Paris

 

Not Strictly Solo

In the ‘intention’ for this travel log as well as in my itinerary, I have eluded, although not very explicitly to my companion Ewan. At this writing he will enter more center stage considering that we have just shared 5 days in Paris and are weeks away from meeting again in Australia. Although we have known each other for over five years, each previously partnered, it was only upon our ‘meeting’ at a dinner gathering in August that something very different happened. Since that time, we have both been quite swept up in this very new and vital relationship. The ‘sweeping’ was dramatic. And we have both dedicated a great deal of time and energy nurturing this relationship since my departure from the US.

Back in September, tentative about our shared horizon I simply posited the question, “Do you have an interest to join me somewhere on this grand journey?” to which Ewan responded emphatically, “Yes.” This was evidently not quite a part of my solo plan. And it has been an extraordinary gift in a variety of ways.

As I have done with those who have graced my journey thus far, at the risk of indiscrete gushing, it seems only appropriate to more descriptively introduce Ewan. Born in LA, he moved shortly thereafter with parents to Seattle where he has lived since the age of 2, raised in a scholarly family; father a professor of literature at the U, mother a librarian. He worked in the hospitality industry cooking and later as a bar tender for a dozen years, in and out of school at the U, later he finished his MA in literature from Prescott in Arizona. He now teaches, quite passionately, as adjunct professor of English literature at Bellevue Community College.
Ewan grew up hiking in Washington’s forests and mountains and knows them more intimately than anyone I know. In our relatively brief chapter together before I left the US, we discovered our shared delight in attention to the world’s details; the line of clouds, trees, birds, water, light. He is deeply thoughtful, a poet, a lover of verse, prose, the crafting of thought. For his half of the species (or his species depending on how one views the male population) he is notably aware of what is going on in his internal landscape and remarkably articulate about experiences as they arise.

In examining the possible dovetail of his academic calendar with my proposed itinerary, Ewan responded keenly to the idea of meeting in Europe, particularly in Paris. He has very fond memories of his own travels there while studying abroad in Avignon, France in 1988. And so with some liberties taken in his class scheduling we planned a Thanksgiving reunion in Paris.

Descent to Paris

Word of the French railway strike wove its way to me via email while I was still in Tel Aviv. Having been a reasonably anxious child in some respects, struggling when things didn’t go as planned, during my adult life I have earnestly cultivated a light hearted and optimistic approach in such circumstances. After all, what else is there to do.

I arrived back in Belgium 3 days before Ewan’s & my pending reunion. Those days I spent quite laid up with a rather severe residual cold/sinus infection aggravated by a more than red eye flight from Israel, boarding at 1:30am and arriving at 5. Only moderately recovered, I traveled south by train toting a backpack of groceries to fill the fridge of our rented apartment. Jean, my Belgian host father, explained that in situations of strike all the rules are different. One can board any train that happens to be traveling in the right direction regardless of whether or not one has a booked seat. After all, in circumstances of strike, who knows whether or not there will be another train.

My tendency to hold such situations lightly and with optimism served me well in this circumstance as the strike proved only advantageous. I arrived in Paris even a bit earlier than expected on a TGV other than the one on which I was booked. Upon walking into the Metro from the Gare du Nord, I turned to a young woman and inquired curiously, ‘so we don’t pay…because of the strike?’ And indeed, there was all of Paris brazenly walking through the open turn-stills without parting with a single euro. For quarter of an hour the young woman and I continued bantering casually in French on the platform and in the subway before I descended at the Châtelet. She was in her final year of a philosophy degree at university. As she is not interested in teaching she was deliberating apprehensively about her future prospects. This was one of two lovely conversations with locals more in the know than I, facilitated entirely by the strike. I have not previously fallen so easily into conversations with locals in Paris. The Metro, as well as the suburban train lines, which I traveled upon later to the airport, remained free through the end of the week, a great unexpected blessing.

Paris is not cheap, regardless of how one does it. For anyone considering travel to this extraordinary city for more than a couple days, consider renting an apartment as an alternative to hotels. We stayed in an extraordinary little place in the premier arrondissement on la rue Sainte Denis close to Les Halles. I found our apartment through the website below which has a WIDE range of accommodations

http://www.all-paris-apartments.com/

My return to the public transport system later in the afternoon afforded the opportunity for another lengthy conversation, this time with a young woman who lives in the northern banlieu close to the airport. I have no idea whether or not she is in the area impacted by the riots early this week. Having recently graduated with a BA in Human Resources, she is searching for employment and spoke of how it is impossible for middle class working people to live in the center of the city. After waiting on the platform for 20 minutes with no activity, she steered me to another line where we hopped a train to the Gare du Nord and then were able to pick up the line traveling out to the airport. Such idiosyncracies are entirely a function of who has or has not returned from the strike lines. Under our collective wing, I folded a young British couple also lingering there on the platform. They neither spoke French nor even knew there was a strike, and yet had a pending return flight to England.

Rather than indulge in the intimate details of November 21-26th, I am more compelled to paint Ewan’s & my time together in broad brushstrokes. From our seamless reunion at Charles de Gaulle airport until our separation 5 days later, it was a leisurely, enchanted, reaffirming, precious time.
We were graced with cold, dry weather all but one rainy morning. A waxing full moon sailed through the skies each night bathing the city and the quintessential Parisian rooftops visible from our apartment in a resplendent lunar glow. We passed hours walking hand in hand through the wandering cobblestone streets of Montmartre & Sacre Coeur, the Left Bank, l’île de la Cité. We walked quietly through ancient churches and catherdrals; Notre Dame, La Sainte Chapelle, St-Germain-des-Prés, St Eustaches. Our time was spent sharing more leisurely coffees than museum visits. We delighted in people watching. We feasted visually on the magnificent architectural wealth of the city. We relished the opportunity to share each other’s company, to allow dialogue to unfold in its own timing, to share periods of quiet in the presence of the other. We ate simply, adjourning for all but one of our evening meals to the quiet refuge of the little apartment tucked up beneath the eaves on la rue Saint Denis.

A particularly cherished day for both us was the Sunday, our last shared together, and one which I have taken a humble stab at in the verse below. This rather unpolished portion touches upon my heartfelt veneration for the international institution of the market, be it in Tournai or Paris, Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. I absolutely adore walking amongst people doing their groceries in the open air, exchanging not only money for goods, but pleasantries, bargaining, a warmth and depth of human interchange. True markets of produce and cheese, eggs and spices are all the more precious when stumbled upon by chance, as was this one discovered at the base of l’Eglise St Eustaches.

Fed, rested, honey sweetened tea lingering
in the pockets of our mouths, fingers threaded
between those of the other, we set forth into
the late morning Parisian streets of the premier arrondissement.
The freshly washed cobblestones were quite empty,
the city waking slowly but for the bustle
in the northeastern shadow of l’Eglise Sainte Eustaches.

Moving with measured conduct, locals wove
their way amongst each other with canvas bags in hand,
grocery lists in mind or in pocket beside small bills
and centime coins readied for market exchange.
Elongated rabbit, fur intact, lay beside cuts
of beef and duck, the air filled with the rot of soft
French cheese flirting with the perfume of oyster, anemone,
cut of salmon and sole, piles of prawns, quarters of pumpkin,
mound of leek, glow of persimmon and further on
the bread! Yes! Woven braids of olive and onion,
flaked croissant and tarte normande, stacked loaves
to be broken with soup, with game, the sweet,
the savoury, the air so pregnant with their rich flavour
a woman’s hips round at the scent of it all.

We wove amongst the civil throngs, crafting our dinner
along the way before we returned to where the mouth
of Sainte Eustache opens to Les Halles.  There,
turning up the Montorgueil we stopped
and nestled ourselves at a tiny terrace table,
sipped coffee surrounded by French, bathed
in the autumnal sun.  I exchanged silly faces
through the glass with two young children who darted
back and forth from fogging the cafe window
with their young breath to careening into the street.
All the while transpired a leisurely unfolding dialogue
between you and me over coffee and later food,
and later still another coffee before we ventured
back out into the street, by then quite filled
with bodies of midday leisure. 

