palestine is comprised of a sea that’s so salty, nothing can live in it, a sea upon which no boats float. I have the privilege of being melancholy, but it’s not an option for people who live there (though depression must be rampant there). That’s why you see people laughing all the time in Palestine, or snapping at each other, or marveling at this years figs…feeling their feelings with all they’ve got. For what else can you do in a place that the world has deserted?

60 years

2008-05-15T04:00:00.000-07:00

Today is the Nakba anniversary. I’m watching the news on Al Jazeera and Al Manar TV, listening to speeches I can barely understand about hopes for a Palestinian state, the right for Palestinian refugees to return to the villages they were expelled from 60 years ago at the founding of the state of Israel, the inhumanity of occupation and the full support Israel has of the US. In Jordan, commemorative events are not allowed, but people (who have the emotional energy to think about it) are wearing black. In Jerusalem, while world leaders like our dear president Bush are visiting Israeli heads of state, a slew of black balloons are being released in protest. In the UAE, blood drives are being held to collect 531 units of blood (the same number of villages destroyed by Zionist forces in ’48). The power of the activities being held in the Arab world are purely symbolic. I guess there’s importance in symbolism, but to me, the events are more a symbol of the lack of official support for Palestine. It is clear that money and power tip the scale in measure with justice and human lives.

Relationships

2008-05-15T03:52:00.000-07:00

I got to Amman yesterday, relieved to find the weather absolutely tolerable, even chilly in the evenings. I came to stay with Tamara, my dear friend of nearly 20 years (oh my god, I’m old). We rarely see each other these days because we always seem to be living on different continents. Aside from the fact that I’m staying with her for the next couple of weeks, yesterday there was an extra treat. For YEARS I’ve been hearing about Trish, a woman she befriended when living and working in Ramallah 8 years ago. While I was hearing about Trish, and Trish was hearing about me. We became famous to each other. Yesterday, Tamara, Trish and Kathy sat together on the patio, drinking coffee (like good Arabs), finding the fact that we were all together absolutely unbelievable. It was great, and though I’ve never met Trish, the energy among the three of us was quite natural, which is pretty damn special.

My first day in Amman was wild. I came to Tamara’s house and sat with Trish for a little. Mariam, a free-lance journalist, came over and picked us up. We maneuvered through the crazy driving that is Amman and went to a hotel. I didn’t realize why or what we were doing there, but it turned out that she had a media friend there, who was set up in an office. I mean, literally, one of the rooms was turned into permanent office space for a major media outlet. The conversation that ensued was the theme of the day, a theme that started with Trish.

What inevitably comes up in conversation with Palestinians or people who’ve lived in Palestine is the occupation. This time, we talked about the psychology of being under the constant threat of getting killed or shot, of death always looming ahead. It brings with it fear, of course, but also becomes strangely addictive. The high of making it one more day and accumulating close-calls must be exhilarating. Life is as exciting as it can get when something as simple as going outside is an unpredictable and frightful occasion, so much so that “normal” life becomes the most boring thing in the world. And actually, that’s what happens. Once out of the war zone, boredom sets in, life becomes mundane.

The man we met has spent some time in Iraq and upon our settling in, the stories began. The crazy thing about it was how excited he got when talking about near death experiences – leading a convoy of journalists and media people into Iraq at the beginning of the war because they thought he had an armed guard (turns out he didn’t); cars breaking down in Fallujah, the site of intense fighting, where they had to sit and wait for two hours to get them repaired and get on the way; how relaxing (I swear to God he said that) it was to stay in the compound in Baghdad, because there was nothing to do but sit around, read or socialize. How interesting we humans are, adapting cleverly to situations in which we find ourselves.

Mohsen, Tamara's husband, came back to Amman last night. He is a fantastic musician and was in Beirut recording. Again, fighting....it took him days to get to the studio to fetch the tape that held all his work. After all this....my stay here begins.

deliciousness

2008-05-10T05:12:00.000-07:00

A note about some of the delicious foods I've been fortunate enough to munch on:

The biggest, juiciest, stickiest, freshest dates I've ever tasted in my whole life. I had no idea life could be so beautiful.

