Another night in Jerusalem

So I haven't written much about what the conflict/occupation is like. The trouble with it is it sneaks up on me. Last night, when I left my Arabic lesson the dry, dusty heat had faded into a soft evening. The Jasmine smelled stronger than I had ever smelled before, and there was bright pink bougainvillea that stood out against the white limestone wall and the fading blue of the sky. And I was picturing what this city would be like if there were no settlements or soldiers, if people had time and money and energy to invest in it. Kids were playing in the street. When I first moved in, they used to stare at me suspiciously, but now they were used to me and ignored me as just another adult interrupting their games.


Coming to the end of the street, I saw my bus waiting. It was the last bus of the night and if I missed it, I would have to take a taxi to the checkpoint and then another taxi after I got to the other side of the checkpoint. Relieved, I ran to catch it, not realizing until I got to the doors that the bus wasn't going anywhere. The end of the street is the soldiers come to "fish". They take everyone's i.d.'s on the bus, looking for anyone without a permit. I often see the results of these fishing expeditions: a line of young men sitting on the sidewalk, waiting to be taken to jail. Soldiers milling around glaring at everyone who walks by. The soldiers don't ask me for my i.d. as I get on the bus. Racial profiling has become an art form here. Once, I'm seated, the bus sits in place for a long time. The driver keeps getting out to talk to the soldiers, and inside people get tenser and more and more angry, asking what is happening. After 30 minutes, a new army vehicle pulls up inexplicably. After more milling around from the soldiers, they finally hand out all of the i.d.'s. The passengers on the bus form an assembly line trying to get them back to their owners as quickly as possible. By the time we get to the taxi stand, all the taxis to Hebron have left, except one. Passengers sprint to try and get a place in the taxi. I'm glad that I'm staying on the bus. The remaining passengers are quiet, subdued. Just another night.

Welcome to Bethlehem

So, my friend T. pointed out that if my purpose in starting this blog was, as I told many people, to provide evidence that I wasn't dead, then I wasn't doing a very good job. She makes a good point. So, even though I don't have much to say tonight, I'm posting anyway. I moved to Bethlehem a few days ago. Hopefully, after I'm done assembling my Ikea furniture, I will have much more time to write. I no longer have to commute through the checkpoints, which often involved multiple taxis and lots of waiting in line. I'll leave you with these murals done by the mysterious, but famous British graffiti artist Banksy, which are all over Bethlehem, especially on the Separation Wall between Jerusalem.

Nothing to wear

The second most common question I was asked when I decided to move to Jerusalem (after is it dangerous) was, will you cover your hair? The answer was, and still is, no.

First of all, it's not required, despite the stereotype (repeated in the new Sex and the City 2 movie). There are a few countries like Iran, where it's required by law to cover. But, Palestine is not one of them. Second, I'm not Muslim or Jewish. (Women of both religions often cover their hair here, but in different ways.) Finally, I would feel silly covering my hair, because there's an art to it that I've never learned.

So, I'm pretty clear on head covering, but what to wear below my head seems to get more difficult by the day.

"When you go to another country, you are, in actuality, asking millions of people to let you into their home. I, for one, don’t much cotton to people who come into my home and disregard the basic rules I honor." This quote from the travel column Inga la Gringa is my motto when figuring out how to dress in other countries. I generally try to fit with the customs because then the people around me are much more likely to engage and not dismiss me as just another tourist.

So, when I arrived in Jerusalem, I adjusted to wearing long-sleeve shirts that covered up to my collar bone, and loose long pants. The outfit above from Hejab Rehab is a good example of typical dress here--trendy, but modest. This was what the guidebook told me to do, as well as our office guidelines. After a while, it started to seem normal. When I saw a woman wearing a t-shirt, it seemed risque even to me. And then summer hit and I moved to Bethlehem. All of a sudden, the women pulled out their t-shirts, and yesterday, I saw a woman wearing a strappy knee-length sundress. In the West Bank. It seemed so revealing, and yet so temptingly comfortable and cool. So, now I have no idea what to wear. I have a closet full of long-sleeve shirts, and it's 90 degrees outside. I still feel uncomfortable wearing t-shirts because men on the street tend to give me a lot more attention. But it feels strange for the American to be the most conservatively dressed one in the room.

Lost Fears

Today I am in such a shape
That I can't differentiate
The load from the donkey.
I am in such shape today,
That I don't know which is the thorn
And which is the rose.

My Love put me in this shape today.
I don't know who is the Lover
Or who is the Beloved.

Yesterday, drunkenness led me
To the door of the Love.
But today I can't find
The door or the house.

Last year I had two wings.
Fear and hope.
Today, I don't know of wings,
Don't know how to fly,
Don't know of my lost fears.

-Rumi
From Essential Sufism