I've always had an appreciation for sports--the hard work, the dedication, the perseverance, the talent that it requires. But even during my days as a tae kwon do competitor or those when I was captain of the No. 1 cheerleading squad in the archdiocese (my stints on track and field and field hockey teams are negligible but I'll mention them here to display my history in sports) never brought me as much excitement as did my days on the futbol/soccer field.
And nothing--not even my plays on defense or as midfielder--gets me hyped up like the World Cup.
People often make competition on the field a metaphor for the battles they face in life: mentally, spiritually, politically. Italian fans, for example, held up a massive Palestinian flag as an act of solidarity with Palestinians during a game against the Israeli team.
The game also serves national interests--a win somehow instantly elevates a country's place in our universe's hierarchy. The U.S. may be the world's "super power," but Italy, at least in regard to the last World Cup, is the world's soccer power, and that means a lot more to a lot of people. A team of 11+ represents its nation's pride--the team is the country's reputation. But this is not always positive. Players may also be punished for simulated treason, the penalty sometimes a "honor killing." Recently, Paraguay's Salvador Cabanas was shot in the head in a bar in Mexico, although the motive is not yet known. In 1994, Columbian player Andres Escobar was allegedly assassinated for scoring on his own team, which subsequently lost its game against the U.S.A., and its World Cup bid. There are many other stories of disgrace, murder, and suicide, involving players, owners, referees, and even fans--likely more in futbol than in any other sport. Each incident drives a stake in the seriousness with which the game is taken--and its representation of the brutal perils of life.
Yet, even with these tragic tales, futbol still remains less a war and more a common denominator. Virtually every country or tribe in the world has its own form of the game, and a history in it. A game will pick-up in the streets of the favela--sticks as goal posts, gravel rather than manicured grass--just as swiftly as a ball flying over a hill side in Beitilu, kicked by the town's stalkiest of defenders who kicks up earth with his spike-less sneakers. Older players offering tales of playing shoeless and owning the roughness of the sport; younger hopefuls enhancing advanced acrobatic techniques that take the ball from behind the heels to before the instep to inside the goal. And, of course, there are countries who are better known for their skills on the field than others--but everywhere, someone is playing and someone is good.
And teams are mixed: An English team has a Portuguese player; an American team has a British player, Portugal has a Lebanese player, the French team had an Algerian player. Israelis and Palestinians have even played on the same side.
Fans are mixed too and, when their countries are not represented in the games, their cheering may be mixed. For instance, during the 2006 World Cup, I, a mishmash of Palestinian, Hungarian, and German heritages, living in the U.S., chose France as my team for two particular reasons: 1. There was no Palestinian team in the Cup; and 2. Zinedine Zidane. He, ethnically Algerian and religiously Muslim, was as close to a "brother" as I was going to get; he was my Palestinian. He, on the cusp of retirement, was also the legend who was writing his legacy with his kicks and passes and gestures right before my eyes for a final time--and he signed his memoirs with a headbutt. I was angry, sad, stupified, and proud all at the same time: I didn't want his career to end that way yet I loved him for it--he exemplified the noble Arab man acting and defending when a creep made an insidious remark against his women kinfolk. Yes, Zidane did just fine as my honorary Palestinian.
I could go on for days about the beautiful complexity of this relatively simple game. There is so much to say, so many examples to give--but I won't. For the futbol/soccer narrative is constantly being added to, and I would rather watch, shout, jump, and cheer than worry about trying to catch a blog post up. After all, the world is on the cusp of the next novel in the series, preparing for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa (I'll be in Palestine for most of it :D).
13 days to go...a myriad of metaphors to come, all sure to be beautiful in one form or another.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Hatim's hand
It's somewhat disconcerting to see my father in the patient's chair: "somewhat" because I know that this is not a major operation or medical issue--he is at the dentist's office, and the dentist is my friend; "disconcerting" because what I see, at its core, is still Hatim, my father, in the patient's chair.
