Umm el Zeinat and Haifa

As planned, yesterday we returned to my ancestral village, Umm el Zeinat, near Daliyat al Karmel, on Mount Karmel, in Haifa.  Of course when I say “return” this is much greater than my brother and me.  This return is about my family, about an oppression that they, along with all the people of Umm el Zeinat and the people of the other 500 destroyed villages of Palestine had to endure.  What we undertook is the greatest act of resistance against the Zionist movement.  Three generations later we remember, and though not under our own conditions, we return to a village from which they hoped to erase our traces.

On our way into the village we met a man and his wife, picking cactus fruit with their four children.  My uncle pulled over to ask then how well they knew the village.  As it turns out they are from the Fahmawi family of Umm el Zeinat.  We told them we were returning and they offered to guide us through the village.  Of course all that is left of the village is rubble from demolished homes, overgrown shrubbery, and trees– both indigenous and those planted by the state in an attempt to make it seem as though no one ever lived there.

I discovered that the state of Israel grants permission to Jewish families every year to enter my village and harvest the olives.  The family that guided us through the village still lives off of the good of our land, however.  They have been trimming the fruit trees for years and eating pomagranates, cactus fruit, and they sneek around at night to harvest the olives, which they press for oil and pickle to eat.  They cannot harvest the olives in the day because it is illegal– the State sanctions the harvest for Jews only.  I was so happy to meet this couple and their kids, knowing that our people are still taking care of the land.  We picked and ate pomegranates, they gave us a bucket full of cactus fruit that they cleaned out, we drank well water from the only remaining working well in the village, we visited the grave yard where I read the fatiha for my great grandparents, and we explored some caves where its assumed that the fighters used to hide and store their weapons in 1936 and 1948.

I have never felt a more bizarre sensation for intense saddness and simultaneous ecstacy.  I was a returnee, and having eaten from the fruits of the land felt like I was taking back what was mine.  I also completely put down my guard and found myself laughing while tears rolled down my eyes.  I always said I would return to Umm el Zeinat and rebuild, but now I know I will.  I’ve had lots of thoughts that I need to comb through and understand.  I’ve been preparing for this moment my entire life, and now that its happened I cannot wait for it to happen again.  My village is there and it still exists, with a few folks left behind to take care of it until we can all reunite.

In the grand Zionist plan my brother and I were supposed to have forgotten this land.  We should not have known that we are from Umm el Zeinat, we should not have stepped foot on it ever again.  But in some small way we– and millions like us– have punched a very large hole in the Zionist plan.  I had a wonderful conversation today about this with Amin Mohammad Ali, shop owner and brother of Palestinian poet Taha Mohammad Ali in Nazareth.  I will write more about this conversation, but I realized that although I am in the “green line” and what is known as Israel proper, the Palestinians here are me and I am the Palestinians here.

Palestine, I’ve Returned

I have been waiting for this day my entire life, but have been afraid to go through with it.  I have to say it was not so bad crossing the border… we planned for the worst.  We got interrogated of course, individually, and then were made to wait without our passports for over 3 hours without word of what we were waiting for.  But we decided not to let it phase us, and if it did, not to show it.  Finally we pulled out a deck of cards and played some rounds of 3-person hand rummy as multiple groups of visitors came in and cleared the border, and finally we were given our passports and told we were free to enter– and thats with Lebanese and Syrian stamps in our passports!  I stepped on the soil of my homeland for the first time.

Crossing the Sheikh Hussein Bridge from the North of Jordan put us right into Nazareth– where my grandfather’s sister lives.  She and her husband have visited us in the States, but of her 6 children I have only briefly met two in the past.  I called her son late last night and told him three of his relatives would be coming, and without hestitation he said he’d be at the bridge to pick me up.  Not thinking we’d be held up for 3 hours he and his wife waited for us the entire time!

