First of all, this is a link to a good article that Dave found about the Israel/Gaza strip conflict right now.
http://www.imemc.org/article/57443
I was walking down the street today to Project Hope, which took me past a boys' school letting out for the day. The little boys were throwing rocks at each other, seemingly in teams. I've realized that they don't just throw rocks at us, they throw them at each other. Then I saw two boys beating up another little boys against the wall. They had him down on the ground, and were kicking him, punching, smashing their backpacks down upon his head. I was horrified, so I went up to them and told them to stop, and they backed off and looked puzzled as they have before (this has happened before). The little boy was crying, it was awful. The worst part was, there were four adults that walked by and two more in the shop across the street and they did nothing. They didn't even look at what was happening.
A fellow volunteer was relating to us today the way the teachers beat the boys at the camp where he works. He said the boys are very wild, but the beatings are often unprovoked. Which came first, the beating or the insolence?
Monday, November 17, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Oprah and Dr. Phil
I keep hearing from various students that they watch Oprah and Dr. Phil on their satellite tv. I remember reading a news article that Saudi Arabian women liked Oprah, but I had no idea Palestinian women watched her too! Dave and I mostly stick to the BBC, Arirang ( a Korean channel that we get on our satellite, oddly enough), and DubaiOne. DubaiOne shows a lot of Western programs and movies, although they are heavily censored. They won't show a kiss, but they will show blood and violence. Sometimes it's so edited that the program or movie no longer makes sense.
I didn't really get to finish that last post. I just wanted to say that the Israelis say they are blockading the Gaza Strip because of rocket attacks by the Hamas militants, and the militants say they attacked because the Israelis made incursions and killed Palestinians, and the Israelis say that they did that to prevent kidnappings of Israeli soldiers by the militants.....the blame goes back and forth, and it's hard to get the full picture.
When I arrived at my morning class with the housewives today, the center was locked and dark. The women who runs it was too busy, or something, so the ladies decided they'd rather go home. I walked back to Project Hope, as there was a clothing store I'd passed while in the taxi that I wanted to check out. I didn't buy anything, but I had a very nice conversation with the store owner. Another man in a store gave me an M pendant for free, just to be nice. I always feel better after these encounters.
I didn't really get to finish that last post. I just wanted to say that the Israelis say they are blockading the Gaza Strip because of rocket attacks by the Hamas militants, and the militants say they attacked because the Israelis made incursions and killed Palestinians, and the Israelis say that they did that to prevent kidnappings of Israeli soldiers by the militants.....the blame goes back and forth, and it's hard to get the full picture.
When I arrived at my morning class with the housewives today, the center was locked and dark. The women who runs it was too busy, or something, so the ladies decided they'd rather go home. I walked back to Project Hope, as there was a clothing store I'd passed while in the taxi that I wanted to check out. I didn't buy anything, but I had a very nice conversation with the store owner. Another man in a store gave me an M pendant for free, just to be nice. I always feel better after these encounters.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Remembrance Day
The winter came back today, and brought with it thunderstorms. Why are the classes always canceled when it rains?
Yesterday was November 11th, Remembrance Day, the day to commemorate the sacrifices of veterans and civilians in times of war. I didn't think about it much, except to notice that on the BBC everyone had been wearing poppy-shaped pins all week to signify the occasion. I've never paid much attention to the day, to be honest.
I had my class that morning with the housewives group here in Nablus. We were talking about feelings (happy, sad, angry, etc.), and I asked them how they felt about what was happening in the Gaza Strip (the Israelis had closed the borders because of rocket attacks by militants in Gaza, which were in retaliation for Israeli incursions, which they said they did to prevent future kidnappings of Israeli soldiers...it goes back and forth.) The elder woman in the group, Sameha, who also has the best command of English, spoke passionately about the situation, and how she feels sad to see children suffering. I asked the rest of the group, because I wanted to give them a chance to speak. Rehab began to cry. Rehab invited us over to her house, Rehab is quiet, although her English is decent. She told me how her brother had been killed in his house in Nablus four years ago by soldiers, leaving a wife and two children. The other women began to cry, and so did I. I naively wasn't prepared for her answer to my question.