I wanted to type this as it was happening but I couldn't take my eyes off of what was going on in front of me. I had to watch Radi perform, but more keenly, keep my eye on Hatim's hand. Raising his hand would signal that he feels pain. On my watch, Hatim is not allowed to be in pain--and so I kept watch and decided to record this blog in my brain, and release it later [which is now].
Hatim's hand represents isharat alem in ways that extend beyond dental procedures. As I stare at Hatim's hand, his fingers curled around the ends of the arm rests, I notice his white knuckles and the staggering shades of flesh--tan, beige, lighter, darker--interrupted by darkest-brown hairs. I sense the remnants of his burns...
...1970s. An age of youthfulness and whimsey--full of spontaneity and newness and promise in the land of "opportunity." Hatim (who would become my dad), Yousef (who would become khalee), and their families had been in the U.S. for a relatively short while now. Life was robust and fiesty. Hatim and Yousef were more than cousins--they were friends--and they would expend much of their youthful energy together. So it was natural that they were together that day in the car when the accident happened.
The story has been told to me several times--car, intersection, intersecting, woman, crash, flipped, fire, escape, where is Yousef?
...hospital, skin graft, hands...
Hatim didn't raise his hand, al 7amdulilah.
Allah yir7amak, khalee.
I wanted to type this as it was happening but I couldn't take my eyes off of what was going on in front of me. I had to watch Radi perform, but more keenly, keep my eye on Hatim's hand. Raising his hand would signal that he feels pain. On my watch, Hatim is not allowed to be in pain--and so I kept watch and decided to record this blog in my brain, and release it later [which is now].
Hatim's hand represents isharat alem in ways that extend beyond dental procedures. As I stare at Hatim's hand, his fingers curled around the ends of the arm rests, I notice his white knuckles and the staggering shades of flesh--tan, beige, lighter, darker--interrupted by darkest-brown hairs. I sense the remnants of his burns...
...1970s. An age of youthfulness and whimsey--full of spontaneity and newness and promise in the land of "opportunity." Hatim (who would become my dad), Yousef (who would become khalee), and their families had been in the U.S. for a relatively short while now. Life was robust and fiesty. Hatim and Yousef were more than cousins--they were friends--and they would expend much of their youthful energy together. So it was natural that they were together that day in the car when the accident happened.
The story has been told to me several times--car, intersection, intersecting, woman, crash, flipped, fire, escape, where is Yousef?
...hospital, skin graft, hands...
Hatim didn't raise his hand, al 7amdulilah.
Allah yir7amak, khalee.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sounds in Ni3lin
"'Boom, boom, boom;' Sittik says I was imitating the sounds of the bombs going off when Ariel Sharon was attacking nearby Qibya. I was a toddler--maybe two, maybe one. That was when we were in Ni3lin."
I snicker when I think of a baby Hatim. I have always considered my dad a handsome man, and going backward from now, quite a cute kid--at least, that's how the black and white photos depict him. I can't help but visualize a pudgy little bouton under a white, light cotton undershirt, khaki shorts, white socks, extra virgin olive skin, the nascent edition of his now bushy eyebrows, goo-gooing, "boom, boom, BOOM!"
The snicker is short and gives way to temporary paralysis--my eyes widen and lose any luster as I draw away from the present and am sucked into the crevices of my mind; my thoughts and my sadness; into a history that is mine by way of my father.
Maybe that's why Allah gave me black eyes--so that no one can really tell how far back I fall in these moments. I appear glazed and frozen, but I am not: Being this incensed can be likened to boiling water that burns so hot it stings like frostbite.
I bite my bottom lip and furrow my nose and brow as I fight the tears that I know will inevitably fall--but I have to make it harder for them to come. Fighting against myself, I look like I'm ready to unleash a wild fury that would have to be censored.
..."boom, BOOM"...
After all, to me, this baby is particularly special--this baby became my father; this baby, who learned how to make sounds by imitating bombs, became my Hatim. This baby was me before I ever was.