We arrived at my aunt’s house this evening, and I feel like I’ve known eveyone forever.  We had an incredible meal and enjoyed some of the best breezes of the entire trip.  I will have more to write in the next few days, but so far I have learned that the city of Nazareth is a predominantly Arab city.  I learned more about the nuances of being a Palestinian citizen of Israel.  Also, there is a confused rooster outside that crows at any hour of the day, but never at dawn.  I mention this because he is crowing as I type

Tomorrow I am off to my grandmother’s Haifa and my grandfather’s ancestral village, Umm el Zeinat.  My family knows our home in Haifa and my great great grandfather’s mosque, one of the few remaining old mosques of Palestine.

Goodbye Syria, Hello Lebanon

Rob, Tarek, and myself got very sick in Syria during and after an interesting adventure we had with the railway system!  My parents came to Damascus a few days after my last post and we rented our friend’s apartment in the Yarmouk Refugee Camp.  Being that my parents lived in Damascus in their heyday, and having been a 5 year old back then, we got dinner invitation after lunch invitation after dinner invitation, after lunch invitation and so on.  Of course my parents’ friends wanted to see Tarek and I so we got roped into all these house visits, and I am sorry to say that neither one of us experienced Damascus as we should have.  We spent tons of time in the Old City, but not much else.  So we got sick and after thinking we got better decided to take a little trip up North, to Aleppo, Lattakia, Homs, and Hama before returning to Damascus and heading to Beirut.  I’m thinking we’ll take the train, its cheap and of course more comfortable than taking the bus.  WRONG!  Apparently EVERYONE knows that you do NOT take the train in Syria. 

Well we took a slow night train to Aleppo… not so bad.  It left Damascus at midnight and arrived in Aleppo at 7am, so with the windows down we practically had air conditioning and we slept the whole time anyway.  Aleppo was beautiful and a refreshing change from Damascus since we had no one to visit and stayed down town.  After resting in our hostel we walked down town and went into the old city, had lunch, walked through Jdeideh, the Christian Quarter, ate dinner and went back to the hostel.  The next day the boys went to the men’s Hamman and I went to the Women’s.  Being bathed in the old Hammam was a relaxing and fun experience for all of us… though they scrubbed the shit out of us to get the dead skin off.  Then I walked to the Aleppo Citadel to meet Rob and Tarek.  As I waited I met a nice young man, 13 years old, named Mohammad who was selling gum.  He struck up a conversation by asking where I was from.  I found out that his mother and father died on the road from Damascus several years back and he has to work to take care of his brothers and sisters.  None of them go to school, though he told me that he has a rich uncle who does not care to help them out.  I introduced him to Rob and Tarek when they arrived, and he refused to let us treat him to juice, insisting that he was a working man.  I will never forget him.

When Mohammad went back to selling his gum we bought student tickets (Syria is #1 for student discounts in my book) into the Aleppo Citadel, built by the Mamaleek in the 13th century.  I’ve seen many ruins on this trip but none compare to this one.  The fort was built on top of a hand-made mound, which surprised me because it looks like a natural mountain.  The king’s or royal chamber has been beautifully restored and inside the citadel is almost its own city.  I lingered, thinking of Arab and Islamic achievement.  I’ve felt ill many times on this trip just thinking of global power dynamics and what has happened to the Arab World.  I am also in the middle of my Summer Reading for Georgetown– Contending Visions of the Middle East.  Its all about the rise of Orientalism and Europe’s interest/obsession with the East.  The combination of travel and reading this book are overwhelming.

From the citadel we rushed to take a train to Lattakia, port city on the Mediterranean and Syria’s most open cities (ie not religious).  People were crowding to buy train tickets and the man behind the counter could not hear me above everyone else asking if this was the modern train (air conditioned, express) or the other train (stuffy, old, SLOW).  Turns out it was the latter… ohhh Lord was that a fun trip!  3:45 to 7:30 we were on a train without air conditioning, that was moving so slow and making every stop between Aleppo and Lattakia.  I think I got a taste of hell.  Rob’s temperature shot up (since we were already suffering from stomache viruses or something) and I started freaking out.  My brother though seemed to be enjoying the trip, haha.

