Dancing in Kafr ad-Dik

July 2nd, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank
Monday was Kirsty’s last day in the office. She will be on holiday for the next month or so, going home to Scotland for two weeks, and will then be leaving the Palestine Monitor after around four years of work. I have very much enjoyed working with Kirsty, and was sad to see her go. She has been incredibly encouraging and supportive, and has provided us with a substantial amount of freedom and trust concerning the stories we wanted to write. We had our final editorial meeting with her, discussing upcoming stories for the week. Until the new editor arrives this coming Monday, the three of us are in charge of the Palestine Monitor.

I spent the rest of the day at the office working on the story about land-loss in Ni’lin. We eventually found our way back to the flat and did practically nothing. We have around four channels in English on our seven-hundred-channel satellite, and three of them stopped working last week. However, they miraculously switched on Monday evening. And that is how we wasted . . . spent our time that night.

I employed my new editorial duties on Tuesday by publishing an article Adam wrote and the article I wrote the previous day (which can be read at this link: http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article496). I felt rather important and powerful having the ability to edit and publish. I’m trying not to let it go to my head.

I spent the rest of the day in the office trying to find contacts for another story. Back at the flat, the three of us crashed on the couches and slept for a considerable amount of time. We stayed up a little too late the night before; not having those channels was more conducive to getting a full night of sleep. Later that night, I met Anna on her way to Al-Masyoun from the bus station. She was growing tired of being stuck in Bethlehem, so she decided to come visit those of us who are stuck in Ramallah. We went looking for the Cultural Palace, where Mahmoud Darwish, a world-renowned Palestinian poet, was speaking. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find it. But we did get to see a side of Ramallah I had never gone to before.

As we searched, several people walked past me, whispering and giggling. Someone stopped me and said I looked like Mohanned. This has been a recurring theme on this trip, beginning with my first visit to Ni’lin (where I was told that I must sleep in someone’s house because “women and girls!” would come). Mohanned is a character on the Turkish television show Noor, which is outrageously popular here. Adam has also had quite a few people say it to him, which is interesting, because he and I don’t really look much alike. I find it pretty amusing hearing people whisper the name of some rugged television heartthrob as I walk past. You just have to relish these ridiculous one-in-a-lifetime opportunities. Hindi was a little jealous when a few girls in Ni’lin said the name in reference to me.
“You are so lucky!” he said.
“Dude, they’re twelve.”

I had never been to the roof of our apartment building, so we took the elevator to the sixth floor (our flat is on the first, which, in the U.S, would be considered the second) and climbed up a ladder in a little room and went through a hatch in the ceiling. The drumbeat of some party pulsated through Masyoun as we had theological discussions. Ramallah is beautiful underneath the stars in the night air. I’m from the mountains of Tennessee, where we can see the stars, so I like being able to be in a city and still see natural skylights.

(written July 3rd, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank)
On Wednesday, we updated the website and hung around the office as I tried to find some contacts for a story. Nothing worked, so Adam and I decided to chase a wild goose to Salfit and figure everything out when we got there. Sean went to Burin to cover a story.

At the beginning or our trip (we have now been here for seven weeks), Adam spent two weeks in Salfit, so he as quite the man about town. We hoped to be able to capitalize on that in order to find our story. We wound through the countryside, climbing the terraced mounts of green trees sprouting from the brown land. We arrived at the medical relief office in Salfit and visited with some of the people there, including Khaled, the man Adam lived with when he stayed in the town. We came to interview a student who was recently released from an Israeli prison after six-and-a-half years, but he was unable to meet with us, and wouldn’t be free to do so in the next few weeks. Rami, one of the workers there, said that his cousin was released from prison only two months ago after four years. He took us to meet with him. Now working construction, he was a student in Ramallah when he was arrested outside of Nablus. He was on his way to get medicine for his sick father when Israeli soldiers detained him, telling him that he had friends who worked with Hamas (which was not true), and therefore he was a dangerous man. He was then sent to prison, where he was physically and verbally assaulted. Unfortunately, his situation is not an anomaly: one out of three Palestinian men has been imprisoned.