After depositing our groceries at the apartment in the mid-afternoon, our day continued unfurling with a long walk past the Louvre, through the Tuilleries to Les Invalides and the vast tracts of open grass where we encountered dozens of soccer games in progress. It was a particular delight for Ewan who, having his own fair history with the sport, played his first pick up game in a fair while just weeks ago. We followed the arc of la rue Saint-Dominique west on to the Champs de Mars and the Eiffel Tour for a breath taking sunset which filled the sky with swathes of apricot and fuchsia. As the light faded, we descended into the Metro, where we paid entry the first time since our arrival.

Shared Path Ahead

We parted on November 26^th in the same terminal of the Charles de Gaulle airport. Days after finishing the winter quarter at BCC, Ewan will board another plane, this time heading west to meet me on yet another continent. Now back and deeply engaged in the ardor of grading and preparing his students for final papers and exams, he might do well to have his head examined for his own ambitious travel itinerary. I am grateful that his head is not the driving force in the present equation.

The title of this particular entry elucidates an element of my travel log not previously divulged. My voice in these writings is that of a solo nomad deftly, I hope, weaving my way into the lives of those along my journey. And yet Ewan has been an integral part of these travels. We maintain, as possible, extensive daily email correspondence. He has been the preliminary audience for many narratives which have later found their way here, some sections pared of particular intimacies, others expanded in detail before posting. Prior to August, I was my own primary axis in the midst of a rather focused and narrow graduate school life. That has changed. Ewan has become an indelible presence and support in the journey.

Closing Reflections

Return to Tel Aviv, Departure from Israel

After a leisurely morning of writing and drinking in the view on the rooftop terrace at the Sisters of Zion Convent in Jerusalem, I walked west through the Old City to Jaffa’s gate one last time and then traveled back to Tel Aviv by bus. My own body was in a somewhat compromised state those final days in the country as bus travel down out of the Jerusalem hills left me partly deaf with clogged ears & sinuses.

I was warmly received back into the little family in Tel Aviv. We shared some time getting their new house ready. They have invested an extraordinary amount of work in the cleaning, painting and fixing of this rental house to make it acceptable for their needs. They will move in the week after my departure. Lisa, the girls and I had a last morning at the beach. The waters have turned cold in just in these recent days. So rather than submerging in the Mediterranean, time was spent lounging in the warm sun, Laila and I searched for shells to decorate her sand castle. Laila, the eldest of Ron & Lisa’s girls, was evidently pleased with my return from Jerusalem. Building upon our relationship back in the US, we shared some particularly precious time in my final days.

On our Shabbat drive up to visit Ron’s mother Daisy, we stopped in to see the yoga studio of some friends in Lisa’s yoga community. They recently built the studio themselves, a beautiful light filled space of straw bale construction. Stairs leading up from the road have been fashioned out of old artillery casing crates, ‘The best wood in Israel,’ Ron commented. I found their presence an intriguing juxtaposition. Again, Ron’s mother Daisy fed us lavishly, lamented her grandchildren not yet speaking Hebrew, and sent us home with all manner of containers filled with leftovers, pastries and the contents of her emptied fruit bowl.

I am pensively amazed by the breadth of experiences afforded to me during my time in Israel. I remain strikingly ignorant of the complexities of that place. While I feel I had more multifaceted exposure than perhaps the average visitor, it is also quite clear to me there is no average visitor to that unique and complex country.

As I have tried to elucidate through details of individual interactions with those I’ve encountered along the way, people are drawn to Israel for tremendously wide and varied reasons. From volunteering with a parent Christian organizations to traveling on a globally oriented pilgrimage fostering peace, from traveling to Jerusalem’s Old City to pay homage to the stations of the cross to studying Environmental studies and living on a Kibbutz in the Arava desert, from conducting PhD research on local Palestinian government structure to facilitating mediation and dialogue between Israeli & Palestinian individuals.

Rather than a lengthy contemplative summary, I would steer readers back to my posts over these close to 3 weeks and the more thoughtful details scattered throughout. There are plenty of threads to explore. One closing comment regarding safety. Had I been traveling during the summer of 2006, my thoughts would assuredly be different. Furthermore, the situation in Israel being quite…dynamic it could change at any moment. During my weeks in Israel in November 2007, I had not a single experience in which I felt in any way unsafe. Certainly no more unsafe than anytime I chose to get into a car and drive on the highways of the US. This included my experiences of the extensive security screenings upon my departure at the airport, during which I had the entire contents of my backpack expulsed and examined in detail. It is, by necessity, a rather routine price of the journey. I would encourage anyone so inclined to travel to this fascinating and multifaceted land. There is so much to learn.

Jerusalem

All Facets of Travel

I made the journey from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem safely; uneventful bus ride, caught a cab from the bus station to the Sh’ar Harioyot (the Lion’s gate or St Stephen’s Gate), walked along the Via Dolorosa, marked by stations of the cross along Jesus’ path to crucifixion. I walked too far missing the sign for the Sister’s of Zion Convent. As I walked back, I was struck by how heavy my backpack felt, surprising as I had only a small bag from Ron & Lisa’s, and spent the day prior toting Laila on my back all over Jaffa. I doubled back, found the convent, checked in, waited a time to be ushered to my room, graciously thanked Ruby, the nun, shut the door, placed my bag on the bed and adjourned to the bathroom where I vomited. Considering my extensive experiences with GI related trauma (most notably during my close to 2 years in Nepal), it was neither particularly long in duration nor exceedingly violent, but it did clean me out top to bottom. Thereafter I stretched out in bed grateful to have a warm, safe, quiet place. Apparently this 24 hour stomach flu has been sweeping through Tel Aviv.

The Sisters of Zion Convent, constructed in the mid 19^th century, is situated just beside the historic Anotonia Fortress, one of several possible locations of Jesus’ judgment by Pontius Pilate. The facility is quite large and accommodates pilgrims, in groups or individually for $38/night including breakfast.

http://www.eccehomoconvent.com

In addition to comfortable, clean rooms, they have a magnificent open rooftop terrace with an expansive view out over the entire Old City. The view encompasses the Temple of the Rock, the large gold domed mosque on the Temple Mount and sweeps all the way to the Christian Quarter and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

 

After 15 hours of near comatose like sleep, to darkened skies I awoke groggily to the first adhan, the Muslim call to prayer. Translation of the Suni version commonly recited
“God is most great” (x4)
2 “I testify that there is no god except God” (x3)
3 “I testify that Muhammad is the Messenger of God” (x3)
4 “Come to prayer” (x2)
5 “Come to salvation” (x2)
(“Prayer is better than sleep” (x2)– only with the morning prayer)
(“Come to the best of work” (x1)– added by Shi’is)
6 “God is most great” (x2)
7 “There is no god except God” (x1)

The adhan was less soft & melodic than that I heard in Eilabun. The largest minaret visible in the Old City is very close to the convent, and perhaps its proximity lent to the more piercing tone. I awoke enveloped in the kind of groggy one only experiences after depletion followed by so much sleep. My body ached and I felt the kind of fatigue which sleep does nothing for, but rather which is only altered by getting up and moving around in the world.

Finally, I mustered the motive force and headed off into this city. Rather than walking straight into the center, I followed the directions of Sonja, a fellow traveler I encountered at breakfast, for how to get to the Temple Mount, Dome of the Rock (Qubbat es Shakhra) where they only allow the entry of visitors from 7-10am. This entailed walking out of the Old City and following the wall south to Tanner’s Gate Sha’ar haAshpot where one enters to through metal detector and on up a ramp into the compound. Metal detectors and bag checks are routine occurrences in this country, not just in Jerusalem but upon entry into grocery stores, shopping malls etc. At this juncture, I was deeply struck in walking up the ramp to the most sacred of Moslem sites in the city and there making up most western wall of the Moslem compound is the renown Western Wall (the Wailing Wall). What a powerful illustration of this conflicted place where so many different peoples’ sacred entitlements are contradictory and overlapping.

I wandered through taking in what I could before exiting through the Bab al Qattanin, the Cotton market, a dark tunnel of vendors lit only by precariously suspended incandescent bulbs. I waited at the entrance for a bit and entered on the heels of a tour group as they shuffled down. Groggy and compromised I may have been, but my traveling wits are indelibly ingrained after many years of solo voyages and thank God, all of them.