To hear about these stories in a newspaper or from a secondhand source is one thing. To hear it come from your student, a woman who has been your friend, is another. I don't know why her brother was killed. I don't know if he was targeted for a specific reason. I just know that we all cried together, because Rehab had lost her brother, and she was so very, very sad.
Sometimes people tell me that their tears are dried up, they are used to their situation. We met some neighbors who live on the fourth floor of our building. They insisted on driving us to our destination, and inviting us over for tea. They opened their home to us, offering us food and drink and English conversation. They told us how the Israeli soldiers had once occupied our building. They put everyone into one apartment, where they kept them for a week with no electricity or running water while they used their taken-over apartments for shooting into the El-Ein refugee camp which sits a few streets below our building.
The situation in the Gaza Strip right now appalls me. The Israeli border guards have recently blockaded entry by journalists, diplomats, food aid and medicinal supplies.
Yesterday was November 11th, Remembrance Day, the day to commemorate the sacrifices of veterans and civilians in times of war. I didn't think about it much, except to notice that on the BBC everyone had been wearing poppy-shaped pins all week to signify the occasion. I've never paid much attention to the day, to be honest.
I had my class that morning with the housewives group here in Nablus. We were talking about feelings (happy, sad, angry, etc.), and I asked them how they felt about what was happening in the Gaza Strip (the Israelis had closed the borders because of rocket attacks by militants in Gaza, which were in retaliation for Israeli incursions, which they said they did to prevent future kidnappings of Israeli soldiers...it goes back and forth.) The elder woman in the group, Sameha, who also has the best command of English, spoke passionately about the situation, and how she feels sad to see children suffering. I asked the rest of the group, because I wanted to give them a chance to speak. Rehab began to cry. Rehab invited us over to her house, Rehab is quiet, although her English is decent. She told me how her brother had been killed in his house in Nablus four years ago by soldiers, leaving a wife and two children. The other women began to cry, and so did I. I naively wasn't prepared for her answer to my question.
To hear about these stories in a newspaper or from a secondhand source is one thing. To hear it come from your student, a woman who has been your friend, is another. I don't know why her brother was killed. I don't know if he was targeted for a specific reason. I just know that we all cried together, because Rehab had lost her brother, and she was so very, very sad.
Sometimes people tell me that their tears are dried up, they are used to their situation. We met some neighbors who live on the fourth floor of our building. They insisted on driving us to our destination, and inviting us over for tea. They opened their home to us, offering us food and drink and English conversation. They told us how the Israeli soldiers had once occupied our building. They put everyone into one apartment, where they kept them for a week with no electricity or running water while they used their taken-over apartments for shooting into the El-Ein refugee camp which sits a few streets below our building.
The situation in the Gaza Strip right now appalls me. The Israeli border guards have recently blockaded entry by journalists, diplomats, food aid and medicinal supplies.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
I don't even know where to start. This is the problem with not blogging consistently, pretty soon I've got a backlog of stories and I need a forklift to dump them all here.
Let's start with right now. We are in an internet cafe that has giant posters of Leonardo diCaprio plastered on the windows. We call it "Leo's". There are three young Palestinian men crowded around a computer listening to Celine Dion and other soulful songs. The bass is bumping, and reverberating in my cubicle. It's Saturday, the second weekend day as Friday is the day when everything is closed and the men go to the mosques. Schools and businesses are open Sunday through Thursday. Dave is going to help direct a play this afternoon, and I am going to the market and grocery store.
The open-air market is near the city center, a single L-shaped aisle around which sellers set up their vegetable and fruit stands. Some produce is better than others, but all of it is much cheaper than in North America. Produce is weighed by kilos and half kilos in plastic bags, and if we only want two avocados instead of a half kilo they will give it to us for free. One man always throws in extras, a couple of aging pomegranates or two wilting ears of corn. His produce isn't the best, but we go back to him because he is kind to us.
The grocery store is filled with wonders like peanut butter and ketchup, so we do not lack for our Western comfort foods. We would like to learn how to make more Palestinian dishes, especially the sweets, although we have read they are hard to make.
