I
landed in Tel Aviv at 4am this morning. We were advised to say we were
on vacation and leave out our intention to enter the West Bank. I was
provided with an address of someone who I could say I was staying with
in Israel, but as I approached the passport check, I realized I could
not pronounce her name. I began to get nervous, but made it through
without any problems. When I saw Mujahed Sarsur's (Bard '12) uncle and
three sons with a sign that said "Bard" and a single red rose, I felt
relieved. And when we all piled in the car and Beyonce came on the
radio, I felt right at home.
Next thing I knew I was sitting at
the kitchen table with Liz Castle '12, another Bard student on the trip,
looking out at heaving green grapefruit trees and listening to our
hostess dissect the current political situation as she boned a chicken.
We are staying for a day and a night in Kufr Kassem, a Muslim Arab city
occupied by Israel in 1956. Tomorrow we will make our way with the rest
of the girls to Mas-Ha.
We learned that the city is entirely
Muslim, but the street signs are in Hebrew and the people must obey
Israel laws though they are treated as second-class citizens (no matter
how many years their ancestors have lived on this land). Coming from
America, it is remarkable to see a city so homogeneous in it’s religion
and ethnicity. When the people of this city try to fight for their
rights in health care or education, they are harshly shot down. This is a
part of Israel. As our host put it, “when the judge is your enemy, to
whom can you complain?” Within the first few hours of being here, I felt
immediately acquainted with an endlessly complex set of issues that
this region is facing and little hope for where I fit in that puzzle.
On
the other hand, the hospitality I have received since my arrival has
been incomparable. Welcome is the only word I have mastered in Arabic so
far, because I heard it so many times. When I offered some shekels for
an ice cream I was given our kind hosts responded with, “Are you crazy
or something?” I feel entirely at home and welcome in this community,
despite the many fundamental cultural differences (such as the
acceptance of pre-marital sex, a topic that came up in hushed tones in
the company of the young women only)
Today, Liz and I were
chauffeured from house to house by a few of Mujahid’s young relatives.
We were treated like royalty and joked that we must be doing something
saintly to be receiving such a warm reception. We ate all day long with
various loving families in various relatives’ homes. I feel I should
partake in the fasting during Ramadan if only to reverse the damage done
to my figure in this one day. My eagerness to taste new things overcame
all sense or will I could muster. Liz studied the methods of baking the
delicious flat bread they bake here in ovens in the back yard, which I
hope to reap the benefits of when we are back at Bard.
The city
maintains a sad beauty, poised in its limbo between decrepitude and a
modern push. The white staircases float without rails around half
constructed buildings ending in nothing. The homes that are occupied are
immaculate. The gardens groomed and the cars washed. But the sidewalks
are littered with cardboard and the streets with unapologetic potholes
that function as natural speed bumps as we cruise around the city. The
relationship between the people and the oppressive government is
apparent in the few feet between the front door and the sidewalk.
After
a magnificent meal and a few more Bardians joyously arrived at the
house, I was asked over mangoes and mint tea why I wanted to be part of
this project that Mujahid has so admirably thrown himself and his family
into. I responded that I wanted to come to see for myself, to be
cynical of American papers, and to explore my Jewish heritage by being
open. But mostly, I am here because of Mujahid’s description of last
summer: He organized a community service project in which the children
would help the adults to clean schools and public places such as grave
yards. Mujahid recounted the image of more than two hundred children
showing up to eagerly clean a cemetery. I am here to bring something
else for these children, to bring what I have to offer in the form of
theater.
In the late afternoon the phone rang. It was Kendra and
Rosi (the female student leaders) eagerly awaiting our arrival in
Mas-Ha. “The whole village is waiting!” We were asked to cover our heads
when we enter the West Bank tomorrow. Since the only scarf I brought
has cream-colored pom-poms around the edge I will borrow a headscarf
from one of the women we have met here. I have no problem following this
custom, though in my feminist heart of hearts I may have feared feeling
pity or frustration with this dress code. However, I see now that this
is simply tradition. It is out of respect. Vanity falls far down the
list of values for the Islamic people. Connection with family,
individual responsibility and awareness, and good food are much higher
on the list. And quite to the contrary of what I secretly expected, the
men in this community look squarely to the women for the lead. The women
are strong and smart and wear their hijabs with pride.
The
night ended not unlike many back home in the Bay Area. I sailed with my
new friends through the darkened streets of the city, with arms and head
out the sky roof to catch a breeze, blasting Arabic pop music.
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