Khalili days are: hot. Car horns, taxitaxitaxi, youth with trays of sweets balanced atop their heads and that same stupid “yalla yalla” song playing on every functioning radio. There is a rhythm to the market walk: avoid the man stooping down to tell you about his two shekel deal today only, sidestep a child chasing a kitten with chocolate smeared all over his lips , loudly chastise the shebab that walk close and exclaim ‘woooooooooooow’ (wow ukhtak ya hayawan!) and listen for the (ah, Arabiya hay!). Ignore the welcomes and where froms but dutifully salute the 12-year-old-drop-out-made-bracelet-seller that you’ve managed to befriend as he tries to swindle a couple of French tourists. Stop at the circle, count eight international observers  completing their evening patrols, finally take a photograph of the “Fight ghost town” graffiti on the park benches. The sun begins to set.

At about 8, after arguila and delicious fruit cocktail at the café that plays Lebanese music videos on repeat, the air cools drastically and the traffic retreats. Donkeys appear to carry carts back to their storage spots and shop-owners sweep away the plastic, the cardboard, the spoiled fruit. There’s finally enough peace and quiet for me to look up at the garbage and stones resting on the nets overhead and to catch eyes with the soldier observing my walk home from the watchtower over the cafe. Hebron by day and Hebron by night have always seemed like different cities to me: the bustle is gone as families reunite and everything is—seems, rather—quite peaceful and normal. But in reality, volatility lurks around every bend of the dark and dilapidated Old City. Light a match. You might be fine, but there’s always a chance it will explode.

Though Hebron has undoubtedly proved to be stressful place I’ve ever lived in, leaving on Thursday will be bittersweet (though I’ll likely be back in three weeks or so for Ramadan). I’ve carved out a life for myself here. I’ve finally gotten the family experience that I missed out on in Jordan and it’s a wonderful feeling to always have an invitation for lunch on Friday afternoon. I’ve passed through a series of identities that I’ve never had before: the American, the Arab Christian, the foreigner that learned Arabic, the girl who doesn’t like sugar, etc. Everyone that I’ve met chooses what part of the description is most important to them, but all of these bits and pieces are united under the pseudonym ‘Nur.’

This city is filled with contradictions and oppositions that continue to surprise me every day. I’m constantly reminded that an overwhelming amount of forces are at play here and generalizations about Hebron and its residents simply cannot be made. You’d need years to understand everything, and after a full month here, I’ve still only barely scratched the surface.

Last weekend I had the chance to visit quite an anomaly of a community: the Palestinian Jews of Nablus, aka the Samaritans. This tiny group numbering about 750 individuals speaks Arabic and modern Hebrew in addition to ancient Hebrew, and holds Palestinian IDs, Israeli citizenship, and Jordanian passports simultaneously. We had the fortune of taking a tour of the Samaritan Museum of Nablus with the high priest of the community himself. One of my favorite items on display was the chart tracing ths man’s genealogy back to Adam (very questionable, but still impressive). 

I found the Samaritans so interesting because of the delicate balance they maintain between tradition and modernity. They still meticulously adhere to the rules laid out in the Torah but there is an unmistakably contemporary flavor to their conventions. The Passover sacrifice provides an interesting example: the Samaritans believe that Mount Jerizim was the first piece of earth created by God and the place where Abraham was asked to sacrifice his son, thereby contesting the Jewish tradition claiming that the incident took place near Jerusalem. Therefore, they carry out the ancient ritual atop Mt. Jerizim each year, and throughout the ceremony their heads are dutifully covered…with Yankee’s baseball caps. Women continue to complete a ritual bath at the end of their monthly periods in order to be cleansed as their ancestors did, but freely wear shorts and tank tops within the community. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of or met a group of people that combine ancient and modern ways of life so fluidly.

What struck me most, though, is the fact that there are virtually zero tensions between the Samaritans and surrounding communities. I’m sure some individuals are resentful of the fact that the Samaritans can travel freely to many more places than most Palestinians, but despite their religion this people has truly lived in peace with Muslim and Christian neighbors throughout all periods of political turmoil since 1948. No one has a problem with the Samaritans, and they don’t have a problem with anyone else.

Let me preface this post by explaining that for the past week or so  I’ve suffered various mystery illnesses and been generally miserable about the fact that the family I live with isn’t very good at curing anything/preparing food that doesn’t make me sick and I’m ridiculously far from home and I miss feeling comfortable walking around after 8pm. However, there are small things and people that have served to lift my spirits immensely throughout this ordeal.

