Journey to Palestine: Day 8

*Names have been changed.

Friday. It’s hot and humid. One of those days where the time between having a shower and getting dressed is all it takes for you to be in need of another shower. I cut my nails using someone else’s clippers, mines being damaged beyond repair by airport officials. Maybe they thought it was a sophisticated weapon of some sort or perhaps one guy decided to clip his nails whilst another ruffled through my bags. I don’t know. As a representative of Unipal, I’m required to wear a shirt and trousers at all times during my stay in the camp (outside of the community centre). On that day, I just happened to wear the tightest pair of grey trousers I had with me as well as a dark shirt. I’m not entirely sure what goes through my head at times, if any 'thinking' actually takes place or how I come to make such decisions. Needless to say, the next couple of hours were...let’s just say uncomfortable (and sticky).

I remember stepping out into the unbearable heat, my naked feet silently screaming as they reddened almost immediately. It was noon and the call to prayer did little to distract me from the heat as I made the lonesome walk to the masjid for the Friday prayer. As I made the brisk walk, cursing myself for the treacherous choice of attire, I started to think about the spiritual condition of the Palestinians. Lest I digress, perhaps it's best that I elaborate on this in another post. I entered the masjid swiftly, almost physically embracing the shade in gratitude, the cotton shirt sticking to my back. The place was quite full and made me wonder where all the people had come from. I changed my seating position a few times during the sermon which lasted 50 minutes, far longer than what I’m used to back in the UK. This may be the norm for many people but I also found it peculiar that the Imam was dressed in Western attire and didn’t have a beard – it’s just something unheard of back in the UK, in my small town anyway. The only occurrence which saddened me was how the salah commenced with several rows still incomplete. Many people insisted on remaining at the back so they could conveniently leave without being held up. For me, this was a big deal.

After salah, I sat for a while longer, my knees cradled by my arms; God knows what I was thinking. I was then startled as I felt someone take hold of my arm. It was a man; he said two words in a manner which made it sound like a matter of life and death: “Come! Food!”.ife and deathfe and deatfelt a refuse to hold anything I ate liablegood but it was for selfish reasons - I n  his house, a leat I was expected elsewhere so I promised him that I would meet him at the masjid for Asr (the third prayer of the day) and I would visit his home for some tea. A plethora of promises and the constant tweaking of schedules were common occurrences during my time in Palestine.

It’s the hottest it’s been since we arrived and I leave the masjid to encounter complete stillness. Apart from a handful of people, most of the locals are indoors. The shops are closed and even those that remain on the street hasten towards their homes. And just like that, the place is suddenly deserted.

As promised, I later meet Ahmed at the masjid. I see him before salah in his usual spot at the back of the masjid where he sits with his back leaning against the wall, accompanied by his ever-present rosary beads. He ushers me towards him to remind me of our arrangement, which I confirm with a nod.

After salah, he tells me to sit with him for a while. His English is quite good and we talk for a few minutes before being joined by a couple of others. One is his best friend, someone you’ll be familiar with if you’ve read the earlier posts – the dude who kinda offered me his daughter – no biggie. The other is a man who I’ve seen around a few times but never spoken to. He doesn’t speak English but he appears to be very humble, a smile that’s warm but not too wide, leading me to believe that he was fairly reserved. He sits and I greet him; he shakes my hand gently and looks down most of the time.  Ahmed then looked at me and spoke in a deep, manly voice, which he put on every time he said my name: “Ismaeeel, this is Baha.” Nothing, I repeat, nothing, could have prepared me for what he said next. So, waaait for it. After the quick introduction, (keeping in mind the notion that first impressions are lasting), the first fact I’m told about Baha is that: “His brother, great! His brother”...He then made what I describe as a ‘firework gesture’ with his hands, followed by a “POW!” that seemed to forcefully escape from his mouth in one swift outtake of breath. Urrm, ooookay. He followed it up with, “He kill many soldiers.” It then went quiet. At that point, I immediately looked at Baha whose expressionless face started to nod as if to confirm Ahmed’s account of the story. Although Baha spoke no English, Ahmed’s gestures posed no ambiguity.

At that precise moment, I felt...nothing. Nothing and everything. I realised that what I’d just been told was a massive deal but the reason I felt nothing was because I genuinely did not know what to feel and as dumb as this sounds, it made sense at the time. Man is a creature of emotion, which takes time to decipher at the best of times. There is no way I could ever condone a person who jumped into the jaws of inevitable death but after seeing what I’ve seen and knowing what I know, how could I ever condemn it? So the reason I felt nothing was that although I failed to understand what could compel a person to take their own life, I refused to make a judgment whilst never having been in a situation that would push me to even consider taking my own; a situation where my liberty was truly at stake.

Ahmed and I stand up to leave and we all part ways. Still coming to terms with what I’ve just heard, I follow Ahmed as he leads the way to his home. I look back frequently, marking the path with imaginary breadcrumbs so that I can easily find my way back to the community centre. We finally arrive at his home, a simple structure with attached leaves shrouding the window as an alternative to curtains. I wait outside as he ushers the womenfolk into another room. He calls me inside and I enter, greeting his young son who stands there with a cheeky smile before running out of the room in shy retreat. I hear whispers of “Ajnabee” emanating from the adjacent room as young girls peer through a curtain that acts as a partition and they clumsily draw back as they realise that I’m aware of their antics.

Whilst we waited for the tea to arrive, we discussed many things – I spoke about my family, life in Britain and the education system. We talked about the home his family owned in 1948 and his undying hope to return to his home village of ‘Sumayy’ - (I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s called). I was desperate to find out more but I couldn’t build up the courage to ask whether his hope was genuine or an idea he had become habituated with and strengthened over time. Tears form in his eyes when he talks about the land that once belonged to his family, later overrun by Jews who had migrated from Yemen. He closes his eyes, smiles and deeply inhales: “I can still smell lots of fruit – lemons and grapes.” The smile on his face is not contrived; I feel it’s rather an impulse reaction as he takes us back to a time before he was born.