We got to Lattakia and after my freak out episode, and since we were all sick as hell, we decided to spend a few hours at the sea and then take the first train back to Damascus where we can rest in our apartment and get a doctor if needed.  I am sorry we didn’t get to stay longer.  The few hours we spent there were amazing.  Its a beautiful place.  We got some sandwiches and sat on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean.  We started guessing what cities and countries the different lights across the sea were coming from.  We could see Africa from Asia.  Can you imagine?

Finally, 1 am rolls around and though we are enjoying Lattakia we also can’t wait to get on the train and rest til we can get meds and more rest in Damascus.  Now I learned from my mistake (though I still didn’t know that I should have taken the bus) and bought tickets on the modern train.  I wake up at 5 am (we’re supposed to reach Damascus at 7 am) and the train has broken down, once again no air conditioning.  Another train’s cart is pushing ours.  While we were two hours from Damascus, we arrived 7 hours later at noon.  And when no one was complaining I became suspicious that this is a normal experience on the train.  And later our friends told us that it is, apparently we were crazy for taking the train… nice!

Syria has been a place of contemplation for me, about Arab history, about our present and our future.  Its been a sad and thought provoking trip, and I do plan on returning one day.  My best moment was reuniting with our neighbors from Baghdad and some of out closest friends.  They now live in the Yarmouk Refugee Camp.  Amo Abul Wafa, my father’s friend, wrote a published a book on Palestinians in Iraq, and he gave me his last copy, telling me that he wanted it translated into as many different languages as possible, without any compinsation.  He hadn’t made any money off of this copy, his only objective is that information about this topic be disseminated.  I really bonded with him.  He spent time in Chile with the Palestinian community there, which reignited my desire to go, since he said he could connect me with folks.  He walked my parents and me back to our place in the camp and he and I parted with a hug– people here don’t hug they kiss on both cheeks.  I think I will write a post on my experiences with people here alone– but some other time.

We are now in Lebanon– very different from Syria.  Its so beautiful.  We’re in the South– in Jezzine, back with our friends from Jordan, the Nimers.  Heading to Beirut shortly.  We’ve fallen in love with this place, and its my friend new country on this trip.  Yay for amazing food, beautiful scenery, and short skirts!  Although I’ve been warned against saying I’m Palestinian here.  We’ll see…

Damascus

I am now in the oldest continually inhabited city in the world.  Damascus.  I am staying with my mom’s cousin in the Yarmouk Palestinian Refugee Camp, and I have been visiting the Old City on a daily basis.  I lived in this refugee camp as a child, until I was about 6.  Maybe thats why I feel so at home here, or maybe it runs in my blood: my mother feels at home here as well.  In my eyes, and in the eyes of others who have seen it, this is the most beautiful city on earth. 

I cannot describe the old city in a way that would do it justice, but luckily for all of you we’ve taken video and photo footage.  The old houses remain inhabited from the late 18th century, while some buildings remain in use and standing from the days of the Islamic Umayyad Empire, and others from the Roman Empire.  Brick inlays are black and white alternating, with porticos, archways, engraved marble and stone, vines, fountains, terraces, courtyards, and more adorning the architecture.  Rob, Tarek, and I have spend hours getting lost among the neighborhoods, and we are never concerned about finding our way and turning back (except when we’re supposed to be somewhere for dinner, like now…). 

But Syrian people are the crowning jewel of this city.  In fact in my travel guide there is a section dedicated to Syrian people, and to no other people, and it really is no joke. 

More later, gotta head back to the camp for dinner and my parents are coming into town tonight.