I have a friend named Haj Musa. For those of you non-Arabic speakers, Haj is a title of respect for older men and Musa means Moses (aka Old Man Moses. Okay, that’s not really what it means. But playing with direct translations is much too much fun.) Haj Musa is crazy yet kind of lovable in a strange way. He’s known my friend/roommate Sami for about five years now, and the first time I met him he executed a sort of friendly kidnapping whereby Sami and I were forced to get into his car and brought to various beautiful locations where our photographs were taken against our will (though we dutifully feigned amusement). We were graciously driven back to our neighborhood after about an hour and a half, and from that day on, Sami has been receiving no less than three phone calls per day from Mr. Musa.

Another time, Haj Musa visited Sami and I while we were using the internet at a nearby café. We chatted for a bit and then he insisted on driving us home. Here’s the catch: we weren’t allowed to leave the car until our friend bought us a gift, which after a couple of half-hearted refusals turned out to be a really obnoxiously heavy watermelon. Bizarre.

However, the third time I saw Haj Musa was by far the best. I had been sitting in my room preparing to take a nap when I got a call from Sami explaining that Haj Musa had bought me some sort of present and he wouldn’t have bothered me but I would highly appreciate this gift. I had no idea what it could be. I remembered some vague reference to how I needed a laptop bag, but why would that be so great as to merit me walking downtown with a fever? I trusted Sami though, so I slowly got ready and left the house.

I met up with Sami soon after and walked about ten minutes from the apartment until we arrived at an inconspicuous-looking backpack store. Ah, okay, I thought: he bought me a bag with a ridiculous translation. Fair enough. Well, that was wrong too, because I found out that Haj Musa actually owned this store and another around the corner and this was just our meeting place. He asked about my health, offered us tea, and then revealed that he had brought me a present. I tried to refuse and tell him “oh you shouldn’t have!” etc until the moment finally arrived when he disappeared behind the backroom to grab my present. Sami started cracking up. I was still so confused about what this gift could possibly be.

And when Haj Musa came back, what did he reveal to me? None other than a 2 x 3, bigger than life-sized picture of me. See below.

It was one of the photographs he took of me on his camera phone in front of a bunch of grape leaves the first time he insisted Sami and I come along for a tour of Hebron. After the dramatic presentation of the gift, Haj Musa disappeared again to make some tea, and I told Sami through hysterical laughter, “THIS IS ONE OF THE BEST THINGS THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO ME!”

I have no idea how I’m going to get this picture home. But I stand by the fact that it’s one of the most hilarious and unexpected gifts that I’ve ever received and I have no clue why Haj Musa thought I would want a picture of myself that big, but that’s alright. The story I now have is highly appreciated.

Since I got here, I’ve seen your watch-tower every morning as I leave my apartment to eat breakfast next-door. I’ve heard the static between your walkie-talkie communications as I fall asleep at night and I’ve wished I could  decipher what you might be laughing about in the early morning. I even dreamt of you once. But today, I finally saw you.

You can’t be any older than me. You’re thin, you have dark hair, and you were wearing glasses. You seemed…bored. Hollow. There was a machine gun hanging casually across your chest as though it were nothing more than a trendy necklace. You looked at me, I looked at you, I formed a weak smile without thinking and quickly looked back down at my book. You paced back and forth a few times, stopped in the middle of the balcony, pointed your gun somewhere. I couldn’t see your face, but I imagined you squinting at some suspicious figure in the distance. I wondered whether you would shoot. Nothing happened. You paced back and forth a couple of more times, looking out at the setting sun maybe, and then walked back into the tower. I continued to read on the steps. The sky got bluer, the TV next-door got louder, and then the call to prayer echoed across the hills.

I didn’t look up again until I heard a whistle. You were there, learning over the balcony, wearing a hat this time and staring down at me. Again: you are hollow, curious, bored, maybe even a bit suspicious of me. I mumbled ‘hello,’ but you uttered nothing and walked away with a sigh.

I went inside.

I hope you stay in the watch tower next time.

Welcome to Hebron! Home to 180,000 Palestinians, 400 Jewish settlers spread between five settlements often resting directly on top of local homes and businesses, and a whopping 2,000 Israeli soldiers put in place to protect them.