The markets’ polished stone pathways are a maze of narrow high walled streets, some even covered with vaulted cement ceilings. Jerusalem’s markets are an fascinating expression of this modern era where side by side one finds yamakas, classical Armenian pottery and 2 GB memory cards.

I found my way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a site the history of which I grasped only enough to know it epitomizes the overlapping territorial claims for the holy. I found no God in that place. Rather it felt pervaded with cold and darkness. Sitting at one point, watching the tidal movement of tour groups into and out of the main sanctuary, I witnessed a guide, perhaps Eastern European origin, point emphatically to a smooth, round object. Thereafter, the members thronged around it and each took their turn posing for photographs with hand or hands placed thereon, faces ranging from toothy smiles, to pensive, solemn expressions. How intriguing and perhaps pervasive a phenomena that we only don sacred attributes to an object after being told that some thing or place is holy. I left and walked on finding myself at Jaffa’s Gate Sha’ar Yafo, the far western Gate of the Old City.

I inquired at the information office about buses to two different museums, the Holocaust museum and the Israel Museum. Although more inclined to travel to the Israel Museum – exhibit of the Dead Sea Scrolls and other archeological findings, it was a fair walk to that bus, where by contrast the bus to the Holocaust Museum was just outside the gate. And so, not really feeling up for the longing walk, it was decided.

Yad Vashem ~ The Holocaust Museum

Upon boarding the bus I promptly fell asleep, not one of my highly recommended travel tips for women traveling solo, although I have managed to do soon on many a bus without incurring harm, knock on wood. When I awoke groggily, I noted those who got on the bus at the same time (assumedly other tourists) were no longer there and inquired to the woman beside me ‘Yad Vashem?’ Her eyes got wide and she gestured behind us and spoke with concern in flying Hebrew. So I proceeded to the bus driver where he looked at me quisically, ‘But I called it out Yad Vashem.’ ‘Yes, I…fell asleep.’ ‘Don’t worry, I send you on another bus to take you there.’ And so after an additional who knows how long, transferring me into the stewardship of a young, not particularly communicative Israeli woman, another bus #20 in the opposite direction, I ended up at Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum.

As an early adolescent, on of my most treasured books was the historical fiction novel Bright Candles about 2 teenagers engaged in the Danish resistance. During my first trip to Europe at the age of 14, my mum and I traveled to the Danish Holocaust museum in Copenhagen. I would speculate, although I don’t recall ever asking, that mum & dad indulged my interest to go to Denmark because of what that book awoke in me. There was really no other thing that drew us there. I have vivid and solemn memories of that visit and have had other opportunities through book, film and exhibit to learn of Holocaust history. Yad Vashem was evidently constructed with adequate resources for well designed displays, multimedia in nature, a powerful balance of visuals and as much written history as one wanted. I walked through and took in as much as I could, which in my compromised state was marginal.

Of the main museum, the one image that stands foremost in my mind was a stretch of black & white film, thousands of Allied soldiers parachuting from to land. What an image it must have been for people throughout Europe, after a time of such prolonged darkness and anguish to see angels descending from heaven.

In addition to the primary museum, there are multiple separate exhibits, more rotating in nature. One was entitled Women & the Holocaust. Inside, one encounters a plexiglass case of objects from the camps. I lingered along these cases for some time, but there were two objects in particular which were particularly thought provoking or soul stirring. One, a pocket, some kind of heavy paper, stitched around three sides with great care and precision. Inside was a letter written by one woman to a friend in which she described imaginary foods evidently not attainable in the camp. This was beside a number of other recipe books, leaves of paper folded, handwritten measurements. Further along, there was a bit of wax like paper, not even an inch square, folded in half with some viscous red paste between. The display explained a mother and daughter had carried this lipstick with them to each of the 7 camps they had moved through, assumedly brightening checks and lips to heighten their chances of not being sent to the showers. Something about these objects brought forward a poignant intimacy. I was also struck by how inherently a part of being woman it seems to warm and/or enhance wherever we find ourselves, how we make it our own and in situations of adversity, how we survive.

I asked 3 different people what time it was in the last hour I was there and each responded (at different times) that it was in the neighborhood of 3 o’clock. Yet watching the sun I suspected differently and adjourned to the bus stop, finding it close to 4 which assured I would be back at the Old City and hopefully to the convent before dark. The return journey was a sardine like, but otherwise benign public transport experience.

I shared the evening meal with 2 women traveling together from the US, one originally Brazillian and here to accompany her friend who is conducting workshops of Circle Work, a method of her creation focused on empowerment and mediation as a means of fostering peace. The fourth at our table was a Canadian woman from Vancouver. We were stationed at the non-descript table assigned to pilgrims, to be distinguished from the other tables with indications of ‘group x’ or ‘family y’. Although not inherently unsafe, I chose to eat for the evening meals as the narrow stone streets of the Old City don’t strike me the place for a single foreign woman after darkness falls. Additionally, it provided some interesting opportunities for meeting people from varied walks.

After dinner, sitting perusing the library I ran into Sonja, a German woman a bit younger than myself. We had shared the same table at breakfast and later crossed paths at the Temple Mount. She left her work as a graphic designer 3 months ago, has been collecting unemployment, doing a bit of freelance work, and is now considering whether or not she will continue with graphic design or perhaps focus more on her yoga teaching. She came to Israel to participate in the Grace Peace Pilgrimage,

http://www.grace-pilgrimage.com/index.php?id=178

 

 

“The pilgrimage is to lead us to Israel/Palestine to the so called Holy Land, a region which has been dominated by war, conflict, struggle and division for a long time.…Those who are walking in the name of GRACE do not come to accuse. They do not come to impart a new ideology on a country or on a land and its people – they come in the service of openness, of perception and of support.”
excerpt from Sabine Lichtenfels’ ‘Grace – Pilgrimage for a Future without War’
The group of pilgrims began in Eilat, the very southern tip of Israel, traveling by foot up as far as Ein Gedi, where Sonja joined, and then continued west to Jerusalem to conclude in a meditation at the Western Wall. Sonja spoke candidly of the experience and its challenges; the aspirations for spiritual deepening, for peace, her recognition of the naivete, in some respects, to think a single gesture (the pilgrimage) can really influence such a complicated situation, the awe inspiring components of the experience both in the terrain and people. The group began as 80 in Eilat and grew to 170 by the time they arrived in Jerusalem including members of many different countries, Israelis, Palestinians and Bedouins. Sonja was a very bright eyed and engaged woman. It was a lovely exchange and dialogue after which I adjourned upstairs and elongated this tired body at an early hour.

Day 2 ~ Mostly Restored

I awoke with a more vim & vigor the second morning, felt it from the first adhan. Having toted my PC up to the rooftop terrace to do some of this writing, my laptop automatically began searching and located several open access wireless networks allowing me some connection with the web the receipt of sustaining correspondence from back home.

Rather than beginning my day walking into the city I walked to the east, out the Lion’s gate and down the hill per Sonja’s recommendation. In discussion of our experiences, I had shared my sense of the soullessness of so many of the holy places I had visited my first day, particularly the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. She concurred. Her experience was quite different at a church outside the Old City walls which purportedly holds Mary’s tomb. Without her directions, there is no way I would I have walked down to the base of the Mount of Olives and more curiously inspected a completely unembellished dark hole/entry rather discretely situated to the left. But I had her counsel and I did venture to the doorway where I peered down the wide stone stairwell into the darkness. From the ceiling, hundreds of those chain incense holders, like one sees in catholic churches, or medieval films, smoke pouring out in graceful plumes, were suspended from the ceiling, bits of different colored glass adorning each. I’m sure they both have a name and one could be more accurately and poetically described. There was music ushering forth from there below in the bowels of the earth I walked a bit cautiously down, down, finally sitting on one of the steps close to the bottom but without view of the altar. The cave, this vaulted cave glistening with ornamentation in the dim light was filled with men’s voices, chanting.