I wonder how many babies are in Ni3lin today, learning the sound of sound and of voice by imitating racist, murderous, criminal noise articulated by bombs and guns and tanks and F-16s. I wonder if any will experience a sonic boom, like their brethren in Gaza: A sound-knife twisting into the eardrums and slicing the silence of the night at random intervals--something that can be likened to a screech so jarring that it singes the follicles in the ear canal and leaves nothing except the incessant ringing of white noise. Everything will go silent as those babies and their mothers watch blood drip from their noses and feel their organs rattle inside.
.."boom, [sonic] BOOM"...
I wonder what sounds the little boy in the blue cap has been imitating...I wonder if he will be among the babies in Ni3lin who will actually live long enough to have children with whom they can share their first-sounds stories... And I pray that if he has that chance, his story will not start with "boom, boom, boom."
I snicker when I think of a baby Hatim. I have always considered my dad a handsome man, and going backward from now, quite a cute kid--at least, that's how the black and white photos depict him. I can't help but visualize a pudgy little bouton under a white, light cotton undershirt, khaki shorts, white socks, extra virgin olive skin, the nascent edition of his now bushy eyebrows, goo-gooing, "boom, boom, BOOM!"
The snicker is short and gives way to temporary paralysis--my eyes widen and lose any luster as I draw away from the present and am sucked into the crevices of my mind; my thoughts and my sadness; into a history that is mine by way of my father.
Maybe that's why Allah gave me black eyes--so that no one can really tell how far back I fall in these moments. I appear glazed and frozen, but I am not: Being this incensed can be likened to boiling water that burns so hot it stings like frostbite.
I bite my bottom lip and furrow my nose and brow as I fight the tears that I know will inevitably fall--but I have to make it harder for them to come. Fighting against myself, I look like I'm ready to unleash a wild fury that would have to be censored.
..."boom, BOOM"...
After all, to me, this baby is particularly special--this baby became my father; this baby, who learned how to make sounds by imitating bombs, became my Hatim. This baby was me before I ever was.
I wonder how many babies are in Ni3lin today, learning the sound of sound and of voice by imitating racist, murderous, criminal noise articulated by bombs and guns and tanks and F-16s. I wonder if any will experience a sonic boom, like their brethren in Gaza: A sound-knife twisting into the eardrums and slicing the silence of the night at random intervals--something that can be likened to a screech so jarring that it singes the follicles in the ear canal and leaves nothing except the incessant ringing of white noise. Everything will go silent as those babies and their mothers watch blood drip from their noses and feel their organs rattle inside.
.."boom, [sonic] BOOM"...
I wonder what sounds the little boy in the blue cap has been imitating...I wonder if he will be among the babies in Ni3lin who will actually live long enough to have children with whom they can share their first-sounds stories... And I pray that if he has that chance, his story will not start with "boom, boom, boom."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
What dreams may come...
On Jan. 18, 2010, I had a dream...
...Not a dream like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had, even though it arrived in my mind the night of his holiday. My dream will not lead civil rights movements; it likely won't affect or impress many--if any. But it's managed to occupy my mind for these few days and is worth recording in my opinion [and those of a few encouraging others], so here I go:
Disclaimer: Several-days removal will likely affect memory of the entire cerebral film, so I'm excusing myself from the obligation of including every detail.
OK, for real now, here I go:
I'm in Palestine, and I'm alone--and apparently lost. I see shari3 il Khala, as if I'm gliding past and through it, but I never touch the gravel. Perhaps I'm in a car, looking out the window; perhaps I'm floating. Panning out, I now realize that I'm moving within the confines of a yellow VW Bug that looks a little different than those available at the car lots, but I know--in my dream's mind--that it is this car of this color in this place.
Next, I'm stopped at a "checkpoint" (??), which consists of a yield-area on a sideroad exiting Tysons Corner mall and leading to the on-ramp to 495 S. I've yielded to a man of small stature and small mind, who is holding a clipboard and mumbling something or other--nothing audible. Without instruction but by instinct, I offer him a paper-copy of my passport picture...or was it the copy of my mom's passport? Both were folded up and sitting in the console of my yellow VW. It doesn't matter--he accepted it and waved me off to continue. As soon as I start to climb the ramp, I'm transported elsewhere...