Jordan

I am writing from Amman, Jordan.  Its a city of about 2.2 million, hilly, and comfortable weather.  We have lots of friends and family here.  We’d been worrying about where we would stay in Amman, but that’s been the last thing we think of.  Everywhere we go people insist on keeping us for breakfast, lunch (the biggest meal), and supper (light meal later in the evening). 

 I once read in a Naomi Shihab Nye poem about hosting a guest in the Arab World something like, “No I was not preparing to be busy…” and now I understand what she wrote.  Everyone works and has a personal life to tend to, like anywhere else in the world.  But for the time that you are around everything gets put aside and your company, conversation, and comfort becomes priority.  This is what they call Arab Hospitality.  I have been driven from one end of Amman to the other at 1am ater having insisted that I take a taxi and my host insists that he or she drive me wherever I need to go.  No one pretends to be busy.  They want nothing but to make you feel at home and loved.  We have to carry a change of clothes everywhere we go because there’s a 95% chance our hosts will make us spend the night.

Amman is the old Roman city Philadelphia (Philly, Philly!).  There’s a Roman ampitheater in downtown Amman, completely intact, where concerts are still held, a temple for Hercules, and an excavated Ummayyad Palace.  Aside from the Palace I do not think there is much Arab history in the city.  Outside of the city there is tons to see– ruins, dead sea, hot springs, caves, red desert valley, etc.  I have been trying to get the caves for a while but by the time I make plans someone else has invited me to eat dinner and sleep in their home, so I reschedule.  We are going to be here longer than planned as a result.  I am not bothered, and in fact happy to change my plans.  People give so much of themselves and the only thing they ask in return is that we eat with them and sleep in their homes.  Its really all been wonderful. 

When we went to the dead sea it was way too hot to swim in the sea, considering the fact that we pulled over to the side of the road to soak our feet in it.  Its not hot in Amman– the weather here is excellent!  But the Dead Sea happens to be the lowest point on earth, so you can imagine how hot it gets.  It is impossible to swim in the dead sea and walk away without showering– the water is just FAR too salty.  There are ample warnings about getting the water in your eyes or mouth, and I do not think that you’ll get it until you visit.  Aside from salt its also full of minerals, so much so that the sea is oily, and I’m bringing home some of the mud that I collected from the shore… I’ll give you some if you’d like!  It is so powerful that my mom had a little sore in her foot that disappeared the next day!

The city is quite class segregated, and I’ve realized this on previous trips, but I think I can finally begin to analyze it.  I begin to think about how racially segregated the United States is, or at least I can speak more honestly about Philadelphia. The more I learn about the nature of class segregation here, and the more I learn about it the more I realize that the racial segregation that I know so well in my own city is really a form of class segregation and that beyond skin color, folks in Philadelphia decide (unfairly) the class of those around them by clothing, manner of speaking, etc.

People live here, and I am enjoying living with them– what is more important and beautiful than the sites, the fun life and the geography is the people who surround me.

I will write more on food (WOW!), art scene (the little I’ve seen), etc.  Planning on seeing the caves tomorrow and to Petra, the Rose City, in the next few days.

Tatreez Exhibit

I had been researching, doing interviews and curating my tatreez exhibit for a long time.  Tatreez is Palestinian cross-stitch embroidery which is very intricate and is often quite political.  Having spent so much time and energy in the process of gathering information and putting up the exhibit (including translating and typing all text in Arabic), opening night, Friday June 5th, was very exciting.

The project began when I applied for a Leeway Grant for Art and Change around the art of tatreez, traditional Palestinian embroidery.  My greatest motivation was Palestinian youth in Philadelphia who face discrimination everyday in school and on the street, and the possibility of complete loss of identity.  I wanted to provide a model of something they could be proud of and a piece of their heritage that they could participate in.

The most common theme that appeared again and again in the interviews is the idea that by making tatreez an individual woman is contributing to the collective Palestinian identity and is therefore resisting.  It is worthy to note that tatreez is also one of many Palestinian arts that Israel as a society has appropriated.  At international fashion shows the Israelis would model Palestinian embroidery as theirs, and I even have a photo of Menachem Begin’s wife wearing a thob (traditional embroidered dress).  Of course our arts (and not to mention our food) have been appropriated because Israel is a 61 year old state that does not have any concrete “Israeli” traditional arts, dances, music, foods, etc.