Upon arriving at the guest-house run by a Palestinian family that I’ll be staying in for the next month, I realized that there’s a watchtower on my roof and settlers a mere ten feet away from the house on two sides. I’m living within arm’s length (almost literally) of people who scribble “death to Arabs” on shops closed by military orders in the now-abandoned city center. Another fun fact: this group constructed a statue dedicated to Baruch Goldstein, a member of the Kirat Arba settlement who entered the Ibrahimi Mosque with a machine gun in 1994 and massacred 29 Palestinians and wounded about 200 people. It was taken down by the Israeli government in 2000. Bad PR, I think.

Trash fills the nets set up between our house and that of the settlers in an attempt to protect those walking below from the wrath of the residents of “Abraham Our Father.” The main market in the Old City is covered by a metal grate because a few too many people have been struck by rocks while shopping, and that sort of thing isn’t good for economic success.

I’ve heard that the settlers have a nasty little fetish for aiming a hose at our window and soaking whatever/whoever is in sight but have been lucky enough to avoid that kind of a confrontation thus far (though I’ve only been it’s only been four days). They once threw a sound bomb over our roof onto the patio while Fatimah, the mother in the house I’m living in, was 9 months pregnant. She lost the child. The family was once forced to evacuate the house for four months because settlers broke in, claimed the house was theirs and would not leave. Soldiers eventually kicked them out but also neglected to let the family back in, welding the doors shut and leaving a rotten pot of magluba in the kitchen for a third of a year. Fatima and Abu Imad eventually decided to take matters into their own hands, force the doors open, and repopulate the house. Oh, and another fun fact, the house is just about 2,000 years old.

In summary: Hebron is a crazy, crazy place. It’s one of the oldest continuously populated cities in the world, and at the same time, one of the biggest flashpoints for land and housing issues in the West Bank. Everyone that I’ve met and talked to about my peculiar living situation is a) extremely confused as to why I’m choosing to spend a month here and b) unable to fathom why anyone chooses to live there long term.  I was told by one woman from the area not to worry—I would very easily see everything I needed to within the next month.  I think she’s right based on my first four days here.

After five days, I’ll flag down a bright yellow taxi at approximately 2am and cram myself, a friend or two, a backpack, a souvenir-filled duffle bag, and a black suitcase inside and make my way to Queen Alia airport once again. The catch is that this time I’m embarking on a journey that will take 21 hours and two stops in Europe with a particularly ‘final’ stop in America, not another mysterious foreign country waiting to grab me by the ankles and take careful note of my reaction.

For the past four months, I have gotten quite used to the fact that I’m an absolute novelty. It’s normal for people to stare, for children to shout across the street asking where I’m from, for shopkeepers to guess my ethnicity and Matt to jump in with his favorite lie: “Yes, she’s of Lebanese descent, but she’s American.” (I never guessed how terribly confusing my dark features could be in a country like Jordan.)

All of that is going to end abruptly when I step off of the plane in Logan airport: I will blend in once more. Just a short, white, teenage girl with brown hair and freckles and an American passport full of inky memories of exotic lands. 

Relief is imminent.

http://www.worldandi.com/newhome/public/2003/may/clpub.asp

Came across this article while writing my paper on honor killings.

Sorry the quality isn’t so good…Trying really hard to be stealthy because cameras just generally confuse/frighten people here.

But there you have it: the elusive gas truck.

I had certainly known somewhere in the recesses of my mind that only 23 days of my study abroad experience remained, but I didn’t really get it until I was sitting in class today thinking about how truly tame life can be in New England. It took a certain removal and real understanding of where I’m headed on December 21st to finally come to terms with all of the things that I now consider ‘normal’ that are, in actuality, just plain bizarre. 

Upon my return, there will be no more trying to explain jellyfish, Amish people, Quidditch, or the difference between cereal and cornflakes to my FusHa teacher in Arabic. No more taxi drivers from Bethlehem and frighteningly detailed descriptions of home-brewed Israeli conspiracy theories, no more surprisingly persistent invitations to drink tea with strangers because we might be foreign and look thirsty, no more driving by stores named ‘Touch Wood’ ‘Bunzy Buns’ and ‘Bros for Sweets’ on Medina Street. The ‘creepiness’ scale will have to shift back to American standards, as I much too often find myself saying things like: “He wasn’t even creepy! Well, I mean, for Jordan…” And questions about my religion (Christian or Muslim?) and marital status upon first meeting will be considered rude once more.