Elsewhere, in this dream, is the Armenian quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem (I know it because I recognize the shops and the cafe that I've escaped to for a cold drink or ice cream during a hot day of shopping--the same cafe at which, in 2007, the Chobar lady shared her time and stories over 3aseer). In that corner of the quarter--in my dream--is a small amphitheater-like space that is half inside and half out. It is made of wood (must be olive) and rock; fashionable greenery peeking out of select corners and crevices; chairs, bleachers, and a stage; a crowd of internationals and a handful of young Palestinians gather to watch a show. It's all so "Def Poetry Jam"-esque [aside: the vision is so vivid, reminiscent of the colors and auras depicted in "What Dreams May Come"; I want to touch everything; my eyes gulp the scene in as if their existence depends on it; it's awesome and I'm amazed and aware of this even in the dream.]
I see him in profile, prancing across the bleachers from outside to in. Xxx? He comes at me and looks at me as if I had been his girlfriend for all these years--but I knew nothing of it. He tells me that he's arranged for me to discuss my life and share stories with the audience that has gathered here--but I'm unprepared. He escorts me to the top bleachers, in the back, where we can talk and be alone, except there is a guy sitting right to his right. I look at the stage; no one is performing yet. I lean over and whisper something in his left ear and touch his rook with the tip of my tongue...
This propels him into an action that I'm going to spare the readers and leave in the nooks of my dream's memories. I will write that my eyes widened out of shock, flattery, disgust, and the comedy of the situation. The guy right on his right seems clueless or unaffected somehow, which causes me even more amazement.
Suddenly, I'm on deck--either preparing to go on stage or just standing there to view the crowd from this perspective. And then, I see Jermaine Dupri holding Janet Jackson's right hand with his left, and leading her to the backstage area. She is laughing about something; and from behind me a voice whispers something about how stylishly the couple is dressed.
IL NIHAYA
...Not a dream like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had, even though it arrived in my mind the night of his holiday. My dream will not lead civil rights movements; it likely won't affect or impress many--if any. But it's managed to occupy my mind for these few days and is worth recording in my opinion [and those of a few encouraging others], so here I go:
Disclaimer: Several-days removal will likely affect memory of the entire cerebral film, so I'm excusing myself from the obligation of including every detail.
OK, for real now, here I go:
I'm in Palestine, and I'm alone--and apparently lost. I see shari3 il Khala, as if I'm gliding past and through it, but I never touch the gravel. Perhaps I'm in a car, looking out the window; perhaps I'm floating. Panning out, I now realize that I'm moving within the confines of a yellow VW Bug that looks a little different than those available at the car lots, but I know--in my dream's mind--that it is this car of this color in this place.
Next, I'm stopped at a "checkpoint" (??), which consists of a yield-area on a sideroad exiting Tysons Corner mall and leading to the on-ramp to 495 S. I've yielded to a man of small stature and small mind, who is holding a clipboard and mumbling something or other--nothing audible. Without instruction but by instinct, I offer him a paper-copy of my passport picture...or was it the copy of my mom's passport? Both were folded up and sitting in the console of my yellow VW. It doesn't matter--he accepted it and waved me off to continue. As soon as I start to climb the ramp, I'm transported elsewhere...
Elsewhere, in this dream, is the Armenian quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem (I know it because I recognize the shops and the cafe that I've escaped to for a cold drink or ice cream during a hot day of shopping--the same cafe at which, in 2007, the Chobar lady shared her time and stories over 3aseer). In that corner of the quarter--in my dream--is a small amphitheater-like space that is half inside and half out. It is made of wood (must be olive) and rock; fashionable greenery peeking out of select corners and crevices; chairs, bleachers, and a stage; a crowd of internationals and a handful of young Palestinians gather to watch a show. It's all so "Def Poetry Jam"-esque [aside: the vision is so vivid, reminiscent of the colors and auras depicted in "What Dreams May Come"; I want to touch everything; my eyes gulp the scene in as if their existence depends on it; it's awesome and I'm amazed and aware of this even in the dream.]