He is only 44 years of age but the premature wrinkles on his face, the overpowering grey in his hair and his tired eyes have aged him beyond his years. The contrast of his forlorn smile and overflowing eyes are yet another reminder of just how deeply affected the people are Palestine are, having to relive the same nightmare every single day, the occupation a seemingly endless memento of what happened all those years ago. However, the strength with which he narrates his story, his posture upright and his voice unfaltering, are also a significant indication of the Palestinians’ incessant hope. He remains fairly calm most of the time but there are moments where his rage bursts through his smile. One such moment was when he described the time when the Yemeni Jews proudly confessed of their transgressions against his family, a vicious taunt in the aftermath of unconcealed oppression. He concludes with this statement, which I take like a dagger to my heart: “One day, it was ours and the next day, we are strangers in our own land.” He snaps his fingers to denote how quickly the world as his family knew it had changed. There is absolutely nothing you can say in such a situation and even if I wanted to, I would’ve choked. The tea arrived just in time, blended with ‘sage’, (which in Arabic is ‘maramiyyah’, one of my favourite words) and he assures me it is a fail-safe remedy for my stomach ache.

We spent the evening with Muhammad (introduced in Day 7) who had invited us for dinner even though his household had been without clean water for a few days. So much love. He has a special place in my heart. We had dinner just outside of his house, a plastic mat forming the base of a lush spread of simplicity – hummus and olive oil eaten with bread. Eating dinner outside on a warm, moonlit night, the sound of kids laughing as they chased one another, it was bliss. Blissful and also entertaining as Darren, a friend of mine was subjected to a painful dose of herbal remedy - A friend of the host brutally sanded his arm down with fresh garlic to ease the swelling caused by a wasp sting. His face – priceless : )

The evening comes to an end with the news that hundreds of pro-Palestinian activists had been denied access into Israel and they were to be sent home. Their crime? Peaceful activism. It’s a tragic irony that their detention and subsequent ill-treatment resulted from their decision to speak the truth regarding the purpose of their visit. But their story has been told and retold so I’m confident so their efforts were not in vain.

I slept badly again that night. In an act of self-veneration, I’d love to say it was due to some greater good but no, it was for selfish reasons – I had a stomach ache (but I refuse to hold anything I ate liable and if so, totally worth it).

Journey to Palestine: Day 7

I had trouble sleeping in the night. It becomes very difficult once you acknowledge the likelihood of a mosquito being in the room. I killed many, leaving their splattered bodies scattered around as a warning to the others but it only seemed to aggravate them. I feel as I have been in Palestine for months and this is a good thing; a testament to how easy the locals have made it for us to dwell among them as equals and an indication to how hard it’s going to be for me to leave this place. It was quite liberating to hear the call of prayer at dawn, something I’m not accustomed to; although the morning battle to get out of bed is universal, sleeping on a firm mattress on the floor made it that much easier to part with it. I also embraced the morning ‘wudhu’, the cool water providing some relief against the intense humidity.

As I left my rucksack back in the UK due to overweight luggage, the short walk to the school involved carrying my classroom resources in a plastic carrier bag whilst dragging my feet, gradually making the transition to full consciousness. Every day was a fresh surge of embarrassment as my contemporaries neatly carried their belongings in a bag strapped to their back, and I made my homeless entry into the school. Kids would often enquire: “What’s this?” ...pointing to the transparent bag, adding insult to injury. We would arrive at the girls school by approximately 8:30am, just in time for tea/coffee and a snack – oh yes, the Palestinians don’t do things half heartedly.  

I walked into the classroom and shouted “Good morning class!” The girls enthusiastically shouted “Good morning Ismail” in response, each pupil trying to outdo the other. I finished my tea as the girls patiently sat there, waiting for me to speak.  It was Thursday and I had promised them that this would mean (even) more fun and less work, marking the last day before the weekend (Friday and Saturday constituting the weekend). I grew fonder of my girls each day; each day a different encounter. I asked one of the girls, Khadija, to stand up. I wanted to teach the class a game and use her as an example of how the game worked but the language barrier meant that body language was our primary form of communication. Khadija was a real character, not shy to speak her mind and also one of the older pupils. Every time I told her to stand up, she would tilt her head back, grin and give the same cheeky response: “Laysh?” meaning “Why?” I laughed every time, having to use an elaborate charade in trying to explain what I wanted her to do. After kissing her teeth at me, the standard Palestinian trademark of rebellion, she usually played along.

The game we first played was called ‘Fast Fingers’. It entails two players standing opposite each other with their hands behind their back, akin to something out of Family Fortunes. The rest of the class would shout “1, 2, 3” and on 3, the players would stretch forth their hands, revealing a number; i.e. one person might point out their two index fingers, which would signify the number 2. The players must then add up the numbers on their hands together with the numbers on the other player’s hand and the first to shout the sum of the two numbers out, wins. Simples. They loved it. Such a simple game but the girls were really competitive and weren’t always gracious in defeat. The game proved really popular, overrunning the time I had planned for it but they were enjoying themselves and that was the important thing. The class ended with the classic ‘Pass the Parcel’ – something I feel was a first for the class. I don’t recall what the prize was, some girly accessory. The girl who won came to me after class with her hand extended towards me, still holding the accessory and asked inquisitively: “Me, home?” It nearly broke my heart. I smiled, put my arm around her and said “Of course, you’re the winner!” I had to throw her out (not in a nasty way) just to get her to stop thanking me and take the prize home. Moments like this made it all worth it.

I was due a good lesson with the boys and to my pleasant surprise, the lesson started out great. I needed something that was engaging but not too strenuous to keep them interested and most of them responded really well to a word search. However, I quickly learnt that it was near impossible to hold their attention for too long. No matter how interesting the lesson was, and don’t for one moment doubt that they were, the class would start to get agitated after about 45 minutes. Then, shouts of “Play” and “Outside” rapidly reverberated around the room. I couldn’t really blame them as it was hot and there was usually something going on outside to distract them. I was particularly fascinated with one boy who gave the impression that he just did not want to be there. It’s funny because none of the boys, as far as I was aware, were obliged to attend. He would turn up and simply refuse to partake in any activity. He would sit there with his head resting on his folded arms or become engrossed in sidetracking others. Maybe it was in the knowledge that attendance was a prerequisite to be able to partake in the school trip. I’m not sure. Again, ‘Fast Fingers’ was also a success with the boys and something I resorted to in future lessons that needed reviving.