The guys atLeo's do not harrass us, they are polite and friendly and leave us alone. I lost my cool at another internet cafe where the guys next to me would not stop staring at me and whispering to each other. Admitting my lack of patience with this is difficult. I know that they are curious, that I am an oddity, but it slowly grates at one's patience to have it happen every day. I'm used to be a foreigner from living in Korea and traveling to a lot of countries, but there's something about it here that gets to me. Kids have thrown rocks, soccer balls, shouted at us, men have whispered "How are you" and "I love you" in my ears, they hiss at me when I walk by, and most of all they stare in a not-so-friendly-or-brotherly way.
But these are young men. The older men, for the most part, are very kind. One old man sits on his chair outside his front door on my way home and smiles at me and salutes when I walk by. Another younger man helped me find the taxi I needed. When we sat on the curb to eat our falafel the owner of a nearby candy store offered me his chair. So it is balanced. Unfortunately, the negative encounters enlarge themselves in my psyche, causing me to tense up when walking down our street.
If getting from place to place is my only problem, then I am rewarded by when I get there and see my students. I'm teaching a group of housewives, a group of girls at an all-girls' school, a mixed group of kids in one of the worser refugee camps, a handful of older girls at another, and still helping Dave in his all-boys' drama class.
The housewives are funny and kind. We had lunch at one woman's house last week, and she stuffed us with breads and cakes and tea and desserts. They sat around chit-chatting to each other, crocheting baby blankets and patting me every once in a while saying, "Habibti", I think, which means sweetheart. Some of them took of their scarves, and at first I wanted to stare at them. I often look at veiled women and wonder what color their hair is, how they wear it, is it short, long or wavy?
I love my younger students as well. They are enthusiastic and happy to see me. But I have to love those that are not happy as well, right? The other day as we were standing outside after class, we heard a sky-cracking sonic boom. I was startled, and asked what it was. It was an Israeli jet passing overhead, as they frequently do. They all laughed at me for being scared and said they were used to it. One thing that surprised me was when I asked the all-girls group of 10-12 year-olds what they wanted to learn in my class, and the answer was that they wanted to be able to communicate with the Israeli soldiers at the checkpoints. The longer we are here, the less this kind of thing surprises me. We have heard more stories about soldiers killing, fighting, being shot at, seeing your friend go out in the night and not knowing if he will return....
Sometimes I feel cooped up, mentally and physically, but then it occurs to me that the Palestinians must live like this, they have limited opportunities and tenuous safety.
Let's start with right now. We are in an internet cafe that has giant posters of Leonardo diCaprio plastered on the windows. We call it "Leo's". There are three young Palestinian men crowded around a computer listening to Celine Dion and other soulful songs. The bass is bumping, and reverberating in my cubicle. It's Saturday, the second weekend day as Friday is the day when everything is closed and the men go to the mosques. Schools and businesses are open Sunday through Thursday. Dave is going to help direct a play this afternoon, and I am going to the market and grocery store.
The open-air market is near the city center, a single L-shaped aisle around which sellers set up their vegetable and fruit stands. Some produce is better than others, but all of it is much cheaper than in North America. Produce is weighed by kilos and half kilos in plastic bags, and if we only want two avocados instead of a half kilo they will give it to us for free. One man always throws in extras, a couple of aging pomegranates or two wilting ears of corn. His produce isn't the best, but we go back to him because he is kind to us.
The grocery store is filled with wonders like peanut butter and ketchup, so we do not lack for our Western comfort foods. We would like to learn how to make more Palestinian dishes, especially the sweets, although we have read they are hard to make.
The guys atLeo's do not harrass us, they are polite and friendly and leave us alone. I lost my cool at another internet cafe where the guys next to me would not stop staring at me and whispering to each other. Admitting my lack of patience with this is difficult. I know that they are curious, that I am an oddity, but it slowly grates at one's patience to have it happen every day. I'm used to be a foreigner from living in Korea and traveling to a lot of countries, but there's something about it here that gets to me. Kids have thrown rocks, soccer balls, shouted at us, men have whispered "How are you" and "I love you" in my ears, they hiss at me when I walk by, and most of all they stare in a not-so-friendly-or-brotherly way.
