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.