In addition to teaching at the schools, I was scheduled to have two further projects – one in Hebron, namely working at the university and one project working in the camp. However, the girls I was supposed to teach were preparing for their ‘Towjeehi’ exams; I believe they’re the equivalent of UK A Level exams and a massive deal in Palestine.  For me however, it was frustrating. It meant that I was a project light and at this stage, it was unclear whether something would materialise soon – not good, considering we weren’t there for very long. I used the free time to prepare for the school lesson on Sunday and my first lesson at the university.

Around lunchtime, we would usually sit in the kitchen, discussing our classes and preparing for our afternoon projects. Other classes were usually taking place in the community centre so we didn’t want to disturb them. Then, one of the workers at the community centre, a young woman in her 20s asked us for our email addresses. She was modest, softly spoken and she spoke English very well. Her voice soon became monotonous as she recalled a short chapter of her story, her voice breaking as she forced out single words at a time. One thing you quickly pick up on in Palestine is that everyone has a story to tell, everyone – beyond each welcoming smile and each boisterous laugh of a child lies a dark, dark tale, locked up and hesitant to show its true colours. She tells us of how she was offered a scholarship to study in London but had to decline due to the struggles her family faced. Her brother had been killed when he was just in his 20s; this is something she lives with every day and I doubt something she will ever recover from. They were close. She then directed her protests towards us, her eyes full of questions. She takes us back to the day she received a phone-call informing her that her brother had been killed - a gunshot to the leg. “How can he die like that?” she demands. “Does a bullet in the leg kill you?” What could we possibly say? The truth is that his injuries told a different story. It is believed that he was thrown off a hill or a mountain, the bottom of which resided a Palestinian family who were well acquainted with the family of the deceased. She leaves the room abruptly, the story seemingly incomplete. Our weak minds had absorbed beyond their scope and maybe she had sensed it. I refuse to forget her. I meet her later. I told her that she’s my sister and that we would always have a connection, long after I leave the camp, and we hold up our ends of the bargain by frequently exchanging emails.  

It seems tasteless to continue this post after such a tragic tale but I feel it’s important to tell you what makes Palestine so amazing. That night, dinner was immense. A lot of our meals were the result of invitations so kindly extended towards us, a tribute to Palestinian hospitality and I extend a challenge to all readers to locate a more hospitable community. Today, we were taken care of by some of the ladies who carry out administrative work at the community centre where we stayed. Oh how I regret not remembering what most of the things are called but we were spoilt with vine leaves, a cucumber-esque vegetable stuffed with rice and a date-centred cake thingy for dessert. My mouth is watering just reminiscing back to that day and I now love going to Arab restaurants knowing what I want and being able to recognise large parts of the menu.

I also visited the local cafe for the first time tonight. A large, modern, cabin-like structure; a paradox of its badly maintained surroundings. In addition to the free drink I’m treated to, we get two drinks, an ‘arghila’, plus we get to play pool, all for £4 – Sorry, I just had to get that in there. Some people are cautious of our presence in the camp and ask whether one of my colleagues is Jewish. He isn’t. We brush it off with a nervous laugh and enjoy a football match that’s showing on one of the two TVs.

Another guy that showed us a lot of love was Muhammad – a guy in his mid 20s, hair slicked back, sleeves rolled up and sporting a thin, neatly trimmed beard. He walked with a swagger, holding his hands behind his back, carrying a small entourage who ran things by him. Definitely assumed to be the leader of the group, he was the only one that spoke English. He laughed loudly and was fun to be around. They were the cool ‘shabab’ (youth) of the camp. Just before Maghrib, a couple of us took a walk with them onto the main road, perpendicular to the entrance of the camp. En route, I indulged in some sour grapes that I picked off vines that were within easy reach. Muhammad laughed as he handed me a handful of sunflower seeds. I reluctantly accepted them, many of the seeds falling to the ground through my poorly cupped hands. I only discovered that I liked them once I was told that the seed had to be extracted from its shell. I had been eating them whole this whole time – not a smart move from a person who is often (mis)construed as being quite intelligent lol.

We arrived at a wall that was situated at the side of the main road, the wall overlooking a brook. Two boys were already there, filling up containers of water and securing them onto the back of a donkey. There’s often a water shortage in the camp so many people are forced to travel to nearby brooks and streams to collect water and this one was said to be the nearest one for miles. We sat on the wall, drinking something fizzy, eating wafers and trying to look natural as the ‘shabab’ took pictures of us from all angles. We had done nothing to earn the celebrity status but I just remember basking in it. It was serene. I made ‘wudhu’ (ablution) down by the brook and prayed Maghrib nearby. We then made our way back into the camp.

There are a lot of weddings that were scheduled to take place once we arrived as a lot of couples tend to get married before the start of Ramadhan. The night led us to one of those weddings. We received the customary coffee upon arrival – a shot of strong loveliness, and we weren’t going to be left alone. We got so much attention and I was just happy to be a part of it. Weddings are not really my scene and the vocal merriment and dancing was not something I’m used to so I tried my best to avoid the whole...OK, I danced a little but there’s no evidence of it...I think.

We made our way back to where we were staying, catching the dazzling moon in its first quarter as the light broke through its desert red exterior. Yes, it WAS that good. Eerie but beautiful. We took pictures and everything :) We arrive back at the community centre and I had my first lukewarmish shower since our arrival – Alhamdulillah, gotta count my blessings.

There’s not a day that passes when I don’t think about Palestine. The people there had such an impact on my life and left an imprint on my heart. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it was the single best experience of my life and no sooner had I returned, I started thinking about how quickly it was possible for me to go back there.

Bring on the weekend :)

Journey to Palestine: Day 6

*My notes for Day 6 were really brief, hence the brevity of this post.