Dragonfruit - I think ours wasn't ripe yet, because the majority of it was flavorless. But the center had a subtle sweetness that was quite nice. Also, I liked the millions of black seeds because they gave each bite nice texture.

Raboutan - another Asian fruit that looks like a beautiful sea creature

Tamarind - it's tangy and yummy, despite it's strange exterior. The name tamarind is actually from Arabic -- "tamar hind" means Indian dates. Ya learn something new everyday.

Cubes of medium soft cheese. What made this special was the whole red peppercorn sprinkled on the cheese. I thought they were tiny pomegranate seeds, but when I bit into spicy goodness, I was pleasantly surprised by the chorus of exclamations in my mouth.

A local fish called hammour. At the hotel, they cooked it up with a melange of spices I cannot identify. Our proximity to South Asia comes through in the food.

M ate perfectly poached eggs in a saffron sauce that she can't stop talking about.

I ate lobster for the second time in my life. Again, I was disappointed, but I'm hoping that it was poorly prepared both times I tried it. (The evening after I wrote this, M and I went to a restaurant called Bu Tafish in Abu Dhabi and I finally got to taste delicious Omani lobster. It was grilled, and it was fabulous. I ordered a fish called Sultan Ibrahim. I was pleased --)

hmmm....what else?

Honestly, I think the dates were the best part.

Juxtapositions, contradictions

2008-05-09T06:13:00.000-07:00

Today I’m seated in the lap of luxury, eating overpriced food and being tended to by people from Thailand, the Philippines, Indonesia, India and Bangladesh who are likely here without any family members. At the same time, a cyclone breaks out in Myanmar, killing tens of thousands, Lebanon is again under the threat of a ‘civil’ war, mothers give birth at checkpoints in the West Bank, people starving in Gaza…what is this life, and what is my role in the world? Times like these I wonder why in the hell I’ve chosen to study art.

I’m thinking about this and walk outside to meet M at the beach and the sun, which had thoroughly browned me in the 45 minutes I was outside earlier, had all but disappeared behind this gray sky. Along with the gray came wind, and rain. Again! Rain….and the wind was whipping these cold rain drops and all the employees were rushing around to close up the beach (yeah, the beach closes at 6, or apparently when there’s weird weather). M was not looking forward to sand in her eyes and the subsequent eye infections this brings, so she headed in. Being the “I want to learn it for myself” type, I hung out to experience the weather. Also, there was no sand whipping around, so I felt safe. It was pretty amazing. Wind is normal, but this rain is not. We came upstairs to read an article that reported that the rain Abu Dhabi got the other day was due to cloud seeding. In other words, the rain was man-made. If you're interested in learning about artificial rain in the UAE click here..

Danat Resort, Jebel Dhanna

2008-05-08T06:01:00.000-07:00

I didn't expect to be in a 5 star resort, but I am, so I will soak it up, baby....all the way. When we were checking in, I was so nervous, that I spilled the mint lemonade all over the registry list for today's guests. I immediately turned red, which is something I don't generally do.

Anyway, here's the crazy amazing resort where I'm staying.

Settling into the Emirates, settling into myself

2008-05-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

Once I met Tarek, I gave myself the chance to relax a bit, which has been so great. I had been running like a headless chicken for the past couple of months, so I've decided to simply chill out during the day. This means that whenever possible, I wake up when I wake up, hang around, do some yoga, eat breakfast, relax, write, whatever. I could probably do this all day long, but I should probably see Abu Dhabi, just a little.

Allowing myself the space and time without feeling the need to be productive has been quite nice, and I’m going to try to do it as much as I can. So much of my life as a graduate student is spent either working my butt off or feeling guilty for not working enough. One of the things I hope to learn from this trip is how to let go.