One a more serious note: Sunsets from a beautiful viewpoint will just be that…plain old sunsets. Silent and light and pure. The imams trilling away as the half-light becomes darker among a city of rolling hills and beige homes and uncountable green-lit towers will be gone. From December on, only a black sky and stars will greet me when I’ve made my way home after a late night—not the booming pre-dawn call to prayer and the sudden reminder that daylight comes in a mere hour and a half.

I don’t know how I’m going to feel once I get back. One of the addictive parts of living in Jordan is the ability to travel to a place that’s completely different relatively easily—Lebanon, Egypt, Israel, Palestine and a whole host of other countries are all within reach, and some of the adventures I’ve had there had truly proved absurd. Honestly, I may turn into a bit of a thrill-seeker when I’m back in America. Middle of the night excursions to world wonders, for example, just have a bit of a different feel than Plainville in December.

I will admit, though, I do miss bagels a whole lot.

Last night I had the chance to see the Iraq vs. Jordan game in Sports City, Amman, and left with a even more evidence for how strange it can be to be a woman in the Middle East.

Let me first explain the concept of ‘shabab’—a word sometimes alluding to your worst nightmare, but more often present in stories about the most hilarious scenes from daily life in Jordan. Shabab translates to ‘youth’ in English, but is used by many most foreigners to point to the strange habits of Jordanian boys ages 13-21.

As you might guess, the game tonight was heavily populated by shabab—but to a level such that there were various procedures in place to protect the helpless binat (translation: girls) from their eyes, hands, and generally unsavory thoughts thanks to the surprisingly attentive soldiers (and let’s pause for a second: why is it normal to see the army at a soccer game? One friend framed the issue well when she remarked, “They seem much too prepared for a riot here for my liking.”).

Things first got strange as we approached the outskirts of the stadium. Our expert Jordanian (male) friend became increasingly edgy as we neared a crowded area, but once we got close enough for the on-duty soldiers to realize that (gasp!) women were present, immediately 12 of them began bracing each other to form a separate human hallway for us, swearing very loudly at the more resistant shabab and ushering us along in front of the mass as quickly as possible. We giggled the whole way.

The extra protection and VIP status didn’t stop there—we were allowed in with our normal tickets through a small opening in the gate, completely circumventing the crowd. After passing our security checks we made our way to a nearly empty family seating section, and every soldier we passed along the way caught the attention of his nearest comrade to signal our presence in the crowd. It was a bit startling to feel like a mere glance at my face rang an immediate “save the binat!” bell in every official’s mind, but I have to admit, I was surprised at their efficiency in ensuring our peace of mind—I felt much safer at the game than I normally do on University Street in Amman.

[This side note doesn’t really go along with the tone of the rest of the post, hence the brackets: It’s just so interesting how aware most men are of the danger that they themselves have the potential to embody. A friend of mine described one of my favorite phenomena here: once you actually befriend a Jordanian male, he becomes your personal bodyguard whether you like it or not. You’re berated for exposing any bit of collarbone in public, he switches seats with you on a bus if a shab tries to sit down next to you, and every person that stares on you on the street gets a healthy “kuss ukhtak.”]

We finally sat down, and the energy in the stadium was amazing—the massive complex was filled with flags, body paint, drums, songs, screams, children, and lots of green/white/red/black. Vendors circled each section with Arabic coffee, falafel sandwiches, huge vats of tea, headbands, and roasted nuts, prefacing each advertisement with a very appropriate “Ya shabab!” The patriotism was too contagious, so naturally after ten minutes I was covering myself in the largest Jordanian flag I could find. (I was also freezing so that proved surprisingly helpful as an extra layer.) We somehow resisted buying do-rags but absolutely broke down when we saw than face painting was only half a dinar…hence the following occured:

And then my favorite ordeal of all: going to the bathroom. Of course, there was no separate bathroom for girls because they totaled about ten, so the army took it upon themselves to kick everyone out when we needed to use it. This is when we saw the laughably large pile of mens’ belts lying next to the security checkpoint—Jordan REALLY does not mess around with those riot precautions.

Either way, the game was fun. Iraq may have won, but in all honesty the face paint and subsequent walk home among extremely confused stares was the real highlight of my evening.