 **All the names in this post have been changed.

I went to Palestine to witness the extent of the occupation, to see how Palestinians deal with the occupation and ultimately, use their experiences to reflect on my own life, retelling their story to others. However, the truth is that for a lot of the time, I found it very difficult to think about anything other than my classes and the preparation related to it. In between teaching at the schools, our afternoon projects and visiting the wonderful locals, very little time remained for us to adequately prepare for our lessons. What’s more, all of the resources we used for the entire duration were those that we had personally bought from back home.  We relied on sharing to get us through our days. Before I arrived in Palestine, I was told to ensure that my classes were fun and that the kids’ enjoyment held precedence. I may have taken this advice a little too far and I have to admit, I resorted to making my lessons 90% fun, 10% educational, largely due to my lack of preparation.

ernoon projects and visiting the wonderful locals, very little time remained for us t 

As promised, I took some photographs of my family to show the kids at school. I thought it would be a nice introduction to the lesson; a visual usually helps to engage students quickly and gives the class something to talk about. The class commenced in more or less the same way as yesterday and time crept away, leaving us little time to do something productive. The girls impatiently grabbed at the photographs; I reassured them that there were plenty to go around but they couldn’t stay in their seats as they spoke over each other in their native tongues. I encouraged them to speak in English and through much effort, they managed to voice a word or two which encompassed all their thoughts on a particular photograph.  They smiled and giggled, innocently describing all that they saw as ‘beautiful’, limited by their English language, as they came to terms with the long, flowing beards decorating the men and the hijabs that adorned the women. Muslims the world over are bound by religion. On my arrival, I was just another Brit and even with my name, the locals still overlooked my affiliation with Islam. So once they knew, it was lovely to have that acknowledged connection with them. It also helped me gain the trust of the locals very quickly.

The day’s lesson focussed on going over the different parts of the body. As the level of their English was very basic, we needed to focus on vocabulary; and what better way to do this than ‘Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes!’ One girl picked up the song quicker than the others so I put her in charge of leading the class as I used the time to display some of the work the girls had produced the day before. Then, Sara, one of the girls raised her hand. She waited for me to allow her to speak – which was not the case with all the girls. I told her to speak but she didn't say anything. She simply stood up, silencing the rest of the class. I wasn't quite prepared for what followed. She...She started to sing...angelically and in perfect English. I was taken aback. I was left standing as she graced the classroom with at least two verses of “We Shall Overcome,” a poignant song associated with the African-American Civil Rights Movement and even more apt, published in 1947.  Seriously, google it if you haven’t heard it – maybe it will give you a better understanding if you hear the words of the song. The last place I’d heard it was in a movie somewhere in a similar setting and THAT nearly brought me to tears so you can only imagine! A dark cloud hung over me, the sweet melancholy of her voice embracing us as I forced a smile. The song is one of hope so I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. Maybe because it was a cruel and sudden reminder of the situation in Palestine or maybe because I had somehow convinced myself that the children were not totally aware of the atrocities going on around them. The children were quick to invalidate this false conviction over the next few weeks. I found it increasingly disturbing how one moment, the children would be laughing heartily and the next, it would become forlorn, a silent retort to the mention of ‘soldiers’ or ‘Israeel’. It was always more painful to experience this with the girls. The boys were more callous and abrupt with their views but the girls found it more difficult to vent; I feared they were letting it all build up inside them and that’s why it hurt more when the girls’ lessons took an unplanned political detour.

Today, the boys were disruptive – The End : D

After school, the nerves started to kick in again as I prepared myself for more introductions. The afternoon took me to ‘Jaamiatal Quds Maftoohah’  - the Open University situated in Hebron. It was one of the projects I had been allocated and this was a preliminary meeting to give me a better understanding regarding the level the students were working at and also gave me an opportunity to introduce myself. I was quite shy, only natural when you walk into a classroom of students where some are older than you, only to meet gazes full of expectation. A quick question and answer session helped me to divide the students into two groups and Fatima, the student coordinator really helped put me at ease with her brilliant English. She was cool and the rest of the class clearly held her in high esteem. I decided that I would teach the higher level students – a nice contrast to teaching the kids at school. The students were very excited, asking me through beaming smiles what the topics for the forthcoming sessions would be. Oh, how unprepared I was! I was set for an interesting few weeks.

I then joined a couple of the others at H2. One of the volunteers was teaching English there to a group called ‘Youth Against Settlements’, headed by a very big fish indeed, Muhammad, who was at the forefront of changing a local street name in protest of the occupation. At the time, he was having a meeting with the founder of a giant in the corporate world in regards to funding. A massive company. Collosal! One we’ve all probably used at some point in our lives. It was really exciting news and I’m dying to bare all it but I think it’s something I’d lose sleep over. More importantly, I’m aware that there are a few people from Israel that have viewed this page. It may be a coincidence that some Russians have also viewed it lol. Perhaps it’s paranoia but hey, better paranoia than (effectively) suicide.

Till my next post,

Assalamualaykum 

Journey to Palestine: Day 5

The first day of summer-school swiftly dawns upon us and butterflies begin their morning rush, right on schedule.  We arrive at the girls’ school to find them standing in straight lines, a few girls deviating in rebellion, trying to catch our attention.  Their ages range from 7-15. It’s difficult not to smile amid the commotion and the stares of eager anticipation as the children yearn to know who their teacher will be for the next four weeks.  And believe me, the anticipation was mutual.

heir teacher and their personalities shone through very quick

We’re soon allocated our classes and given the nod to lead our girls to the classrooms.  The average age of the girls I taught was circa 11 and the level of their English was very basic.  I’d like to think my kids were happy to have been allocated me as their teacher and once we were in the classroom, their personalities shone through immediately.  They were not as shy as I thought they would be, considering they weren’t used to being taught by a young male teacher.  I smiled as I identified the quiet ones, the loud ones, the mischievous ones, the bright ones, the ones looking to impress.  I chuckled at the sound of all these questions suddenly being thrown at me: 

“Are you Muslim?”  “Your sister?”  “You love Palestine?” 

My girls were a real breath of fresh air.  at the sound of all these questions suddenly being thrown at me:They wore the biggest smiles and some flaunted a cheeky swagger, which I found hilarious. I assured them that all their questions would eventually be answered and quite frankly, I found it difficult to even start the lesson I had prepared the night before. All in all, they were brilliant; their mischief never crossed the line and I decided not to go through the rules as I intended; it proved unnecessary.  This, I found to be a recurring episode – i.e. nothing usually went to plan and no matter how well prepared I showed up, there was always something novel waiting to bite me in the ass and test me to my limits.  This was more apparent with the boys anyway.

I eventually managed to start the lesson.  The girls made their mock passports and we practised the basic structure of likes and dislikes.  I discovered very early that many of the children lacked creativity, that imaginative spark that children in the UK seem to develop so intuitively.  It’s easily taken for granted.  Maybe this stemmed from a fear of revealing too much but I found many of the girls to be reluctant to express their likes and dislikes and were much more inclined to simply reproduce my work.  I also considered that the lack of their English language skills may have contributed to their reluctance.  