But these are young men. The older men, for the most part, are very kind. One old man sits on his chair outside his front door on my way home and smiles at me and salutes when I walk by. Another younger man helped me find the taxi I needed. When we sat on the curb to eat our falafel the owner of a nearby candy store offered me his chair. So it is balanced. Unfortunately, the negative encounters enlarge themselves in my psyche, causing me to tense up when walking down our street.
If getting from place to place is my only problem, then I am rewarded by when I get there and see my students. I'm teaching a group of housewives, a group of girls at an all-girls' school, a mixed group of kids in one of the worser refugee camps, a handful of older girls at another, and still helping Dave in his all-boys' drama class.
The housewives are funny and kind. We had lunch at one woman's house last week, and she stuffed us with breads and cakes and tea and desserts. They sat around chit-chatting to each other, crocheting baby blankets and patting me every once in a while saying, "Habibti", I think, which means sweetheart. Some of them took of their scarves, and at first I wanted to stare at them. I often look at veiled women and wonder what color their hair is, how they wear it, is it short, long or wavy?
I love my younger students as well. They are enthusiastic and happy to see me. But I have to love those that are not happy as well, right? The other day as we were standing outside after class, we heard a sky-cracking sonic boom. I was startled, and asked what it was. It was an Israeli jet passing overhead, as they frequently do. They all laughed at me for being scared and said they were used to it. One thing that surprised me was when I asked the all-girls group of 10-12 year-olds what they wanted to learn in my class, and the answer was that they wanted to be able to communicate with the Israeli soldiers at the checkpoints. The longer we are here, the less this kind of thing surprises me. We have heard more stories about soldiers killing, fighting, being shot at, seeing your friend go out in the night and not knowing if he will return....
Sometimes I feel cooped up, mentally and physically, but then it occurs to me that the Palestinians must live like this, they have limited opportunities and tenuous safety.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Begets Begets Begets...
Its been a while since I've posted, because, as Margaret points out, we've been extremely busy volunteering with Project Hope. Project Hope is a Canadian sponsored NGO which is located in Nablus City in the West Bank. Project Hope brings volunteers from all over the world to teach French, English, Art and Drama to anyone who signs up for its classes. Project Hope also works as a volunteer base for the greater Nablus community, which has left me more than busy.
I teach two different drama classes in two different refugee camps near Nablus, I do clown and mime workshops with the Nablus City Circus, I'm helping a local playwrite direct his show which opens in 15 days, and I'm working on teaching two drama classes at An-Najah University. The opportunity to work with so many people in Palestine has been very envigorating, because quite honestly, the last thing you read about in the news regarding Palestine is cultural renewal. Indeed, the theatre and drama scene is looking to develop and grow, and I've been very rewarded with the amount of work and effort that my kids in the refugee camps have put into developing their skills, and with the commitment from the local actors here.
So thats the good news. The bad news is that I think Palestine is taking its toll on me... I'm getting tired of street youth yelling out 'hey whats your name' 'hey where you from' 'hey fuck you' to Margaret and I when we walk home each night, and sometimes they become really aggresive. We've had rocks thrown at us three times in the month that we've been here, and while I love the kids I work with in the refugee camps, they fight CONSTANTLY with one another. There is absolutely no discipline in the UN schools we work in, and the teachers just shrug when the boys fight each other. The first couple weeks were really difficult because these kids fear nothing. They are incredibly resilient because they have become completely normalized by drone planes flying over head coupled by Israeli incursions into their homes late at night. Furthermore, I have a loud voice, but it can't even begin to compete with the Minaret blasting the call to prayer when I need even a little bit of focus and attention for the class. Theres no way I can punish any kid for fighting in my drama class because they dont care. I tell one kid he's kicked out if he fights again, and he tells me he's not leaving, or he just walks away, and comes back with some of his friends to start another fight. Only through very slow exercises and an assload of patience have I managed to make even a slight amount of progress.
Don't read this all wrong; I do not blame these kids for their behavior. This is a by-product of life under Occupation, and I'm going to come out of this having earned the patience of Job. But its very telling of what humanitarian work is like, because it can be very depressing. The cycles of violence just seem to perpetuate themselves because of the Occupation, and the psychological state of the youth here is very fragmented that it seems like even a little progress or positive energy can be stamped out in a heartbeat.