A couple of days ago, I went with my dear friend to her work at a college about 1.5 hours away from the city of Abu Dhabi. It was so nice to get out of the big city and meet Emiratis living in the Western Region. The average student age is 18, but there are women in their 30s getting their college education, too. Some are mothers, some are widows, some are both. They are astounding – energetic and proactive – nothing (but social taboos and cultural norms) can stop them. But really, there’s something about them that makes them feel like they can do anything. And they do! For example, they opened a little store on the tiny campus selling stationary and office supplies as well as MAC lip gloss (what self-respecting Emirati 20 something girl would be caught dead without it?). And when we walked into the boys classroom, they stood up out of respect. They were so kind and sweet…I was flabbergasted. You rarely see such sincere engagement between staff, teachers and students in the States. I’m officially on the lookout for an eligible Emirati.

On the way home, we took the long way, passing through an oasis area called Liwa so that we could drive through the vast area of desert it borders. It was astounding – the sand dunes shifted shapes right in front of my eyes, as the wind whipped top layers right off and onto the freeway. Just like snow snakes and dances across the road with the wind, so does sand. The ride was intense and involved a lot that I won’t describe in detail, but I’ll outline quickly – relentless conversation, repressed emotion, weather that simultaneously gave us rain, 40 degree Celsius temperatures and powerful gusts, camels caravanning all in a line, desert bushes that probably popped up that day after the earlier rain, and, later in the 2 ½ hour ride, palms heavy with nearly ripe dates.

It was an intense ride, and I wanted so badly to escape into the desert, so I did. We stopped and buried our shoeless feet within fine grains of orange sand. It moved like liquid between my toes, warm and inviting. The eager green that grows there was delightful, and I felt happy to be in such a magical place.

The weather and topography are extreme out here, and as summer progresses, there will be nowhere to go but “extreme-er,” and then “extreme-est.” Yesterday the high was 100F, which is pretty damn hot. When it’s that hot, there is no choice but to slow down. Take a breath, relax and feel your mortality. Really, this is one of the places where you come to understand how close death truly is.

Yesterday I went to another oasis called Al Ain (“the spring”) with my cousin, her husband and damn cute baby who was experimenting with the variable sounds of her vocal cords the whole day. We didn’t see the springs, but we did drive up this heartless rocky mountain range called Jebel Hafit on the border with Oman. The mountains jutted out of the ground slanted, coming to peaks pointing north. Fossils of coral, oysters, barnacles and crab claws have been found in the area. Again I feel small in relation to the vast expanse of time. Al Ain National Museum has on a view an impressive collection of natural and man made heritage from the area. Today the Emirates are a diverse place full of expats from all over the world. But its special location on the Gulf means that it has always been a whirling hub of cultures. This is the kind of stuff that gets my juices flowing and heart pumping.

The next couple of days, I’ll stay in Al Ruwais at a resort hotel in Jebel Dhanna. I’m so lucky, damn it! M has to be down here for national yearly student testing (Allah ma’akum!). Though its inevitably a super stressful time for students, it will be a super relaxing time for me. I plan to hang ten at the beach, read, write, get a little sun and exercise. I will seek pleasure. That is all.

I have arrived!

2008-05-04T05:58:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Abu Dhabi! I arrived just a couple of days ago and hit the ground running. With the help of relaxation pills at night (thanks Xtino and Katie!) and caffeine during the day, I battled jet lag like a champ!

New York was a beautiful trip, though Nayara and Christina, thoroughly beat down by the heaviness of living there, kept disagreeing with me about how beautiful the city really is. A visit to New York is similar to playing with someone else’s baby because when you’re done, you can simply hand her right back to mama. But Sarah’s dedication to making it happen in that place attests to its potential. Good luck to the three of you, my sisters.

I ate….oh how I ate! Delicious Italian food at Inoteca with a sweet friend: bruchette with caponata di verdure, fresh ricotta with sun dried tomato, and this crazy sumptuous almond love paste smeared over delicious bread. Jesus Christ.
Bottles of wine, over priced cupcakes, Jamaican food that included prawns cooked in a coconut milk sauce. Needless to say, it was TOO MUCH! I’ve re-devoted myself to exercise. Otherwise, I’d be in be big trouble. New York also involved art (umm yeah, the point of this crazy trip). I met Walid Raad and realized that I have much to learn, and much to unlearn. It made me anxious, but I can do it. I also saw a couple of exhibits: “Archive Fever” at the International Center for Photography and the Whitney Biennale (most notable: Walead Beshty http://www.hammer.ucla.edu/exhibitions/110/).