The class lasted for 90 minutes before we made our way to the boys’ school, located next to the girls’ school.  There was more of an aura of chaos that you just get with boys – the shouting a little wilder and their movements a little unnatural, as they nearly deafened us with raucous cheers and animated impressions of their favourite wrestlers.  I took a deep breath.  We were assigned a boys class each, roughly the equivalent of our girls classes in terms of age and level.  The boys followed me towards the class until we were out of sight, after which they ran past me, definitely an illegal move, and scurried to the classroom before me.

I stepped into the classroom to find two of the kids standing on top of the desks; they looked at me and laughed.  In hindsight, the most hilarious thing about the whole episode was that they looked at me like a deer unwittingly caught in headlights.  But I was like, use a havoc.  But I was like, hey looked at in a way you look at a teacher who unexpectedly catches the most hilarious thing “Dude, you knew I was coming, I was like 10 seconds behind you!”  They giggled as they stepped down – in truth, I think they wanted to get caught; they loved the attention it got them.  Right then, I knew that this was going to be a very different teaching experience from the girls.  The sane/insane balance was restored and I quickly learnt they all had an element of mischief lurking in them – after all, boys will be boys.  

The boys were really excited but certainly more challenging than the girls.  What happened next was the first of many occurrences which demonstrated the fact that it is impossible to be prepared for everything.  One method I sought to use to positively reinforce good work or behaviour was the use of stickers and stars.  It encourages children to work harder and instigates healthy competition...so you would think.  No sooner had I handed a few out, I was bombarded by the frontline of a school mob – harmless, competitive, but boy did they want a gold star!  I rushed them back to their seats and reiterated what was required from them to earn what they desired.  They smiled and nodded, which I took as an acknowledgement of their understanding.  My mistake.  They were soon out of their seats again, ripping off stickers and stars that were stuck on work already stuck on the walls.  What a nightmare.  I remember retrieving a star from one of the kids just a he was about to lick it –his saliva acting as an adhesive before he stuck it onto his work- and he laughed heartily as he licked his fingers by accident.  I was quick.  Hilarious to think back on it and I loved the little rascals, I still do.  In the moment, not so much.  Another thing they loved to do was to steal the chalk and God knows they were the worst thieves.  But deep down, like I said before, I think they wanted to get caught, just another way to get my attention.  More examples of a similar nature will follow in subsequent posts.  This is what it’s all been building up to and just like that, the first day of school came to a swift end.

Later, I spoke to a Palestinian teacher who told me some of the difficulties he faced.  The conversation developed after I mentioned how fortunate I was to pray in Masjid al-Aqsa, which I now realise may have been insensitive.  Most of the people I spoke to have never visited the masjid despite living no more than 40 miles away.  The truth is that without a permit, near impossible to obtain, the Palestinians outside of Jerusalem simply have no hope to visit the Masjid which they feel an obligation towards.  To emphasise the severity of the restrictions imposed, even though there are permits available for Palestinians to attend Friday prayers, these are limited to those over 40 years old and even the youth of Jerusalem are not allowed to enter the holy grounds; I spoke to many people who expressed a desire to be older for ease of access, not just to Jerusalem but even in their own locality. Tragic. To hear it directly from the people affected really hit home.

The day fades into a more tranquil night as we have an invitation to eat at G’s house.  G is an UNWRA employee who catered for our every need during our time at the camp and we were able to call him at any time – in short, he was a Godsend; a G.  Makloubeh was on the menu – a mouth-watering rice dish that just melts in the mouth, so lovingly made for us by G’s wife who was so befittingly referred to as ‘the president.’  I guess the dish is the Palestinian equivalent of ’biryani ’.  We were fed to our hearts content in the presence of G’s four beautiful children as they laughed and taught us how to count in Arabic.  I smiled so much, it hurt my cheeks.  I’ll tell you more about them later.

This was the first time I really thought about my family, only because I was answering questions about them.  The truth is, I’ve just never been one to get homesick but I thought about my life back in the UK, a life of consumerism, where we have a choice and we choose to conform.  It was then I felt so poor, spiritually, and many of the things I prioritise back at home, at that moment, seemed so trivial.  It was quite late before we were able to head back to where we staying, followed by a bleak attempt to make some preparations for the following day whilst oxygen endeavoured to push its way through the makloubeh.   High on rice, I’m not quite sure what happened next...

...probably just a whole lot of mental preparation to face the kids tomorrow.    

Peace.

Journey to Palestine: Day 4

Day four.  The night fades and makes way for a new day, as I wake up in some discomfort – not admirably due to the knowledge I’ve gained thus far nor due to the fact that my mattress is too small, even for a shorty like me, but because of some diiirty mosquito bites...it was only a matter of time – this ‘ajnabee’ could only be resisted for so long.  I rubbed my eyes, reluctantly parting with slumber and went for a shower.  I couldn’t avoid having a shower forever but I used the time in there to distract myself from the cold water with thoughts of my upcoming lessons. On this note, it took about three weeks for me to be rewarded with a warmish shower and I maintain there were secret meetings that took place well into the night that ensured that warm water and I were kept well away.  

On a more smiley note, we met with the head teacher of the girls’ school today, all six of us cramping into her office, as she gave us an overview of how the school works and briefed us about the classes we would be working with.  She was very calm, seemingly laid back but it was apparent that the school meant everything to her.  She spoke slowly and softly but she had a presence that made you cling on to her every word.  Her assistant – an eccentric character, wearing a permanent, wry smile - soon intercepted the momentum as she brought us refreshments, nodding her head as she ushered us to indulge.

We headed back to where we were staying and all I could think about was the first day we’d be teaching, it all started to feel so real.  I went to the masjid where I prayed, met two guys and oh, kind of got a wedding proposal, no biggie.  Well, how it actually happened was there were two guys, one who spoke English quite well and the other who spoke none.  The latter gestured to me his ring finger, the international symbol for marriage and his mischievous smile widened as I apprehensively indicated that I was not, not inclined to become the village headline at any cost.  The first of the two laughed and said, “You want?” to which I replied, “Hells no” or something to that effect.  He then took hold of his pal’s hand, ring finger still protruding in mid-air as if to enforce the matter, and pushed it back down and said something in Arabic, concluding the matter.  I then learnt what a nervous laugh was and quickly excused myself.