Perhaps they were Armenian Christians by their dress, but I’m really not sure. For the first 20 minutes, it was only me, two clergy in view there at the entrance. Then down the stairs confidently walked 2 women, 3 men, all in suits entering into the sanctuary as a group, in purposeful discussion, one on a cell phone. They spoke with one of the priests. The women purchased candles and disappeared from view to assumedly make offerings and then returned. More cell phone calls. After perhaps quarter of an hour, the light pouring through the entrance behind me was darkened with bodies. A group of 60 some arrived, also all in suits. The group was preceded by people who looked as if they were the press, huge cameras snapping the whole affair, toward the end two guys who appeared some form of security with ear pieces looking suspicious and officious. They were not American, assumedly Israeli, not really sure, but each made donations to the plate feet away from me with American dollars. Intriguing. There was a flurry of candle lighting and blessing by the priest to someone in the midst of the group, a mad flurry photo op. Within quarter of an hour they were all gone, the chanting concluded, and there was only one priest, who stood facing out from the altar solitarily reading from the bible. Before leaving, I made a donation and took a candle to light. The priest motioned to me ‘inside the tomb.’ I walked tentatively through a small doorway in the altar itself, maybe 3’ high, and there below plexi-glass, was a white stone tomb. I paused at the base of the stairs and then walked back into the light, a tour group of dozens there at the entry about to descend upon the site. That was the gem of my day…really the rest was less soulful wandering.

I walked on to the gardens of Gethsemane, up the Mount of Olives, back down and on north of the city to the Ethiopian church which someone had commented was beautiful. It was closed, a not uncommon occurrence here that sites have obscure and limited opening times. I knew I was on the edge of the Jewish religious neighborhood Me’a She’arim, one which Lisa suggested I walk through for the cultural experience. I vascilated for a bit concerned about the invasiveness of my presence. I could return the way I came or slip on my borrowed long skirt, long sleeves and walk through to feel the texture of it. And that is what I chose to do.

After turning two more corners I encountered a huge sign in Hebrew and English (perhaps Arabic too I don’t remember)
DO NOT ENTER OUR NEIGHBORHOOD IMMODESTLY DRESSED in smaller font the more explicit instructions about skirts, long sleeves, no tight clothing etc etc. And so with two turns, I literally entered a different world; every man with the long curls at his temples, black coat & hat, children with yamakas and curls in training, every married woman with covered head, long skirt, long sleeves, heavy fabric, routinely with stroller or child in arms. I saw no variance. There were also unique qualities about buildings something about the grill of the balconies but, in my fleeting walk, I wasn’t really able to register what they were or how they were distinct from my experiences in the Arab neighborhood only blocks to the east. One other detail, the walls were plastered with posters in large, black font in Hebrew. Later upon inquiring I learned they were possibly announcements of a recent death in the community. I walked not hurried but with purpose, and while grateful that I did chose to walk through, I was also grateful to emerge on the other side. Not only was I acutely aware of my otherness, but additionally felt a very palpable sense that I was not welcome in this world.

I returned to walk west along the outside of the Old City wall, peeling back to my pants and t-shirt, feeling the sun warm on my face, a face which this evening appears more distinctly brown than I’ve seen it since August. I wandered along one of the main shopping streets, Jaffa/Yafo Rd., had a bit lunch. Further along stopped for a coffee and sat watching this bustle of human beings walk by; Arab women in full dress and head coverings, religious Jewish women as described above many pregnant or with stroller or with grandchildren, modern young women in low scoop neck numbers with shoulders & cleavage exposed. What a kaleidoscope!

Back I headed into the Old City’s Armenian Quarter. Paying 5 shekels, I entered the Armenian museum where I had the sense I might have been the only guest that day. I read bits of the history printed on paper peeling at many of the corners from the foam core on which it was originally affixed. I don’t recall having any previous knowledge of the Turkish genocide of the Armenians. In gazing upon photographs and samples of copper works and printed books, I was struck then as I was in looking at an amazing book of Maha’s on Palestinian culture, by the richness, the sophistication of art and design in these cultures which have suffered so gravely.

Just north of St James Cathedral I stopped along the Amernian Orthodox Patriarchate (street name) for my only real souvenir purchase and had a most delightful conversation with the artist and shop owner. Vic Lepejian, perhaps in his 50s, explained that the one I had chosen was so inexpensive because it was part of a set that had been destroyed in the firing. I explained I had worked with ceramics and understood the quirks of the kiln. He smiled and proceeded to relay a bit of his life story; born in Jerusalem, drawing from early childhood, initially not so much support from his family, later went off to get his Master’s in classical Armenian techniques. At one stage in school he was drawing with a particular stroke only to have his teacher pick up his paper and tear it into pieces stating, ‘when you have finished here, you can do whatever you want. But now, you first learn the technique, as WE teach you.’ For years, he traveled with his work as a representative to Europe and the US, sponsored by the Israeli government, but that all came to an end in 2000, and since then he has, as he began in 1982, continued to make and sell his art in his shop. In the end, he didn’t even accept the marked price for what I purchased, returning 10 shekels, and wrapping it with a very authentic smile sent me on my way.

I had lingered in the Armenian Quarter until 3pm when St James Cathedral was to open. I entered, had a look around and carried on my way. Having again slipped on my skirt and long sleeves, I walked through the Jewish Quarter in the direction of the Western Wall. Inquiring in a tourist shop about Shabbat candles, the woman directed me to the grocery store, of course…the grocery store. And there in the back, beside the soap were stacks of Shabbat candles.

 

Fading Sun at the Western Wall

In the late afternoon light I found myself back in the plaza of the Western Wall. In the open plaza amongst those milling around, several dozen in military service muddy green uniforms were posing together being photographed by one of their comrades, a young woman with pony tail of thick curls, an enormous rifle slung nonchalantly over her one shoulder as she operated the camera. Tour groups of every extraction dotted the plaza in clumps, as did more intimate gatherings of many different kinds of people.

I approached the Wall as reverently as I knew how, sitting for a time in one of the nondescript white plastic chairs, observing. I approached the Wall where there was space amongst other women with hands and foreheads pressed reverently. I tucked a prayer into the stone and stood for a time taking in the sea of quiet whispers. Energetically, it all felt so caught, so constrained, the dynamic of facing, praying into hard stone, some of that innately bound in grief and clinging to what is no longer rather than being present to what is…all done toward the surface abutting the most sacred Moslem compound, the territory of which the Jews wish were in their hands.

The high walled, narrow maze of the Old City provides limited places where one has an expansive view of landscape or sky. There is always a sense of enclosure which feels both intimate and oppressive. It is such an intriguing phenomenon to stroll through this spiritual capital in which, regardless of one’s faith, one inevitably enters into space and place which is holy for someone and not necessarily oneself. Again and again, one is an outsider peering into or transgressing another’s sacred. I had very mixed feelings about my part in this serial transgression. In my time in Jerusalem, and in this country, I have attempted to move as respectfully as possible. I am hopeful this intention and my efforts will have transcended my myriad indiscretions.

In my final early evening in the Old City, I adjourned to the rooftop terrace of the convent where I read and sent email until long after the light went from the sky, a crescent moon suspended in a deep sea of blue, the adhan crying out into the night.

Reception in Tel Aviv

Leaving after a phenomenal stay in Haifa, I traveled by train back to Tel Aviv where I was greeted at the station by Lisa’s enthusiastic wave. Lisa, Ron and their daughter Laila became my next door neighbors upon their move to Seattle the summer of 2004, just before I began my studies at SIOM. Ron is Israeli, Lisa from the Bronx. They first crossed paths in Lhasa, later met again in Israel and eventually traveled for close to a year in Asia. Having lived in Israel together for some years thereafter, they moved to the US to fulfill Ron’s desire to work in the high-tech industry, optimally for Microsoft. During our two years as neighbors we shared meals, tea, onions or lentils or whatever the other didn’t have in the fridge at the time. Mayaan (now 2 ½), whose birth I had the honor to attend, was born VBAC at home. Laila (soon to be 5) gradually grew to more fully inhabit her own personality as a strong, opinionated, vibrant little girl. A part of the long term plan as long as I’ve known them, they decided to return to Israel this autumn, Laila’s entry into kindergarten being one of many reasons for the timing. Their move coincided with Microsoft establishing a campus here in Tel Aviv. This facilitated a reasonably smooth transition with job and temporary housing waiting for them. Regardless, the uprooting of a family of four to another country is not an easy endeavor regardless of the circumstances.