So I'm caught between two places - there are people that tell Margaret and I how grateful they are that we have come from our 'clean countries' to work here and share our knowledge with them, while on the other hand, there are many others who hate anyone who isn't Palestinian and make it quite evident they don't want us here. I begin to wonder really what right we even have to be here. Who am I to tell them how to behave or how to direct a play, or how to mime? Maybe the problems that exist in Palestine need a domestically Palestinian solution. Will my work here even matter in the end? There's so many problems that exist that require at least a generation of attention and work by people who can sustain a common presence here, while I've only come for two months to try and show Palestinians what improvisational theatre is like. So are we helping in the short-term, only to cause harm in the long-term?
I don't think I'll ever know the answers to these questions, but its important to ask them because aid work isn't inherently positive simply because its aid work - it can do more damage in the long run when it isn't regulated, monitored, and analyzed for its effectiveness. For now I can only hope that I'm abiding by the Hippocratic oath, while focusing on chipping away on my part of the wall to help bring it down.
I teach two different drama classes in two different refugee camps near Nablus, I do clown and mime workshops with the Nablus City Circus, I'm helping a local playwrite direct his show which opens in 15 days, and I'm working on teaching two drama classes at An-Najah University. The opportunity to work with so many people in Palestine has been very envigorating, because quite honestly, the last thing you read about in the news regarding Palestine is cultural renewal. Indeed, the theatre and drama scene is looking to develop and grow, and I've been very rewarded with the amount of work and effort that my kids in the refugee camps have put into developing their skills, and with the commitment from the local actors here.
So thats the good news. The bad news is that I think Palestine is taking its toll on me... I'm getting tired of street youth yelling out 'hey whats your name' 'hey where you from' 'hey fuck you' to Margaret and I when we walk home each night, and sometimes they become really aggresive. We've had rocks thrown at us three times in the month that we've been here, and while I love the kids I work with in the refugee camps, they fight CONSTANTLY with one another. There is absolutely no discipline in the UN schools we work in, and the teachers just shrug when the boys fight each other. The first couple weeks were really difficult because these kids fear nothing. They are incredibly resilient because they have become completely normalized by drone planes flying over head coupled by Israeli incursions into their homes late at night. Furthermore, I have a loud voice, but it can't even begin to compete with the Minaret blasting the call to prayer when I need even a little bit of focus and attention for the class. Theres no way I can punish any kid for fighting in my drama class because they dont care. I tell one kid he's kicked out if he fights again, and he tells me he's not leaving, or he just walks away, and comes back with some of his friends to start another fight. Only through very slow exercises and an assload of patience have I managed to make even a slight amount of progress.
Don't read this all wrong; I do not blame these kids for their behavior. This is a by-product of life under Occupation, and I'm going to come out of this having earned the patience of Job. But its very telling of what humanitarian work is like, because it can be very depressing. The cycles of violence just seem to perpetuate themselves because of the Occupation, and the psychological state of the youth here is very fragmented that it seems like even a little progress or positive energy can be stamped out in a heartbeat.
So I'm caught between two places - there are people that tell Margaret and I how grateful they are that we have come from our 'clean countries' to work here and share our knowledge with them, while on the other hand, there are many others who hate anyone who isn't Palestinian and make it quite evident they don't want us here. I begin to wonder really what right we even have to be here. Who am I to tell them how to behave or how to direct a play, or how to mime? Maybe the problems that exist in Palestine need a domestically Palestinian solution. Will my work here even matter in the end? There's so many problems that exist that require at least a generation of attention and work by people who can sustain a common presence here, while I've only come for two months to try and show Palestinians what improvisational theatre is like. So are we helping in the short-term, only to cause harm in the long-term?
I don't think I'll ever know the answers to these questions, but its important to ask them because aid work isn't inherently positive simply because its aid work - it can do more damage in the long run when it isn't regulated, monitored, and analyzed for its effectiveness. For now I can only hope that I'm abiding by the Hippocratic oath, while focusing on chipping away on my part of the wall to help bring it down.
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