Later, we went into Hebron just to take a wander and grab some supplies.  Our coordinator introduced us to some familiar faces and it was refreshing to meet youth who were really eager to achieve great things.  One was studying to be a doctor and this was a massive deal and not something to be swept under the rug in the way that it is when someone in the UK tells you the same thing.  It’s a sense of, ‘I’m going to be a doctor and change the world,’ and for that moment, I felt ashamed.  I felt ashamed of attitudes towards education in the UK, the opportunities we have and how we complain about the little things whilst spitting on the golden path paved before us.  During my time in Hebron that day, a boy followed me/us from the time he saw us until we got into the ‘servees’ to go back to the camp.  This lasted for quite a while and this boy Ameer, no more than 12 years old, barely said a word.  I’m guessing his English was non-existent but even when I asked him in Arabic as to what he wanted, he remained silent and simply looked me straight in the eye.  We would enter the shops and find him waiting for us outside, resuming the trail as we drifted towards other shops.  I told him to come inside one of the shops but then soon realised why he would wait outside after being subjected to some serious verbal abuse from one of the shopkeepers.  I’m not sure what the significance of this incident was or what the boy wanted if anything; maybe he just wanted to hang with some outsiders, I don’t know, but for the duration of my time in Hebron that day, Ameer was my little brother and I felt a sense of responsibility over him.  

First day at school tomorrow and I was feeling slightly underprepared but unusually relaxed, usually caused by seeing others around me less relaxed – strange tendency but true.  We planned our lessons in quite a large classroom, one of the rooms in the place we were staying in.  For my first lesson, I made a mock passport displaying a personal emblem, highlighting details about myself, my hobbies and the like, which the class could hopefully reproduce, thereby opening a small window into the lives of my kids. Wow, ‘my kids’ – my attachment with them began blossoming long before I met them.  I didn’t sleep much that night but amid the suffocating humidity and the sound of the cockerel’s crow at 1am, I reminded myself that it was the small sacrifices that would make this trip the fondest of memories.

Journey to Palestine: Day 3

Sunday - Woke up early to visit the locations for some of our other projects based in Hebron, as we don’t start at the schools till Tuesday.  Thinking back, it makes me laugh how we left the community centre in single file, looking like death, hoping not to have to talk much. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the sun’s dominance and looked down as we started walking, awaiting the arrival of a ‘servees’. I quietly laughed at the thought of giving my sunglasses away the day before.  Shared taxis are quite frequent, passing between Hebron and Yatta, with the camp in the midst, except on Fridays when it’s not advisable to plan a journey if you’re restricted by time.  But normally, we just walked in the direction we needed to go and a ‘servees’ would arrive in good time, all keen for our custom.

The settlements look really freaky, like Satan himself has set up camp in them.  Sometimes, I mistook a Palestinian house for a settlement but I think it’s the aura of desertion emanating from the properties which I found creepy; big houses with no sign of life in them.  So, we walked farther down the road and as we reached the entrance of the girls school (a minute walk from where we were staying), our presence was quickly eclipsed by a shadow.  It was a bus.  Not just any bus, but an Israeli tour bus.  Its passengers?  Non-nationals of Jewish descent who are invited to Israel on a ‘birth-right’ in an attempt to entice them to relocate there and inhabit the ever-expanding settlements.  Life seemed to stop as the bus carefully manoeuvred around a tight corner for what seemed an eternity, the passengers looking down at us as we stared blankly back.  I don’t know what I was feeling at the time.  I only remember staring.

Shortly after, we arrived in Hebron; the transition from the camp can be likened to that of ‘the village’ and Mumbai – it’s the only thing I can think of.  It’s very busy and the bright yellow taxis are eye-catching.  What came next was a long walk as we passed an ATM, far and few between, and quite an impressive football stadium, which took me by surprise.  We arrived at PSD – Partners for Sustainable Development (I think), an organisation that works in a range of sectors such as education and health.  This was to be the location of one of Dan’s projects but today, it was the final day of a summer camp that PSD had organised and we were soon in the company of a bunch of excited kids who were painting the Palestinian flag.  They were wearing blue jackets that displayed the PSD logo and I remember one kid who seemed to be concealed within his jacket – at least ten sizes too big for him – it was the cutest thing and plus, they all have the most amazing eyes! Wow. It was no surprise that we had a warm welcome – Palestinian hospitality is something that I struggle to express in words; it is something that needs to be felt, experienced, and even then, it leaves you questioning what you have done to earn so much respect.  Palestinian hospitality caters for its guests purely for the pleasure of being hospitable; nothing more.  They want nothing in return. Nothing.  A gentleman briefly told us what the organisation does and later, our coordinator was quite unfairly put in charge of judging the best painting, smothered by children for whom losing was not an option. 

Since 1997, Hebron has been divided into two sectors: H1 and H2.  Our next destination was in H2 where we were meeting with a Palestinian activist group called ‘Youth against Settlements’.  This part of Hebron is really intense and to me, it always felt like something was about to go down.  It contains areas which are off limits to Palestinians such as Shuhada Street, recently renamed ‘Apartheid Street’ in protest of the Israeli occupation.  IDF presence in H2 is palpable and it was such an intimidating experience when I first crossed the checkpoint to enter Shuhada Street.  The soldier who checked me was definitely younger than me and I could’ve sworn he was oblivious to what he was doing; it was almost robotic.  Shuhada Street is such a sad state of affairs – closed shortly after the 2^nd Intifada – rendering hundreds of shops out of business.  It’s just like a deserted ghost town with very few people to be seen.  Palestinians are strictly prohibited from going there and cannot go near neighbouring settlements without a special permit.  I was so relieved that I would not be the one making this journey every other day because with my face and no easily identifiable Brits to keep me company, I think the students would be missing a teacher.  After a mini trek up a hill, we got to the place where two members of our group would be teaching and arguably the most breathtaking view in the whole of Hebron.  We allowed ourselves to get lost as we sat on a wall that bordered the house.  The guys we met were really cool, always smiling.  Next door is a settlement and it was the first time we got this close to one – the guarding soldiers asserting their presence and it was sad to see the Palestinians become accustomed to them – the kind of strength only Palestinians possess.