The girls in their 2^nd week of school, Ron having completed his first week on the job, having found but not yet moved into their new rental home, they still warmly welcomed me in to share a bit of the living room floor of their transitional apartment. Laila and Mayaan hardly batted an eye, that unique present moment childhood lens casting it as only natural that I should show up on their doorstep with huge backpack, thousands of miles from their Fremont home. And so time in Tel Aviv has been more kid-paced in all its whirl and immediacy. We have read stories, shared meals, a morning painting at the new rental house, another at the beach, a Shabbat meal at Grandma’s, Ron’s mother, in Jerusalem, an afternoon wandering the streets of Jaffa/Yafo ducking under shelter during one of the few rain storms since my arrival in the country.

My experiences in recent days have reawakened, with great poignancy, my admiration of all those who undertake the endeavor of bearing and raising children. Lisa and I have spoken about the journey of parenting, that balance between drawing boundaries and allowing children to freely express who and how they are. She has shared how heart wrenching it is to watch her daughters go through the process of finding their way in this new home. It is extraordinary to witness these two little girls adapting to a completely new culture, language, world which while they have visited is not yet their own. Mayaan, while more fully commanding the English language every day still doesn’t speak Hebrew. Laila understands, but at school is purportedly reluctant to speak. Amidst these challenges, they are finding and naming the familiar in their new home. They joyously rattle off the names of their new school friends and teachers. Laila articulately explained the system of flags raised on the beach indicating the relative size/threat of the wake (white = safe, red = some caution, black = unsafe to swim). They both commented with disappointment when, on a walk, we passed the dusty windowed light store all dark within, the owner an elder and gentle man apparently not in. I have observed in each of them dozens of tiny gestures, their establishing ritual and familiarity, claiming this new place as their own. They are shining examples to me of human resilience and adaptability, likewise their loving parents.

In tending to myself along this journey, supporting my ability to remain flexible and grounded, I have observed by now almost predictable changes in my sleeping patterns. I have always been an early riser. However, in this recent chapter my body~mind have consistently sacrificed sleep becoming alert in the stillness and quiet of early morning in whichever home I find myself. Not only does this allow me time to stretch and meditate before my hosts awaken, but also to slowly warm to social engagement which is both fundamentally nourishing and, for me, requires a unique kind of energy.

Since my arrival at Lisa & Ron’s, my mornings have been further enhanced by jogging along a spacious boardwalk extending the length of the Tel Aviv waterfront. My first morning fell on Shabbat. Perhaps people taking advantage of their day of rest, I encountered more spandex clad, exercised bodies than I have since my arrival in Israel. The boardwalk has not been so crowded on any early morning since. During the daytime, it is teeming with people. There are those headed for a swim, others enjoy the cafés and gelato stores. Men play matkot, a Israeli raquet ball game. On Saturdays, there is public Israeli folk dancing to recorded music being piped out from who knows where. We stumbled across it on our way home from the beach. A reasonable crowd surrounded maybe 100 or more people of varied ages, dress, sex, from athletic 20 somethings in spandex to more pear shaped elders. It wasn’t a performance, just a gathering, anyone could join in and many seemed extremely familiar and game to do so.

I’m not sure what to attribute it to, but in my limited experiences of these cities I have observed a distinct difference in the average female body in Haifa and Tel Aviv. In Haifa I was struck by the generosity of many female figures, particularly as here well padded curves are not tented in draping fabric but rather hugged with an array of tighter clothing. Upon my arrival in Tel Aviv, I found the general female population more consistent with the fit and slender US or European end of the physique spectrum, some women to the questionably healthy extreme. I haven’t been struck by a notable difference between men.

Heading to the Ancient City

During my days in Tel Aviv, Lisa was visibly distressed by her efforts to reconcile ambitions for all the wonderful things she would like to show me and the realities of their transition, their family and the tasks at hand. In light of that, I followed up on my friend Maha’s suggestion to head up to Jerusalem for a few days to take in the spirit of the place.

The morning I left Lisa awoke with a stomach flu that passed rather quickly leaving her rung out and annulling our plans to drive up to Jerusalem together with the girls. After a bit of acupuncture and preparing some rice congee for her, she felt more settled and on the mend. We trooped off to the station together where I caught a bus. And so I set out toward a city with roots dating back to the 4^th millennium BCE.

 

 

The Arava & the Negev

The Glee of the Dead Sea

Tuesday morning Maha and I rolled out of Haifa bound for the Arava Institute in order for Maha to facilitate a Compassionate Listening workshop. The Arava Institute is housed at Kibbutz Ktura (Ke-tu-ra) in the Arava Desert of southern Israel, 5-6 hours drive south of Haifa. Maha’s proposed vision of the day; get an early start to allow arrival at the kibbutz during daylight, which is lost by about 5:30pm. Although we would be driving along the western edge of the Dead Sea, there was no discussion of indulging in its delights…

I was named navigator and in directing us east chose the road that looked both the most direct, but also potentially beautiful. I landed us on a stunning scenic byway through the Gilboa Mountains on our way to highway 90, a major 2 lane road that runs the length of the country from Lebanon to Egypt along the Jordanian border. The stunning territory seemed a reminiscent merging of northern California and Australia terrain; stretches of course, pale blond earth and rock dotted with trees, at times sparse, at times reasonably dense forest. The road repeatedly narrowed to one lane, later widening again. The whole 15-20k, we only encountered a few military vehicles leading Maha to wonder if we hadn’t stumbled someplace we were not supposed to be. Eventually we descended from the mountains to merge onto the major highway without a blemish. At a later intersection, uncertain I suggested, that’s going to Jenin. I think it’s that way. Maha shook her head, That’s in the West Bank, sweetie, the occupied territories, we’re not going to Jenin.

Contrary to the phenomena of what humans often do, carving the earth up with lines and fences, the territory to the east, that separating our two lane road from the Jordanian border, was a vast open somewhat haze cloaked expanse of valley; some tracts arid brown, others verdant areas evidently devoted to agriculture. The land to the west became more and more barren. Trees thinned into more and more rock, first humble slopes, later rising to stunning formations akin to the southwestern corner of the US.

About half past noon we arrived at the northern edge of the Dead Sea. Maha posed a suggestion…rather than rush to get to the Kibbutz, which we would have the chance to see during the daylight the following day, we could stop at the Dead Sea, have a bit of lunch, go for a swim and cover ourselves in black mud. FANTASTIC! And so we did, stopping just north of Ein Gedi (meaning the eye or the spring of curly horned goats ~gedi) at a little palm tree oasis with a big sign for MINERAL BATHS.

After a light lunch we journeyed down to the water’s edge to join a moderate crowd delighting in their own buoyancy, the feeling of the black clay spread on the body, the salt stinging the face and any micro tear in the flesh, the breathtaking expanses of rock rising up from the opposite shore of the sea. Being in that water was the closest I can imagine to the feeling of being space, my own body moving and spinning with the most delightful ease and playfulness, all fluid and light. It was all the more delightful because it was completely unexpected. Maha hadn’t shared with me her evidently premeditated plan.

About 3:30 we headed south, our skin still tingling, the sun beginning its descent. We had not been driving more than 10 minutes when, just above the western horizon, appeared an undulating formation of birds unlike either Maha or I have ever seen. It couldn’t be called a V, even by the most generous of witnesses, although the birds were evidently in migratory movement. It was more like the lines of a jelly fish or a cloud expanding and contracting, hundreds of birds making up this breathing, living, expressive mass of life in flight. They traveled in the same direction as we were, and so we chased each other for a good stretch until finally we left them behind to continue our movement south.