We were then taken to the village of Kafr ad-Dik, where we met Feras, another friend of Adam’s. We sat on his family’s rooftop beneath the shade of large, intertwining grapevine, drinking Coke and enjoying the breeze. A large meal of pita, vegetables, meat, and chips was placed before us. We then sat. And I thoroughly enjoyed that. The village was quiet and peaceful, devoid of loud music, and the only sound we could hear was that of the wind gently rustling the grapevine above our heads. We simply appreciated the tranquility and the reduced speed. As the sun began to go down, we began walking through Kafr ad-Dik to the hillsides and sat on the rocks over the valley. We were joined by Raja’i and Majd, a thirteen-year-old who really liked carrying my camera around. The five of us hiked along the ridge to the top of a hill as the sun continued to go down behind the Green Line. On a clear day, Feras said you could see the Mediterranean Sea from the summit. We returned to our spot on the rocks closer to the village and reclined on the stones as the stars slowly began to poke through the fading haze. We met Omar, a student in Jenin who was another friend of Adam’s. We threw rocks at water bottles and Majd and I fiddled with the camera and attempted to communicate using hand signals and the few words that we knew in the other’s language.

Khaled picked us up in a PMRS van and we drove down into the valley to a swimming pool where we shot pool and drank tea. Adam and I were given shorts so we could go swimming. I have never worn, nor will I ever where again, shorts that were that tight or that short. They were frightening inches away from being a Speedo. Aside from the awkwardness of my wardrobe, it was incredibly refreshing to float around, rimmed in by the dark blue silhouette of the cliffs.

Summer is the season for weddings in Palestine, and a wedding was in full swing back in the village. I wasn’t hungry, but that, of course, didn’t matter: we were shoved into a room and given pita and hummus topped with meat. Outside, a band played loudly on a small stage. The stage and a bunch of chairs hemmed in the dancers, who were jumping and running and twirling. Girls watched from the rooftops: Palestinian weddings are split into parties for men and women over a period of two days before they are joined for the actual ceremony. Adam leaped into the crowd. I followed Feras, but I was soon grabbed by several people and pulled into the throng. My camera was tossed to Feras and I was soon grabbing hands and shoulders as the fast music knocked our feet into motion, running and kicking in a wide circle. I’m not much of a dancer until I’m actually dancing. You can’t help but laugh and enjoy it and get into it. Adam wrote a very good story on the Monitor about a wedding he went to last week. These people were unleashing their occupied joy and enjoying life.

After wearing ourselves out, we went to a beautiful home on the other side of the village. Feras, Omar, their cousin Muhammad, Adam, and I sat in the courtyard and drank juice, talking late into the night. We discussed the intricacies of culture and language, and taught one another slang terms (not crude terms) in Arabic and English. The guys got a kick out of stuff like “Sup” and “Take a chill pill.” Sleeping pads were tossed on the floor for Adam and me and we slept soundly beneath a whirring fan. I’ve missed fans.

Feras made us tea when we woke up. Omar joined us on a service to Ramallah. Sean was at the office when we got there. He had been detained at a settlement near Burin yesterday for several hours and questioned. I read on the Internet about the attack in Jerusalem yesterday. A Palestinian man killed three people with a bulldozer on Jaffa Street, injuring thirty more and overturning cars and buses. This horrible incident certainly won’t help people’s perspective of the situation. Just recently, Israeli soldiers shot a nine-year-old child at a checkpoint. Unlike the bulldozer disaster, that story won’t appear on CNN or Fox.

(written July 7th, 2008 Palestine Monitor Office, Ramallah, the West Bank)
I had planned on going into Jerusalem later in the afternoon, but once I got back to the flat and relaxed on the couch my plans changed: I slept for two or three hours. When I woke up, I decided to shave. I wanted to go the entire summer with out shaving, and my beard was already quite full. Last year, I went two months without shaving, and I must say it was rather regal and golden by the end. But, October and November in Arkansas is a little different than June and July in Palestine. I do feel cooler now that I have less hair.

I decided to go to bed early, because I had a very early start the next morning. Anna, Rachel, Jonathan Hill, and I were renting a car for the weekend and heading up north to hike the Golan. Before I could go to sleep, however, Mohanned Kafri called and said that I needed to come up the street to Azure’s where he and his sisters were hanging out. Adam and I quickly got dressed and walked up to the restaurant. The Kafri siblings were with a large group, so we pulled up two chairs and joined the table. Mohanned, Adam, and I talked for a long time about PMRS, Palestinian and American women, and an assortment of other things. You know, the important stuff. After a couple of hours, Mohanned and his older sister Riyam drove me back to the flat, and I hurriedly packed for the weekend before diving into bed. 7 AM was coming early the next morning.