Next, we visited the Civic Association, the intended location for Huw’s classes.  As soon as we were made aware that the fella running the show there was called Aladin, we knew we were in for a treat and boy did he deliver.  He was just so funny and had the most infectious smile; I found it difficult to take him seriously at times.  He insisted that I had Arab blood, something I became quickly accustomed to as introductions usually followed the same pattern.  Aladin was just another Palestinian who had learnt to perfect his smile.  On a more serious note, the grief in his face was soon apparent as he sat back, his voice softening:

“Many youth go to Israel and are affected by their way of life and they forsake Islam.  Some are not affected but others go because the biggest factor in Hebron is danger.  They [IDF soldiers] hassle the youth to break unity; some [Palestinians] are firm but they [IDF or Israel] are a dangerous disease.”

He goes on to say that it takes him 20 minutes by road to make the 1 km journey home, which should take only a few minutes, again highlighting the crude attempt to break spirit.  And that’s what it’s all about: the tedious waiting in checkpoints, the restrictions, even the airport security I had to endure, all seemingly set in place to slowly pick away at your patience so you eventually accept the occupation as a normality. 

As we make our way outside, I notice the dense wire nets that stretch over us with large rocks and other items resting on top of them, weighing them down.  This is an indication of the relationship that Palestinians share with their settler neighbours who make their presence known.  The dense housing is a cause for anxiety.  We meet K, a descendent of Bedouins, who leads us up to a flat.  It is the home of another of Simon’s friends, where I remain at edge the whole time.  We are shown a video depicting IDF soldiers manhandling a guy after a recent protest.  It’s one thing cringing at violent imagery from our comfy homes in the UK but being there, around the corner from where the incident took place, and with the manhandled individual in the same room – it was just surreal.  And then when we lost power, a regular occurrence no one told me about, I could swear I peed a little.

K, our guide to the house then accompanied us to ‘Haram Ibrahimi’ – Tomb of the Patriarchs, the 1000 year old masjid that enshrines the tombs of Ibrahim, Is’haq, Ya’qoob and their wives (A.S).  There, I also saw a magnificent wooden pulpit, which K tells me was donated to the haram by Salahuddin Ayyoubi.  In contrast, it was difficult not to notice the holes in the pillars and the crumbling plaster, a painful reminder of the massacre of ‘94 where scores of worshippers were murdered.  As a result, the building has been divided into two sections, one for Muslim worshippers and the other for Jewish worshippers.

After we leave, K tells me about some of the dangers that the locals have to face on a daily basis. It pains me to hear about a child who had acid thrown in his eyes and about water tanks being destroyed or contaminated with alcohol.  It is a harsh reminder of the reality the Palestinians face every day and something that played on my mind throughout that night.

Journey to Palestine: Day 2

I woke up with the biggest smile on my face as I let it marinate where I was and just exactly what I was doing here.  I got up to the sight of two birds that were nesting on the window ledge, just chilling, and I then headed onto the quiet roof for a beautiful start to the day.  I think it took me a few days just to take everything in – it’s all just so overwhelming.  Every moment gave a different sensation as I tried to soak up the panoramic view from the roof terrace, the north, east and west sides in clear view.  But I remember feeling a little jittery, perhaps because it felt like I was in transit, eager to get to the camp. You can’t help but notice the cute cats and kittens running around, all vying for your attention.  I wonder if there has been any research conducted into the behavioural psychology of animals coz I find that animals act so differently when you’re abroad; the dogs in India come to mind but then again, maybe the poor things were just hungry.  I think I should rush through this now; I’ve just had a scan over my notes for the coming days and you’re in for a treat. I feel kinda stupid now spending so much time telling you about wildlife and rooftops.

Nevertheless, I sat on the roof for a little while longer, swaying to the chants of a spirit as she absorbed the sun’s rays. Then, yoga took place. Besides my ‘teachers’ involved, none of the others were awake so I fancied my chances of trying it without looking like a complete tool. Plus, I tried to stand as far back as I could. Now, I know what you’re thinking and no, that’s not the reason I stood at the back, it genuinely was to not be seen. But the more I try to convince you, the deeper I dig, I know! Anywho, I struggled to say the least. I’m embarrassed to admit it but I even struggled with the downward facing dog – and don’t laugh coz it’s not funny – I mean, all the blood rushes to your head and it made me dizzy. What’s more, women are so much more flexible than men; a lot of my time was spent breathing heavily, in an awkward attempt to manipulate my arm into a position which at the time didn’t seem humanly possible. It was at this point the others started to wake up and laugh at me, with me, right? I laughed along, hiding the pain, but admittedly, it did make me a lot chirpier for the rest of the day.

A few of us then made our way back towards the Western Wall as that’s where the ‘non-Muslim’ entrance to Al-Aqsa lies, only for us to be turned away. See, what we now know is that the grounds are reserved exclusively for Muslims on Fridays and Saturdays. I’m sure the others then looked at me as if to say, ‘Take that smug look off your face you tw*t’ even though they wouldn’t admit it. Besides, I wouldn’t have noticed anyway as I was too busy gloating.  We were told that we could return the following day between the hours of 9am – 11am, something we knew could not materialise. I guess I could’ve made a cheeky attempt to take some of the girls in as my wives and I remember stringing along with that thought for far longer than normal but it was all in jest.

Soon after, we got into our designated groups and just like that, it was time to say goodbye to our fellow companions and to Jerusalem. But then we got to Hebron...and let me tell you, Hebron is where it’s happening.  I’m not sure what ‘it’ is but it is most definitely happening.  The heart of the West Bank.  My heavy bags were starting to take their toll but no sooner had we arrived, our supervisor thought we should take a break. We soon realised this recurring pattern and from his many qualities, one is that the man knows when to take a break.  Hebron, or Khalil as it’s known to the locals (for bearing the tomb of Ibraheem A.S who was Khalilullah), gave us a heart-warming reception.  Worlds apart from Jerusalem, we casually strolled the streets to encounter almost familiar smiles and echoes of ‘Welcome to Hebron.’  It really felt like we were long lost sons of the city, returning as heroes.  I couldn’t help but smile, even if I tried not to.  For those few moments, I was diverted from the numbing in my shoulder and I certainly didn’t want to leave.