As sun drew its trailing dark cape over the sky, the rock formations slowly faded into the deepening blue. We were about a half an hour from the Kibbutz, energized but also ready to be done with the drive…and then ‘thub..thub..thub..thub ..thub….thub Maha, pull over thub……thub……..hub we have a flat tire thub…………………thub…………………thub………………………………thub

Providence is quite extraordinary. In the past week I thought to myself, funny that I’ve arrived at the age of 34 without having ever changed a flat tire…will have to get to that one of these days. And lo, the opportunity delivered on a silver platter. Maha hummed and hawed, should we call the AAA and I said confidently that I would have it changed before they arrived. And so under darkening skies with the utmost zeal, I went at it. Jacked up the car, pried the nuts off the tire only possible by hopping on the wrench. And all the while I had this goofy, beaming smile on my face, every loosened nut a victory supplemented by the warm, sublime air…Maha, look at the stars!! We wouldn’t have seen the stars if we hadn’t got a flat. There was positively NOOO ambient light there in the middle of the desert with no services or structures for miles.

It was done in about 20-30 minutes. As I was tightening one of the nuts (which I found out later I had put on back to front…still held us to the Kibbutz, will know better next time), I found myself recalling the faces of the women at the Kayan meeting yesterday, particularly those with headscarves, and thinking we all have our own boundaries of empowerment to work on. Here, here sisters! We sped off into the night and arrived safely at Kibbutz Ktara in just enough time to get a bit of dinner before the cafeteria closed.

 

The Arava & Negev Deserts

Kibbutz Ketura ~ While other kibbutzim are moving more towards privatization, Ketura continues to expand in its public, communal sector…and we are building, building, building. Our present building projects include new neighborhoods, artist studios, a modernized library and a new factory that will utilize the newest technological advances in the world of algae farming.

Kibbutz movement statistics show our membership to be the most highly educated kibbutz population in the country, and the number of members with advanced degrees is continually growing. We have applied our communal brainpower to such projects as a veterinary clinic, a seminar center, a university-level environmental program, technical writing and Internet web services. Many of us work off the kibbutz as teachers, bookkeepers, social workers and laboratory assistants.

Ketura’s dedication to progressive religious policies has made for a rich population mix of observant and non-observant Jews, a fact that has won us the Speaker of the Knesset Prize for religious tolerance. While members are free to do what they want in their own homes, we observe Kashrut and Shabbat in the dining room and at cultural events. We also avoid non-essential work that would violate the Shabbat.

Come on in and explore our way of life, from our myriad of expanding businesses to our cultural values and goals.

http://www.ketura.org.il/

___________________________

 

The Arava Institute for Environmental Studies is an accredited academic program for undergraduate and graduate studies located at Kibbutz Ketura on the Israeli side of the Arava Valley. It seeks to train future leaders of the Middle East in environmental issues so that they will be able to cooperate in solving regional environmental problems.  The Institute is situated on Kibbutz Ketura in Israel’s Southern Arava Valley – a desert in the Syrio-African rift near the Jordanian and Egyptian borders and the Gulf of Aqaba/Eilat.

http://www.arava.org/new/

Maha and I stayed in guest quarters; a one bedroom apartment of sorts, simple, somewhat dilapidated, and it being the desert, a fine sand dusted most horizontal surfaces and filled many cracks. Just before 6am, I walked the grounds in the dawning light without encountering a soul. It is like a small village with a fluctuating population averaging about 400 people. There are dormitory facilities for students of the Arava Institute, but otherwise it is made up of small, apparently single family dwellings. Some of the homes had wind chimes, intentional & tended gardens, and woven bamboo-esque barriers or arbors, many others had a more…let’s say casual appearance; outdoor seating areas made up of couches in a variety of deteriorating states, bicycles with flattened tires, a wide array of miscellaneous objects. Beautiful shady trees soften the simple cement block houses; palm, pomegranate, bougainvillea, a whole spectrum of plants my northwestern eyes have no clue about, and in the early morning, the trees were positively crawling with birds.

http://www.compassionatelistening.org/

Michelle, one of the Arava Institute staff, hosted Maha once before and made arrangements for her return to conduct an introductory Compassionate Listening workshop with a group of 40 students. Just before beginning, I asked Michelle, naively, how many nationalities were represented in the group. Michelle’s eyes widened and she explained that that was a rather complicated question for this group, to be returned to later.

Maha has co-led a number of delegations ~ “trips limited to 20 participants who have a genuine interest in the experience, hopes, dreams and suffering of all Israelis and Palestinians…Our journeys begin in Jerusalem with an intensive training in Compassionate Listening. We then practice with a wide spectrum of Israelis and Palestinians – seeking the humanity of each person we encounter.”) She invited me to join her on this journey, not in any formal capacity, but knowing me well, the work I’ve done in a variety of capacities, as a support for her. She explained to me later that had I not been coming and enthusiastic to join in, there is no way she would have agreed to do the workshop on this eve of her dissertation defense. As she explained the exercises she would introduce, they all seemed reminiscent of things I’ve encountered much in hospice volunteer training, with slightly different vocabulary, maybe a bit less formulaic, and no copyright.

She asked me to conduct a more ritual open and close meditation. The group was surprisingly engaged for the whole 3 hours, amazingly on board with doing the exercises ~ 1^st diad of listening to someone recount, for 3 minutes, something that is challenging them without verbal comment, then reverse, then debrief as a group. 2^nd in quads, one speaker, 3 listeners, each assigned with listening for facts, feelings or values, after the 3 minutes of the speaker speaking, moved around the circle with each listener articulating what they heard, then debrief as a group.

For a group of largely 20 somethings, I was quite impressed by the level of self awareness, sensitivity and insight that came forward in many of the comments. It was a delightful morning ~ the spirit of the group open, attentive, respectful, engaged, and curious! The morning was punctuated by several poignant interchanges with individual students.

Maha and I ambled up to the little Kibbutz café for a coffee before hitting the road. When we first walked up, there was a Kibbutz tour guide pointing out the barbed wire fence enclosing the land. She indicated the proximity to the Jordanian border and discouraged morning jogging as it tends to incite military attention. The tour moved on, leaving a tranquil patio for us to debrief about the morning. Most present in my heart and mind was how nourished I am by facilitation in this kind of capacity, particularly in the introduction of simple exercises of self awareness/ meditation. That’s home for me. In the year prior to my departure from Seattle, I have done some work with a group of Buddhist inmates out at Monroe (WSR), and will likely continue in that environment upon my return to Seattle. What was so striking in this context was the age group. Mostly 20 somethings, that period of life when there’s enough awareness and curiosity to engage, but the spirit is hmmm…a bit less calloused than we tend to become as we accrue life experience. Having waltzed in with no expectations, it was such a wonderful gift to feel my heart so opened by so many aspects of the morning.

With stimulated minds and spirits, Maha and I packed up our things and headed north for the journey home. I am humbled by my inability to visually illustrate the visual feast of that afternoon. Only in the southwest of the US have I ever encountered rock formations, mesas, valleys, plateaus which left me as awestruck as I was, we were for the duration of the afternoon. With ever turn, we kept gently prodding or even slapping the other in amazement with the landscape. As we wove down into a vast terrain of Ramon crater and back out again, the dialogue followed in tandem, curving and descending and reemerging.

After emerging from Ramon crater, we continued along more open stretches of arid land toward Be’er Sheva. Bedouin settlements began to appear. The Bedouins, historically nomadic people, have only in very recent decades been forced, by the Israeli government, to settle, and the parameters of their settlement have not always been favorable in terms of the needs of their own livelihood and communities. Villages are distinguished by clusters of tents and transient looking structures of corrugated metal and fabric, corralled goats, penned camels. In this region, a quintessentially appropriate wind was sweeping across the land, causing shredded patches of fabric to flutter. Maha explained the children in these communities routinely have terrible health problems and the women are some of the most oppressed in the world.

The most stunning image, which I did not photograph, was on the not so distant outskirts of Be’er Sheva; a city just under 200,000 people, small skyscrapers on the horizon as part of an evidently urban landscape. There in the foreground lay a vast expanse of open desert dense with Bedouin tents, dilapidated, torn, a ghostly landscape. The visual and energetic dichotomy was positively raw.