Next stop: Paris for a day! Just enough to whet my appetite (literally and figuratively…) and spend a beautiful day with my dear Katie and Viktor. We walked the city traversing the 19th century passages, taking in the beautiful window displays of Spanish tapas, beautiful cookies colored and flavored with lavender, artisanal cheeses. We jumped around Daniel Buren’s site specific installation at the Palais Royale, flipped off the basilica Sacre Coeur at Montmarte for its affront to revolution, drank some tasty French wine, thoroughly enjoyed this Vietnamese dish called Bun Bo. It was a beautiful trip and I can’t wait to go back in early June.

On the flight from Frankfurt to Abu Dhabi, I met a Palestinian man with a typical Palestinian story – his family left Palestine and has been living in diaspora since, unable to go back because he has the wrong passport. As my friend Regev (who I’ll be hanging with in the homeland) said, “it’s a war of demographics,” meaning get as many Jews in and as many non-Jews out. I meet one Palestinian after the other, most of whom have never been there, have conversations about what it’s like to be a Palestinian in Diaspora – with survivor guilt if you’re doing well, or this burning push to keep working on and on. Palestine looms in my head and heart, a metaphorical, emotional, literal, and sometimes mythical place that demands my attention. It is my final destination on this trip, and I think it will envelop me like a blanket.

I’m staying in Abu Dhabi, but have not yet explored it. On M’s days off, we took the long drive to Dubai. It’s about 1-½ hours away, but it’s a huge pain because Dubai is one gigantic construction zone and traffic is constantly re-routed. One cannot rely on the same landmark from one week to the other. New developments are constantly being erected, and the landscape is always changing. That said, the buildings are mind boggling, and situations crazy. I still don’t understand this building we saw yesterday that looked paper thin on one end. I swear to God. And M mentioned that she recently saw a bulldozer on top of another building. Inexplicable. Dubai’s money comes from tourism, so here’s how one can experience the emirate: go to the Emirates Mall and ski in an indoor ski mountain, shop, eat, play, etc. Or, you can go to this (new) souk that comes complete with a Seattle’s Best Coffee and Cinnabon. You can also check out the Burj al Arab: http://tetrabulgaria.com/listing_image_4392.html
Or the islands being built in various shapes, like date palms: http://guide.theemiratesnetwork.com/living/dubai/the_palm_islands.php
or the map of the world: http://guide.theemiratesnetwork.com/living/dubai/the_world_islands.php

Yesterday M and I also drove to Sharjah, where I met Tarek Al Ghoussein (another dissertation artist) in his home on the American University Sharjah campus. It was an exciting conversation that made me feel like the direction of my thinking about his work will be productive. Later, we went to Dubai and had dinner with Jack Persekian who I’ll be working with at Al Ma’mal Foundation for Contemporary Art in Jerusalem.

One thing about the Emirates that has really blown my mind: the racial, cultural, and class diversity here is such that difference is the norm. There are workers who come from places like the Philipines, South Asia, Europe, the US, the rest of the Arab world, West and East Africa, and East Asia. People come here to work for a number of years and make $$ to send back home with the intention of eventually leaving. The lingua franca is therefore English (which is a bummer because I want to speak Arabi!!!) Housing is generally paid for, and people get either transportation allowances or get driven to work in big buses. It’s no cure for capitalist exploitation, but it seems that people who get here can make the money they are after.

Today (4 may 08) is my first chill day. I’m writing, exercising, puttering around and thinking of my family and friends – missing the ones in the States and grateful for the chance to meet up with those on this side of the world. The fact that I’ll be primarily staying with friends and family throughout this trip attests to the fact that I am blessed! I am grateful, and I am happy. Big Hugs to you all.