We arrived at a cafe and found a nice spot in the corner before ordering some coffee, limoon-nana (a lemon and mint, ice cold, orgasmic drink...seriously), and some shisha, henceforth ‘arghila’.  It was the time for Salatul Zuhr so I went outside and enquired about the whereabouts of the closest masjid but a boy called Mudha was adamant to personally escort me to the masjid. After submitting to his persistence, we made our way along the street as I tried to keep up with his Arabic, slowly translating the odd word that I knew I had previously read or heard in a sermon somewhere.  After my continual non-responsiveness, the puzzled look on his face provoked me to try and explain that I could not speak Arabic.  I felt kinda guilty. In defiance of my claims, he continued to speak in Arabic and couldn’t believe that being a Muslim, I was unable to speak the language that lies at the core of Islam.  He could only say out loud what he was thinking: “How? How? You’re a Muslim!” – in Arabic of course. As we reached the masjid, I dropped my sunglasses and one of the lenses fell out.  As I rushed for the congregation, I looked back to see Mudha still standing there. I didn’t say anything. I simply thanked him and gave him my glasses as he left.

After praying, I returned to the cafe to find more youths waiting outside. The word had quickly spread that I was a Muslim from ‘Britannia’ and they greeted me with loving smiles, bound by religion; this is somewhat of a recurring theme that runs like a thread of gold through my time in Palestine.  Believe me, I’d heard many stories from others who had passed through the land and my expectations were high, so to surpass them, in my eyes was incredible.  I went inside the cafe to rejoin my companions when shortly after, Mudha, my guide to the masjid, approached us.  He handed me my glasses, rotating them in the process to indicate that he had fixed them for me.  The sunovagun made me blush.  I was slightly angry at myself for not being able to tell him that they were his but I just gestured to him saying “hadya”, meaning gift.  He looked at the cafe owner who said a few words that bore the resonance of approval and Mudha thanked me and went back outside.  It was day two and I had given my sunglasses away, in a place where the sun is a frequent visitor – coz I’m cool like that. In the cafe, we briefly discussed the different projects we’d be allocated, these being in addition to our school classes.  If all went to plan, we’d all have a project in the camp we’d be residing in and one project outside. The details of these projects will later surface.

I became increasingly nervous as the reality of our presence and purpose started to sink in but needless to say, I was also very excited; we all were.  We made our way to catch a ‘servees’ – a shared taxi service to our camp, which is about 3 miles south of Hebron, so it took us about 15-20 minutes to get there.  As we arrived at the camp, it was impossible to ignore the monstrous watchtower that imposed itself directly outside the camp.  I looked around to see another watchtower on top of a hill, perfectly situated to intimidate the Palestinians as well as gain an advantageous vantage point to watch over large parts of the land.  The occupation was starting to feel more and more tangible and as we entered the camp, a desolate petrol station was situated to the left of us.  We were later told that the soldiers simply ‘took over’ the petrol station once they established the bordering area as a base.  Let me just make it clear from the outset and quash the myth that there are two sides in the ongoing conflict; following posts will remove all ambiguity but there is simply one side and that is the side of Israel, the occupier. The Palestinians are occupied and this is the simple truth.

We drove into the camp, that stretches about half a mile and established in 1949, to be greeted by a colourful sign to the left of us, which read ‘Ahlan wa sahlan fil mukhayyam al Fawwar’ – Welcome to camp Al Fawwar.  I can’t really explain why but the ‘graffiti’ on the walls in Palestine is so humbling.  Each piece tells a story, compelling one to contemplate about who the writer might have been, what they were thinking at the time, the emotion with which they left their mark on the wall.  This is even more relevant when I later talk about ‘the’ wall.  

We dismounted the 'servees' after arriving at the grounds of a community centre where we were greeted by the son of the principal of the boys’ school who welcomed us and showed us where we’d be staying.  The grounds are otherwise used to provide lessons in Maths and IT among other things and held three offices, a large kitchen, a large classroom which we would later use to plan our lessons into the night, as well as two other rooms one to store our luggage and one in which we slept. We found a mattress each and got comfortable very quickly.  I then rushed to the masjid, as the time for Asr was fast approaching.  The camp has four masaajid but I primarily attended the one closest to where we were staying, a few minutes walking distance.   After salah, I sat for a lecture and was surprised by how much I understood.  After the talk, I stood to leave but there was no way they were going to allow me to leave so easily.  One of the guys ushered me back down and started speaking to me in Arabic and the rest of the people present quickly formed a circle.  This is not a forum that allows me to say some of the things that were said to me but they were certainly very welcoming, tearful almost after learning that I had come all the way from Britain on a voluntary basis – I insisted that it was nothing but this didn’t hinder the kisses on the forehead and their charming smiles. I was bowled over.

This was our coordinator’s second time at the camp so we later took to the street to meet people and reunite him with familiar faces.  I was constantly mistaken for the group interpreter but on that note, it was a massive help having Peter, an Arabic speaker, with us.  It dictated that he was to have a lot of the limelight from hereon forth and that was fine by me :)  The camp is quite conservative so you won’t find many women casually walking the streets but there were children, lots of children! Lots of endearingly rowdy children. There was a funeral taking place at the time so we observed silence in respect as we walked past but the streets are reminiscent of an Indian village as life goes on as normal, even in the event of a funeral. Echoes of ‘WWE’ and ‘John Cena’ and ‘Barcelona’ or ‘Real Madrid’ loomed among us from all sides as they lay the foundations of common ground.  We smiled in acknowledgement and shook hands all round.  They asked us our names and I was soon reciting verses of the Quran as they demanded proof of my allegiance. 

We headed back to where we’d be staying as the principal of the boys’ school was ready to see us.  He was a tall, well built man who welcomed us into his office with his incredibly hoarse voice, which sounded like 40 cigarettes a day for the past 40 years were paying dividends, not that this was necessarily the case.  He also spoke in a brusque manner, befitting of a principal of an excitable boys’ school but maybe it was more to do with his thought processes as he sought the appropriate words to translate his thoughts.  He gave us some insightful history regarding the camp and the school, cultivating the soil which would allow us to flourish during our time at the school.  I can only hope it will be fruitful.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.