We lost the light shortly thereafter and made our way home without much delay. Although both weary, Maha more for the driving, our spirits remained light and joyful, buoyed by the vibrance and texture of our conversation, new threads being woven in and repeatedly cycling back to pick up fibers from hours or even days before.

 

Kayan ~ Feminist Empowerment within the Arab Community

Kayan ~ Feminist Empowerment within the Arab Community

Kayan, literally “Being” in Arabic, is a feminist organization established to bring feminist perspectives to Arab Society in Israel, and to advocate for women’s equal rights and status. Kayan is a capacity-building non-governmental organization dedicated to strengthening grassroots women. Kayan works to create and deliver programs that raise awareness and help increase women’s participation in communal and public life.

http://www.kayan.org.il

Monday, I drove with Maha back out into the Galilee for a meeting sponsored by Kayan, of which Maha is a board member. Approximately 120 women gathered from surrounding Arab villages to meet and discuss issues of public transportation. Here in order to get a driver’s license, one has to pay for 28 lessons, and then most people fail the exam the first time (which incurs additional fees). Many families survive with only one car, which Maha explained cost on average $10,000 more than the US. In most Arab villages there is no public transport, rendering many women stranded with limited resources to accomplish their basic household tasks, tend to the transport needs of their children, and get out of the house to visit their own family (particularly if in another village). Although the government funding is there, the initiation must occur at the village level. Kayan provides the support, the platform for grassroots organization by women to manifest change within their own villages. The meeting was focused on these issues and evidently conducted in Arabic. Early on in the meeting, there were passionate testimonials from women who have managed to establish bus lines in their villages who attended solely to provide support, counsel and encouragement to those at the beginning of the process

The organizer asked me to catalogue the day with my digital camera, which I did so willingly. Normally I am rather sheepish about pointing my lens in such settings for fear of invasiveness. With not only permission, but the sense that these photos might be of benefit for newsletters, fundraising etc., I happily ventured, with reasonably discrete telephoto lens, into portraiture and the capture of humans in relations to each other. It was a phenomenal visual feast of the most vibrant group of women. Perhaps 2/3rds wore head scarves, by there sides women in modern western dress and dark lochs flowing freely. It was another extraordinary opportunity to learn just a bit more about the life of the Arab population in Israel.

On our return drive, Maha spoke openly about what a blessing it has been to work with Kayan. She feels a part of something very vital and dynamic. Additionally, the welcoming of her involvement has offered a sense of acceptance here in this place which, while home on a variety of levels, continues to present her with a variety of experiences as foreigner/outsider; be it as an Palestinian in Israel, a westernized liberal Arab amongst those more conservative, or as an Arab of the diaspora with roots grown in the soil of many places.

Into the Galilee

Eilabun ~ Thumbnail Sketch of Jamal’s Family

We arrived in the Arab village of Eilabun, perhaps 10 miles west of the Sea of Galilee, Friday evening sometime after 9pm, most of the family already asleep. Jamal’s mother a miniscule fireball of a woman with a radiant eyes and smile was sitting cross legged watching a program commemorating the ‘Hezbollah martyrs‘ from the war in 2006. We were fed tremendously tender stuffed grape leaves and a bit of tea before being allocated our sleeping quarters.

I awoke Saturday morning about quarter to 5 to the melodic, male voice piping out from the minaret calling all to prayer. The voice was interwoven with the song of wind, an intermittent moan whirling up out of the expanse of the Lower Galilee.

2 years ago, Jamal’s parents decided to build a new house and, breaking with Arabic convention bought land in a village other than where they had lived and raised their children over decades. They envisioned a home that would accommodate large gatherings of their extensive family (9 children & perhaps as many or more grandchildren). Their large home constitutes 4 separate apartments, a central courtyard with open stairwell connecting the floors, an open rooftop, and a basement room entirely open which can accommodate large meetings of people. The courtyard is oriented east while the southwestern side, made up of windows and small balconies off each apartment, faces out onto a vast open valley of undulating hills.

During our overnight stay, I was introduced to all those who live in the family compound: parents, two of Jamal’s sisters, one with 2 daughters, and the youngest brother. There were also appearances by another brother, a lawyer living in Haifa with his 2 ½ year old twins, and another daughter. It is quite common for the family to gather Friday or Saturdays.

Languid Day of Leisure

Saturday morning, things unfolded slowly; time in the courtyard sipping tea, later Arabic coffee (finely ground with cardamom) shared on one of the balconies with leisurely conversation. The dialogue on the balcony was an indication of just how unique and progressive a family I was in the presence of.

Kifa, one of the sisters, studied at university in Jerusalem and now works for two NGOs in Haifa; one related to advocacy for Arab rights in Israel, one focused on empowering Arab women via training to establish small businesses, gain skills and economic independence. In addition, partly inspired by study and work related to Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, she has begun to envision and work toward the creation of an ecological Arab village. There are a few Jewish villages in Israel with an ecological orientation and focus. There have been no new Arab villages created since 1948. She explained someday there may be an ecological village created for Jews and Arabs together, or even a more globally oriented village. However, she believes that work must be inspired by one’s own personal narrative, and for her it is the vision of an Arab village.

During balcony dialogue amongst Maha, the sisters and myself, there was surprising candor, particularly by Kifa about recent experiences with therapists of a variety of alternative paradigms of physical and emotional health. From a recently attended a four day workshop for Jewish & Arab women inviting them to explore their relationship with the earth, to recent work with a practitioner helping her to open multiple chakras. This discussion occurred perched on a balcony overlooking the Lower Galilee, sipping cups of Arabic coffee, Kifa painting my toes with bright pink nail polish.

Mid morning, Jamal’s mother set to cooking a kind of flat bread, rolled and dry fried, lathered on top with either a layer of onions & peppers or one of sesame seeds, something herbal and olive oil…all done there in the courtyard, eaten with a variety of savory things for a late breakfast. As the sun flooded the breakfast table, we adjourned after eating back to the balcony on the same floor.

The Nourishment of Touch

Jamal’s mother is a village herbalist, not in any formal way, rather self taught she spoke, via Maha’s translation, about the plants from her garden from which she makes oils and tinctures, without which (after decades of smoking) she believes she would be in much worse condition. She spoke to me about lavender, rosemary, basil, a variety of other herbs I could not identify by appearance or smell.

Moved to make a gesture of appreciation and intimacy for the mama’s openness and warmth, I asked Maha if I could massage her feet with some of the oil. When the mama floated back on to the balcony with her Arabic book of herbs & medicinal function, I told her she was next, to which she acquiesced. And so into my hands I took the feet of first Maha, then mama, and later Lili (one of the sisters); slowly working the rough edges of toes and callous.

Drive into the Hills of the Lower Galilee

Midday, Maha and I headed out on a drive to the Sea of Galilee, to give me a chance to see the landscape and visit a few holy sites from the era of Christ. Having read the bible as a child, even studied it in my Catholic high school, the Beatitudes, Capernaum, Tabgha all ring vague bells, however if I were Christian they would assuredly have been more meaningful. As it was, I found myself far more intrigued by simply drinking in the landscape; open, somewhat lonely in its arid quality of butter colored rock, dry soil blanketed in olive trees, some banana plantations, the occasional brilliant splash of bougainvillea, crimson, peach, magenta.

Insight into this Divided Nation

In small increments, dozens of short and lengthy conversations since my arrival, Maha has been helping me to understand the realities, evidently from her perspective, of the social and political environment of this incredibly complex country. As we had driven east from Haifa the day before, Maha commented on certain components of Arab villages. How can you tell the difference, I asked. By tomorrow, you’ll be able to tell, she said. The difference in appearance of Arab vs Jewish villages provides an interesting illustration of many elements present in this country.

It is extremely difficult for Arabs to acquire land in Israel. Additionally, there are severe limitations placed on how their village can develop and expand. Consequently, Arab villages are distinctly characterized by organic or haphazard organization, just sort of growing in all directions making the implementation of infrastructure challenging. The architectural style is decidedly geometric, as here in Kababir; box like buildings simply level off in flat roofs, many small windows embedded in vast expanses of concrete. Many unfinished houses stand as cavernous cement structures because families ran out of money midway. Many that are finished remain as raw concrete which, when people have the money, are finished & covered with the light, sand colored stone tile…but many people never have the money and so the blocks of cement remain uncovered, unpainted.