Given that background, and the fact that the creation of the Jewish State translated into our expulsion and continued efforts to deny that we even exist (I have been told many times that “there is no such thing as Palestinians”) the women I interviewed and whose work was exhibited are quite thrilled to be weaving Palestinian identity into being.  I am grateful to all of them for their support and generosity in inviting myself and Sarah Green, the photographer, into their homes.

Opening night was wonderful.  The gallery was full as people were coming in and out, marveling at the handmade work of seven local women, their stories and pride in their heritage.

Gallery Opening.

hree of the artists: Alia, Arij and Umm el Adeeb.

Nureen and Naheel looking at the pieces.

My brother, tarek, sitting beneath a photo of our mother and her work at home.

Arij Yousef, one of the artists, with Folklore Project director Debora Kodish.

Arij explaining the work and the process.

Yosemite and Indigenous Communities

Last week while in San Francisco, we decided to rent a car and drive out to Yosemite National Park.  I went with my friend Fatima, who is half Native American, her tribe unrecognized by the federal government.  When we made the first stop to look at the scenery I mentioned imagining indigenous communities in this space.  Then she told me that until the 1850’s this was the home to the Miwok and Paiutes, and that they had been placed on reservations to make way for visitors.  I sat down and took a few deep breaths, trying to understand the implications of this information as I took in the beauty of the wilderness.

The first thing I did was to recognize the park as stolen land, and thought at the very least this will stay on my mind all day.  Then I began thinking of the 500+ Palestinian villages that were destroyed in the 1950’s and how Israel has identified them as “national parks,” though they contain graveyards of the ancestors of those who lived there only 61 years ago and the demolished frameworks of homes.  For the rest of the day I was cynical as I read plaques around the park about how the tribes maintained the surroundings, and how park authorities simulate the same methods.

The park was absolutely breathtaking.  And when we went to see the giant, 3000 year old Sequoias I started thinking about our Olive Trees, some over 2000 year old, that the Israelis uprooted from our villages 60 years ago, and the olive trees that they continue to uproot.

I can describe the events and the processes, but I cannot find the words to describe what I had been feeling.  I want to recognize history and places from which communities were displaced.  There are more contemporary instance of displacement, here in Philadelphia even.  But I think the deep valleys, vast mountains, and high waterfalls made this experience so different.

Preparing for a Voyage

I skyped with a great friend of mine yesterday, Jacob, who is currently tracing his family’s escape from Belgrade after the Nazis invaded and bombed Yugoslavia.  Having exchanged ideas, I’ve been inspired to collect the stories of those who have returned: my grandfather, my aunt, and my aunt’s memories of my grandmother’s return.  I want to seek ways of sharing the physical and visual perspectives of their exile.

This was also inspired by a scene from my new favorite Palestinian film Salt of This Sea.  Thurayya, the main character who is a third generation Palestinian refugee from Brooklyn, swims in the Mediterranean Sea and looks back at Yaffa, her family’s city of origin now within the green line or Palestinian lands occupied by Israel in 1948.  She looks back at Yaffa while swimming in the sea and we see the city fading away.  In the next scene she is on land and says, “انا بكره البحر,” or “I hate the sea.”  Although before looking back at Yaffa from the sea she was enjoying her time there.

It is all about perspective, physical and visual.  I want to know where my grandparents looked back from and take in their perspective, to witness, in the smallest degree what they witnessed as they were exiled.  Of course when they were exiled they did not know that they would never return to Palestine.  Now three of my grandparents have passed, and my mother’s father is the only one who remains.  I will be recording interviews with him to guide my travels.

If you have suggestions and other ideas, please contact me.