I see him in profile, prancing across the bleachers from outside to in. Xxx? He comes at me and looks at me as if I had been his girlfriend for all these years--but I knew nothing of it. He tells me that he's arranged for me to discuss my life and share stories with the audience that has gathered here--but I'm unprepared. He escorts me to the top bleachers, in the back, where we can talk and be alone, except there is a guy sitting right to his right. I look at the stage; no one is performing yet. I lean over and whisper something in his left ear and touch his rook with the tip of my tongue...
This propels him into an action that I'm going to spare the readers and leave in the nooks of my dream's memories. I will write that my eyes widened out of shock, flattery, disgust, and the comedy of the situation. The guy right on his right seems clueless or unaffected somehow, which causes me even more amazement.
Suddenly, I'm on deck--either preparing to go on stage or just standing there to view the crowd from this perspective. And then, I see Jermaine Dupri holding Janet Jackson's right hand with his left, and leading her to the backstage area. She is laughing about something; and from behind me a voice whispers something about how stylishly the couple is dressed.
IL NIHAYA
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
people.live
+ beitilu.. ramallah.. deiryassin.. deirdibwan.. alquds. .altour.. beitin. .elbireh. .qalqilya.. ghaza.. khanyounis.. 3akka.. 7aifa.. yafa.. ellod.. nablus.. silwad.. beit3or.. elkhalil.. elnasrah.. beitla7m.. aljaniyah.. eldehesha.. eljalazon.. 3izariyah.. abughosh.. tabareeyah.. beit7anina.. sheikhjarra7.. elramle.. qalandiya.. jebelelzeitoon.. beisan.. tulkaram.. jenin.. safad.. 3aynilzeitoon.. abushoushah.. abuzureiq.. 3inghazal.. khirbatelburj.. eshsheikhbureik.. eltireh.. nasreldin.. elubeidiya.. elmawasi.. elwuheib.. ghazawiya.. elhamra.. beityousef.. kawkabelhawa.. elmurassas.. elsafa.. elsamiriya.. ummajra.. elbarid.. 3inelmansi.. elfandaqumiya.. elmazar.. khirbatelmutilla.. elrama.. ummelfa7m.. birkatramadan.. deirelghusun.. khirbatabuharfil.. elras.. ummkhalid.. beitdajan.. deirsharaf.. elfunduq.. rafat.. sabastiya.. elsawiya.. zeita.. abukishk.. elmirr.. abuelfadi.. elbarriya.. deirabusalama.. el7aditha.. elkheima.. khirbatmusmar.. elkunaiyisa.. ellubban.. ni3lin.. beitrima.. beituniya.. beirzeit.. 3in3irik.. 3inyabrud.. rammoun.. raskarkar.. turmusaya.. abudis.. beitfajar.. deirelhawa.. 3inkaram.. jarash.. elmali7a.. silwan.. elwalaja.. benisuheila.. deirelbala7.. majdal.. raf7.. tellelturmus.. beitjibrin.. deirnakhas.. khirbatummburj.. elqubeiba.. erri7a.. umrashrash.. abusitteh.. abumiddain.. raasalnaqurah.. netanya.. raasel3in.. beitsafafa.. miska.. beitjibrin.. deirmu7isin.. zarnuqa.. birelsaba.. 3ashqelan.. elsheikh3awad.. birketelustaz.. elqashle.. qibya.. kafrqasem.. ummalfaraj.. alnahr.. deirtarif.. deirballut.. lifta.. deirelghusun.. beitliqya.. beit7anun.. 3alma.. 3kbarah.. alraasala7mar.. sa3sa3.. al3olmaniya.. alzoqalta7taniya.. albirwah.. deiralqasi.. koweekat.. altl.. alzeeb.. 3inghazal.. ijzim.. almazar.. yajur.. sireen.. alfatoor.. aljalama.. qaqoon.. abualfadl.. 3aqr.. deirtareef.. zarnooqa.. beitdaras.. bareer.. isdood.. juseer.. simsim.. 3arabsaqreer.. umm7amdan.. tellelza3tar.. ummelkhair.. beitsa7our.. aldhahireeyah.. halhoola.. jabaleeya.. qabateeya.. tubaas.. yatta.. salfeet.. beitjala.. beitlaheeya.. +
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Hatim's Response to William
My passion for Palestine is apparent--and inherent: I get much of it from my dad.