Jewish villages tend to be (although I have only witnessed them so far from a distance), more orderly, the houses more western style white walls with peaked roofs tiled in brick. On the way back to Eilabun on our drive, Maha asked me to identify each village we passed, and it was incredibly obvious which was which.

The more I come to know Maha, the more I am astounded by her strength, her intellect, her aspiration to greater self awareness & understanding, and her desire to teach others about the tools of self awareness and deep listening as a means for cultivating peace, for being alive. Her life experience has included different chapters in Libya, Egypt, Jordan, England, the US and now Israel (the birthplace of her parents). With her own deep and multifaceted understanding of the systemic discrimination by the State and the Jewish population against the Arab population in Israel, the crux of her PhD examines the myriad ways that the Arab population sabotages itself in ways which limit economic development, legal & civil rights, and political advances. Sometimes this sabotage arises in the form of blaming the State and relinquishing individual responsibility. Additionally, it’s Maha’s belief that choices are made by both individuals and constellations of the Arab population which are, at times, rooted in passive aggression, at times more blatant antagonism for the years of discrimination.

When I asked her if she could be Queen and do anything for this conflicted and divided nation, she said she wouldn’t change anything. Her only desire is to teach people about self awareness and then let them do their own work, whatever the outcome. She reflected back on the balcony dialogue with the sisters about chakra openings, alternative healing paradigms etc., “Thank God for the Jews!” she said. “Israel is unlike any of its neighbors…you won’t find this openness in Jordan, not in Syria…only here because of this amazing meeting of so many people from so many places.”

Closing Call to Prayer

After a several hour drive, we returned to the house to share a late afternoon meal with the family, more lounging, and quite a bit of time with me sitting quietly as a flurry of Arabic was spouted back and forth across the courtyard. My experiences in Eilabun reminded me vividly of earlier travels and the experience of simply witnessing (particularly in Nepal before I spoke the language). In such circumstances, I would like to think I have learned to make my presence relatively small and unobtrusive, allowing the people around me to carry on as they normally would, as I drink in the details of a foreign world. Maha indicated that the family seemed totally at ease and utterly themselves.

Although we had intentions to leave while there was still light in the sky, facilitating a stop in Nazareth on the way home, the afternoon passed in its own languid manner. We walked down to the car after the sun dropped below the hills, and here it is dark within 30 minutes after that threshold has been crossed. Traveling like a silken ribbon on the wind, the same melodic male voice rose from the minaret calling all to prayer at the tail of the day.

It was only on the car ride home that Jamal commented to me what a gift my visit had been for his parents. He was almost certain that in his entire life, he had never seen his mother willingly place her feet in the hands of someone to be massaged as I had done that morning.

More Adventures in Haifa

Not the Quintessential Tourist

 

Thursday, having been oriented to major landmarks, I left Maha to work on her dissertation, and ventured off by foot in the direction of the German Colony and the Bahá’í world center & gardens. Since my travels in Nepal years ago, I have held a great fondness for travel by foot, regularly incorporating it in my Seattle life for commuting to work, school and the errands of daily life. Even with a path entirely of stone steps and hot cement in Haifa, there is joy for me in walking at the pace most natural for this biped.

I’ve never made a particularly good tourist. The standard museum headset and tour activities tend to leave me feeling malnourished. During the visit of the Bahá’í center, our guide offered small morsels of history, the persecution, imprisonment & death of its founder Bahá’u'lláh, and the creation of the gardens 20 years ago after decades of donations amassed from devotees of the Bahá’í faith. I found the gardens both exquisitely beautiful and somewhat soulless.

I walked for the remainder of the sultry afternoon; walking through back streets of the German Colony just to meander and later to stop for lemonade at the Elikas café, owned by a friend of Maha’s, back up the long hill into the Carmel, through its commercial bustle and back down through the Kababir arriving just before sunset.

Later in the evening, Maha and I returned to same area for a drink in one of the cafés. She explained that when she first came to live for several months in Haifa, the summer of ’97, there was only one café along this now trendy and vital strip. She explained that in the restaurants and cafés of this area, like in the Carmel, it is not uncommon to have Jews & Arabs intermingling; both those employed in a given locale and those meeting socially. Haifa does not have a higher percentage of Arabs than the rest of Israel, perhaps 14%. However, both Maha and Jamal believe there is more integration of the communities. Maha further articulated it is hard for her to imagine living anywhere else in Israel. Here she finds a comfortable merging of East and West, ancient and modern.

 

 

Afternoon in Akko (Acre)

Every 4th Friday, Jamal has a day off work. Leaving Maha at home to continue writing, we ventured off first to Jamal’s gym; him for a yoga class giving me the opportunity to get some laps in the pool, as I have been delighted to do back in Belgium. It is interesting to note differences and constant elements of pool environments in different locales. Some constants include the non-verbal swimmer’s nod and the proclivity to more agro behavior in response to indiscretions in pool etiquette.

People’s ethnic and cultural backgrounds are so wildly heterogeneous in Israel that my features and dress don’t immediately betray that I am not of this place. People commonly begin speaking to me in Hebrew to which I apologetically respond in English. At the pool I had a number of lovely human interactions, people very eager to strike up conversation and find out where I’m from and what on earth I’m doing swimming laps in Haifa.

In contrast to my experiences of soullessness at the Bahá’í gardens, my afternoon with Jamal in Akko was all about the character and soul of a place. Having parked the car on the street, we walked a couple hundred feet, flagged down and hopped into a taxi; a version of small mini bus that figures into the public transportation system here, maximum capacity of 12 people.

I learned on our taxi ride north, that Jamal was actually raised with his grandparents in Akko between the ages of 1-5. Jamal is the eldest of 9 children and when his little brother came along, his mother gave him into the hands of his grandparents. Jamal relates to Akko as home in the deepest sense.

We began our tour by walking through the old market of clothing and toys, vegetables and fresh baked Arab sweets, bread, fish and spices; all enveloped in the pungence of raw, organic matter as really doesn’t exist in the western world. Having woven our way through the market of the old city, Jamal placed us in a mob of people at the doors of Humus Said, the most renown humus and pita joint in Akko. We waited in the mob, slowly inching forward, until a table was available. Seated we gorged ourselves on fresh pita, creamy warm humus, tomatoes, olives, onions etc. Stuffed to the gills, we carried on and thankfully walked for the rest of the afternoon which allowed our bodies to integrate some of the mass of the meal.

Akko was a historically fortified city and the wall, some 5000 years old, stands in pieces demarcating the old village which is entirely populated by Arabs. Jamal showed me the house in which he grew up, onto another area where his grandparents lived later. He spoke about the importance of his maternal uncle who died some years ago of cancer, describing him as a man who had great joy and zest for life, a quality Jamal believes he ‘inherited’ from his uncle.

The uncle and his wife gave birth to 7 daughters, all of which, I believe, still live in Akko. We walked up a flight of stairs to the open terrace of the family home. A vibrant group of adults and maybe a dozen children were seated together, just sharing in the afternoon. The two men in the circle were smoking from a tall hooka, tobacco perfused with apple and anise. They are a more conservative family, some but not all of the women wearing head coverings. This is evidently in contrast to Jamal’s own family which is, apparently, very progressive, free, open, and more expressive.

We walked on and spoke of the changes within the Arab population over time. Jamal explained that a decade ago, very few if any young Arab women covered their heads, but it has returned with the rise of the global Islamic movement. It grieves Jamal to see women covering themselves in this way, even though he now can find both respect and even beauty in the more traditional dress and values of the Arab community in a way he never did as a child.

This entire walking dialogue, through narrow streets of pale sand stone buildings, past green signs posted with statements from the Koran invoking the presence of Allah, amongst women walking in long sleeves & covered heads, was conducted, to my quiet delight, with Jamal unabashedly wearing a dark blue t-shirt, a gift from the Quaker community, which boldly stated in a splash of white letters “Real Men Listen“. Jamal’s sensitivity and thoughtfulness are extraordinary and it was a delight to share the afternoon.