Lost?

A few days ago, an elderly man accompanied me on a part of my usual walk to the servis station. He spoke a good amount of English and was eager to practice with me. As we passed by a wall plastered with glue and posters with the edges peeling, he stopped and pointed to the faces on the posters. He said, “This man went to Israel,” and then he made a motion with his hands that resembled Superman pulling apart his shirt to reveal the S hidden underneath.

I didn’t say much after that.

Ever since then, the eyes of the martyrs have weighed down on me. They are at the grocery store, restaurants, alleys, malls, etc. A majority of them look about my age. These young men with their whole lives ahead of them, and they feel that this extreme is the only answer.

I cannot imagine.

No more than 25 years old, thinking that you've gone through every other possible solution there is out there, only to end up at the option of committing suicide and killing civilians in the process.

In the end, the Israeli settlers use their actions as a reason to further repress the Palestinians.

Then the cycle starts, again.

Sexyback

It is hard to believe that I am inching my way to the halfway point of my trip already. Time seems to be optional here. When invited to juice or a coffee, the outing can last hours. Laura and I stumbled into our neighbor’s garden by accident one day, and the owner, a kind elderly woman named Mona, sat us down for lemonade and sweets. There were no questions, just persistent hospitality. “No” is never an option.

At about 3:45 every morning, I wake up to the call to prayer. Out of the five made throughout the day, this one seems the longest. I fall back asleep at about 4:30 and wake up again at 7:30 when Laura rolls out of bed for work. Now that we are on different schedules, the alarms and snoozes are all meshing together, and it is just a grumpy mess in the morning.

Laura started teaching English, yoga, and arts and crafts with a non-profit organization called Project Hope. Today they are going to refugee camps. She loves it. I am incredibly proud of her.

I have started taking the servis (group taxi) to the Near East Foundation, the organization I work with. I walk a few blocks over to the center and go to the taxi station beneath the mall. My new friend at the station directs me to the right lane, I jump into a taxi with four strangers, and show the driver a blue sticky note with a few lines of Arabic scribbled onto it.

Prior to the brilliant sticky note ordeal, I took a regular taxi with Laura and attempted to communicate where this building was to previous drivers in about four different ways, and failed every time. Each time resulted in me having to call my friend, Hadeel, to serve as my interpreter via mobile. Even though I said time seems to be optional, they understand it is money. I would be charged an extra five shekels for causing a delay.

Now, with the sticky note and servis, the trip is two and a half shekels, which amounts to about 65 cents.

Nablus, Palestine, is a very beautiful place. It rests in the middle of a bowl, a valley in the middle of mountains. The only way out is to take one of the winding roads up and over the steep slopes. The old city down the street contains a market within its narrow roads, and here you can find street vendors shouting about prices, fresh apricots and zucchini, halaal meat, and the newest sunglasses that everyone is wearing in Europe. The smell of freshly baked bread in this area is intoxicating.

Guys are strewn about and use their broken English in an attempt to get Laura’s attention.

“Hi! Vat is you name?”

“Hovar you doings?”

“Vat is the place you are from?”

Last week, there was this kid, no more than 15 years old, who blatantly said, “So sexziii,” as she passed by. My initial reaction was to ask where his mother was, so that I can tell her to spank her child. Good grief. So sexziii.

So a few things:

-  Greetings in broken English are considered pickup lines

- Giving passengers exact change while weaving through traffic is a skill

- Tea and coffee are drunk throughout the day, even at noon when it is scalding out

- Kids want to play, even when they cannot understand a word you are saying

On a side note, ever since Laura signed into her GMail my home settings are now in Spanish, and since I'm logging on in Palestine all of the settings on my blog are in Arabic. This is getting out of hand.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

I am currently in Nablus, Palestine, listening to the call to prayer resonate throughout the city. It has been two weeks since Laura and I jumped the Atlantic Ocean to begin this venture to see the West Bank and work with the Near East Foundation. I have been spending most of my morning and the beginnings of this afternoon reflecting on things.

We had to connect through Newark Liberty International Airport to get to Tel Aviv, Israel. First, all passengers were required to wait in the general terminal area away from the gate, which was a closed off area. Hebrew, Arabic, English, and French circled about us. There were Orthodox Jews, Muslims, Americans, Asians, and all other sorts of ethnicities waiting to board. As soon as they permitted us into the actual gate’s seating area, all passengers had to go through another security checkpoint. Everyone had their bags searched, belongings emptied, and bodies frisked. There was a small girl, no more than six years old, who went before me, and she was treated as if she was a 40-year-old man with a record. I remember wandering what I had gotten myself into.

Ten hours later we landed safely in Tel Aviv. Walking through the airport, the excitement began to build. This continued until we reached border patrol. I asked them not to stamp our passports since we travel a lot and anticipate on going to countries that do not permit the Israeli stamp.

Officer: “No stamp? Okay. This happens a lot.”

Me: “Thank you. I appreciate it. It is a shame that it has to happen.”

“What is your father and grandfather’s name?”

“Jalil Hakim and Syed Morteza Hakim.”

Within 15 seconds, he handed my passport to another officer, who had me go sit in a sectioned off area. Laura kept me company even though they let her through immediately. There was a Pakistani businessman, a white man who visited once a year, and the rest were Arabic. The tension was brewing and it was truly a frustrating time. They called each of us in one by one for questioning. The Pakistani gentleman became fed up after a while and booked a return flight for the same day on his phone.

The first interrogator asked for my father and grandfather’s name, religion, what I was doing there, who did I know, and so on and so forth. He was somewhat polite. The second was very rude and didn’t seem to comprehend my answers.

“Where is your mother from and when did she go to the US?”

“The Philippines and she was seven, so it was about 1971.”

“And your father?”

“He is from Iran and he was in his last year of high school, it was after the Islamic Revolution, but at the start of the Gulf War, so about….”

“Which Gulf War? You know there were two.”

“Yes, I know that. I am trying to give you an accurate time frame here. He married my mother in 1985, so it must have been 1984 that he moved to Texas.”

“So your parents are married?”

“Yes. They’ve been married for almost 27 years.”

“What is your religion?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Your father is Muslim. Why aren’t you a Muslim?”

“Yes, he is, but he obviously isn’t that strict since he married a Catholic.”

“I don’t understand. Are you baptized?”

“No. My father is Muslim and my mother is Catholic. They didn’t force a certain religion upon me. God is great, He loves me, and I need to be the best person I can be.”

“Why don’t you have a religion?”

“I feel like I just answered that.”

And it continued on like that for a while… They kept me in that waiting room and questioning me for four hours, which is not too bad from what I have been told.

We traveled for another five hours to get to Nablus. Getting through Israel was hell. I do not understand what is going on in their heads. More than half of the security force looks younger than me, and they have their guns in one hand while they are texting on their phones with the other. It is very a scary situation. I asked them for directions and they wave me off with, “Sorry, no English,” and they go back to sending their messages. If I ask a second question, or bother them again, then I get an agitated look and a stern, “NO ENGLISH.”

When we arrived in Palestine, I asked for directions. The man said he didn’t understand English, but he went out of his way to find someone who did so that they could translate for us. Everyone is like this. It is amazing how willing they are to help a foreigner from a country that helped give away their homeland and not help them towards statehood.