With his permission, I've posted one-fifth of an e-mail exchange between himself, and Prof. William Cook, an English professor at the University of LaVerne, who frequently writes about Palestine (a sample: http://kanan48.wordpress.com/2009/09/27/a-world-without-law-by-professor-william-a-cook/).
[By-the-by, the two have seemingly become e-mail buddies now, as is exemplified through Cook's opening and closing remarks in the response he sent to the note posted below: "Dear Hatim, I trust you are not discombobulated by my use of your given name; I feel we have a friend's dialogue going here, one that I hope will keep going for some time...Hatim, I must go, soup's on. Peace, Bill."]
While you do not have the full exchange between these two writers, in reading my dad's e-mail, you will feel the humanity and the life that thumps in the Palestinian heartbeat, and that is why we are sharing it with you. 3eesh!
From: Hatim Khatib
Sent: Saturday, December 26, 2009 12:28 PM
To: William Cook
Subject: RE: Palestinian Sentiments Not In Vogue
Dear Professor Cook,
I’ll let you in on a secret. In moments of reverie, Palestine recedes as a thing of intellect, of rationality, of strategy and power plays. In those moments, she rises as attachment, oneness, interiority, but mainly as pure passion. Intellectually, Palestine is easily explainable, especially for those with no delusions, prejudices, or allegiances. It’s no exaggeration that most Palestinians, just on merit, are willing and reasonably qualified interlocutors. At any café in any Palestinian street, the average habitué would be all too eager to engage in variegated discourse on Palestine with any other, without regard for the other’s academic credentials or station. The outcome of such engagements is never a sure thing. Palestinians’ articulation of Palestine is not prescribed only by or for academics, notables, clerics, or politicians; it emanates from the narrative that is within our chests and hearts. We are all laureates for Palestine.
Sent: Saturday, December 26, 2009 12:28 PM
To: William Cook
Subject: RE: Palestinian Sentiments Not In Vogue
Dear Professor Cook,
I’ll let you in on a secret. In moments of reverie, Palestine recedes as a thing of intellect, of rationality, of strategy and power plays. In those moments, she rises as attachment, oneness, interiority, but mainly as pure passion. Intellectually, Palestine is easily explainable, especially for those with no delusions, prejudices, or allegiances. It’s no exaggeration that most Palestinians, just on merit, are willing and reasonably qualified interlocutors. At any café in any Palestinian street, the average habitué would be all too eager to engage in variegated discourse on Palestine with any other, without regard for the other’s academic credentials or station. The outcome of such engagements is never a sure thing. Palestinians’ articulation of Palestine is not prescribed only by or for academics, notables, clerics, or politicians; it emanates from the narrative that is within our chests and hearts. We are all laureates for Palestine.
The expression of Palestine, however, is not restricted to Palestinians. I have quite often encountered people from all over the world whose facility with Palestine was incredibly and pleasingly surprising. Regrettably, once those encounters were over, they’d go on and I’d be left with an unchanged, unpromised, undelivered Palestine.
Nonetheless, hope for more lingers. But even those encounters become worn with etiquette, monotony, and roll-play; with expectations and accommodations; with compromises and concessions. We Palestinians, in addition to sustaining the wound of dispossession and displacement and negation, have to bear, however willing and eager, the burdens and gravity of being interlocutors and articulators. We are, at others’ whims, on display as individuals and nation, being required to perform and explain—expectedly, conformably, and correctly.
Now I must speak from inside Palestine, as if it were the only place in the universe. For me, in my youth, and now in my memory, it was. Palestine was waking up on father’s command to early school mornings bursting with light and fresh air just arriving from surrounding hills and valleys to replace the exhalations of the previous night’s repose; predictably sunny blue skies and a few hops to school for reuniting with buddies; hurried wrestling matches to even scores after a breakfast of eggs and thyme and olive oil, with warm milk or tea, served by adoring mothers. Palestine lives matchless in its beauty and what it offered us, its sons and daughters. I remember well its long, sunny days, its tantalizingly overhead stars, its sensuous moonlit nights, and hypnotizingly silhouetted night stillness enveloping all its charges (families in stone houses, animals in bins, orchards of apricot, fig, and plum, and mountains of olive trees).
Palestine, within minutes, was the vaulted streets of Old Jerusalem, where I was born, and their smells of every Palestinian palate (desserts, artfully raised pyramids of spices, meats, fish), of linens and silks, of second-hand shoes, the warning shouts and furtive stares of Herculean street porters, shoulder-to-shoulder congestions of shoppers at once salivating for what’s on display and basking in the holiness that surrounds them. It is the most vivid hustle and bustle vociferated in myriad Palestinian idioms, from the delicately arrogant city dialect to the Falahi drawls (so distinct according to village) to the occasional Bedouin’s. Yes, and within minutes, Palestine displays its other side of beauty: bald hills, desolation, and ravines in one instant, and, in another, lush verdant plains and hillsides, marauding bleating sheep and goats, and fluting shepherds whose notes serenade the true story of the land and its people.
Palestine was annual school trips to Palestinian cities (Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Hebron, Nablus, Tulkarim, Jenin, Jaresh, once to Amman), always ending at the Dead Sea for a dip that would literally crystallize underwear—we never bothered with, or had, swim suits—in which we would make the trip back home, quite uncomfortably. Not only that, but we would go to bed in them that night. No mother, never mind how loving, would get up at 2:00 in the morning to relieve the suffering of children, who had the time of their lives that day, from the Dead Sea’s last laugh.
For me, Palestine, save for occasional growing pains, was all beauty and pure youthful pleasure. I’ll never forget Ramallah, where I went to school, or our walks to school from the bus stop and the sinuous detours we took to ensure at least distant sightings of girls going to theirs; or the long lines at Abdo’s falafel stand for a sandwich to wolf down while at the cinemas for a double-feature show, typically an Egyptian and an American western, and the utter chaos when a rare Technicolor Indian movie would be showing. Oh, Ramallah’s afternoons, after school in any season (slow paced spring’s serenity, fall’s tumult of windblown hair and skirts and discarded newspapers) and of old buses humming, exerting, brakes squeaking, readying to head to the steeper rural climbs of Palestine, loaded and noisy with people and fluttering fowl.
Palestine is the symbols we chanted and picked from elementary school readings: usurped Palestine; Yaffa (“The Bride of the Sea”); the battle of Qastal; the martyrship of Abd Al-Qader Al-Husseini; Deir Yassin; and Nasser’s speeches our parents listened to with abatjours shut, especially when relations between King Hussein and Nasser soured. It was the pain and longing and sheer curiosity we felt in our guts as children when we saw from Beitilu (our ancestral village to which we returned during school holidays) the bobbing, dancing lights, and glitter of what must have been Yaffa in what we methodically called Filistine al Muhtella (“Occupied Palestine”). This, very briefly, was the Palestine of youth.
Today the mere mention or sight or debate or discussion of it, whether on television or radio, or in a classroom or a lecture hall, or in a garage or barbershop, causes stirring, pulsating, collective yawning from difficult breathing, and writhing pain that is aggravated by our attempts at hiding it. I shout halfheartedly to my daughter from my bedroom if there is a program on Gaza or the Wall or a land grab for a new settlement, knowing the further frustrations and despair that’ll bring to us, especially to her. We know it’s just easier to avoid such things, but it’s nearly impossible. We are helplessly drawn to anything Palestine. The betrayal I feel as a father when I steel at her face (red hair, freckles and all) while watching those programs in which people from foreign places, with countries and homes and families untouched by what’s being shown, talk to Palestinians, and at them, in disparate tenors and for disparate aims, and know what she is going through. I am at once watching the pain on television and the one invading the insides of my goddess-daughter. I monitor her every move; her sighs and frequency of her yawns (indications of stress), scalping, look-aways, her hand movement, and, finally, her toes, her absolutely serene, civil, very human toes.
I’ve always watched my family’s toes and psychoanalyzed each member accordingly. My brother’s, even as a child, have always prostrated perfectly horizontally flush with his feet and, occasionally, rather peaceably, with live-and-let-live attitude, dipped downward. That, in my mind, always explained his even temper, emotional stamina, and patience. My daughter shares those attributes with my brother, but mainly with her mother, who, from her beginnings, has been a personification of virtue and the pride of our entire family. Conversely, mine, like my younger brother’s and sister’s, have always been restive and raised, sheer insight into my pugnacity and impatience. My family’s toes, hands, hair, eyes, torsos, teeth, smiles, yawns, winks, and twitches are what I see as representations of my family’s utter irreplaceability and the virtual impossibility of life without them. Horrifically, however, to a 22-year-old Israeli punk at any crossing or roadblock in Palestine, my family is so dispensable and irrelevant.
When I saw on television the destruction of Palestinians in Sabra and Shatilla, in Jenin and Tulkarim, and, most recently, in Gaza, I saw Palestine strewn in body parts (skulls and teeth and torsos and hair), in unfinished smiles and conversations, in halted tears, in aborted fears, unconsummated weddings and lives, courtesy of Israeli missiles signed by Israeli children. I see Palestine scattered in toes.
This is when Palestine ceases to be an intellectual exchange or a strategy, or just a rehearsed demonstration and speech, and becomes raw passion. When you write about Palestine, you are one of the very few who do so with conviction, truth, and passion—exceptional passion. When I wrote to you, it was in appreciation of your passion for Palestine.
Respectfully,
Hatim
Hatim
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
A personal Pandora
It shouldn't be surprising that Pandora is familiar to me--it's easy to see how Palestine-esque it is...at least for me.
The vision I had today, a day after seeing the film, "AVATAR," was of me, kazdar-ing along Shari3 il Khala, making my way to the phonetical Il Entar [formerly the InterContinental, now Seven Arches], from where the holy world glistens in gold divinity and stretches its wary and stressed appendages before me and my companions--ready to invite us in, despite the turmoil that tugs and tears at it. It carries on in spite of it all, like any Palestinian woman, mother, or combination of the two--like Mo'at.
The vision appeared in my eyes' theater at the beck-and-call of Fadel Shaker, who was singing about the impossibility of forgetting his beloved. There is no particular connection between this song and the memories of those nightly walks--but the inspiration happened nonetheless. And it shouldn't be surprising.
A second vision places me mid-trek at the site of my make-shift playground/obstacle course: il daraj jamb il Mormon. I hear my heavy breath as I stare at the line of intruders, interrupting my run and my peace--tourists, coming to see "Israel" but leaving their footprints on Palestinian earth. "This, this is our land!!," I silently yelled at them. I hissed at them too...I'm sure I did, just like Neytiri. But they never saw my facial features widen or snarl. If they saw anything of me, it was my impatient, furrowed brow waiting for them to leave--or my red T-shirt, covering my billaphone and iPhone, and resting on the rock farther down the stairs. There were remnants of me all over those stairs and that dust and those stones—even the butterflies came to recognize me; the stains of the invaders would be swept away under a few more of my running steps—and my marks would be pressed into the land again and again, today and tomorrow, next week and next year.
But even I am not there always; even I am a visitor who lays claim for as long as she can but can't for very long. Myself in my memories is my AVATAR in my PANDORA...
...Until I make that final transition, and return my dust and energy to the place from where they were borrowed. That time will come, and I hope it will be surprising.
But even I am not there always; even I am a visitor who lays claim for as long as she can but can't for very long. Myself in my memories is my AVATAR in my PANDORA...
...Until I make that final transition, and return my dust and energy to the place from where they were borrowed. That time will come, and I hope it will be surprising.
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