Journey to Palestine: Day 10

There's no such thing as a Sunday lie-in when the weekend is over on a Saturday night and Sunday is effectively Monday. The number of students always seems to be fluctuating and today, there seems to be a lot more girls than last week. However, today is the graduation ceremony for students who have completed their ‘Tawjihi’ exams (the equivalent of A Level exams) and some of the kids in my class want to go and see their elder siblings and cousins receive their certificates. So, despite having an unusually large class today, I was soon reduced to below the usual number. The kids who left did so within half an hour and even though they promised to return, I knew this wouldn’t happen.

Today, I taught the class ‘You are my Sunshine’, with actions and everything - the song that is guaranteed to make even the darkest soul smile. If you don’t believe me, feel free to try it. Rumour has it that it's the song Netanyahu's maid sings to him every morning and even though there's no sign of a smile, a break in routine would allegedly cause him to explode and many people would die, in addition to those that die as a result of the orders he gives. Wow. Quite morbid imagery stemming from such an innocent children’s song so let's move on. The girls had trouble with some of the words but I thought it'd be the perfect song for them to perform at their graduation ceremony. It didn't make life easy that there were quite a few girls missing but I had time. I’m hopeful.

We also worked on making postcards today. One of the teachers came into the class as I was distributing examples of postcards I had bought from the UK. It seems she was more interested in getting to know me better as opposed to probing the lesson I was carrying out, which was a tad awkward to say the least but she was really lovely. I handed out the postcards to provide a template and also to give the children some inspiration. The only predicament was that many of the children weren’t interested in being adventurous and deviating from what they were given. This was a problem I was frequently faced with – yes, it's nice to give the students an example, something to use as a template  but so often was the case that they would simply copy what was in front of them. Their task was to make a postcard depicting the place they'd most like to go if they were given the opportunity; we even came up with a list of places together as a class. But most of the girls restricted themselves by choosing countries like Egypt and Jordan which spoke volumes about their imagination and probably more about their hopes and ambitions or rather how realistic they were being about their dreams.

After class, I meet the father of one of the girls, Sara who invites me and the rest of the group to his home; a kind gesture but something told me this wasn’t going to happen. Then, it was time to make our way to the boys’ school. The lesson with the boys started brilliantly which only meant one thing – so I began counting down the seconds before it all went horribly wrong and the class spiralled out of control. Inevitably, this is what happened. The worst thing is that the main source of my frustrations is one particular boy, always the same boy. Takes me back to my school days except this time, I won’t go running back to my mummy. He is the archetypal school bully – the boy you’re picturing right now, yes, that’s him. Broad shoulders, large hands to match. A recurrent grunt and a fiery temper, which made him a formidable peer. The kids were genuinely frightened of him but at the same time, his misdemeanours incited others to follow suit. In his absence, lessons would go incredibly smoothly. The last thing I wanted was to put a dampener on anyone’s day but also, it wasn’t fair for children who really wanted to get the most out of the lessons.

One of the boys asks me if he could make a postcard depicting Palestine and I emphasised that they were only limited by their own minds and imagination. In hindsight, perhaps I should have steered him in a particular direction. I stopped to reflect on the postcard he had made and I’m not sure whether he understood the task – the postcard portrayed a watchtower, an IDF soldier presumably shooting someone as well as others throwing stones at what I believe is a tank – a bloody mess. I felt I was due one of those moments on a daily basis but still, they always managed to catch me off guard. Also, the notion that postcards usually highlight what’s so great about a place, thereby inviting you towards it made the whole episode even more poignant. I often found it difficult to strike a balance between class discipline and class enjoyment. Ultimately, I was there as a teacher but it just didn’t feel right to approach the lessons as I would in a primary school in the UK. At that point, I got the kids to stop what they were doing and we all just screamed. I encouraged them to make as much noise as they could, the louder the better – it’s just how I dealt with it in the moment. They all laughed, probably at the thought of driving their teacher to insanity. There were even murmurs of “Majnoon” flying around the room. The kid who made the postcard was one of the more mischievous ones but right then, I loved him the most.

Like most days, an hour is the best I could get out of the boys, after which even the well behaved kids would begin to look worn out. I decided to finish the lesson outside, raucously welcomed by the students but yet another example of my imprudence. Why? It was midday and the scorching sun didn’t hold back its wrath; it was too hot for most of the kids and so the entire class was confined within the parameters of one tree, its shade limited. Within such a small area, we played tag and blind man’s bluff – I must have broken at least a dozen health and safety rules – I look back in shame; not really, the kids loved it, they thrived in the face of danger.  

After lunch, I went to the masjid and returned following the prayer after failing to locate Shaykh Nimr, the man I had promised to meet today. In all honesty, I was kinda relieved. I was exhausted, drenched in my own sweat and I’m sure I wouldn’t have made good company. 37 degrees Celsius today and forecasted to get even hotter. I returned to the community centre to find some dessert which one of the community centre workers had so kindly made for us; we were receiving hospitality fit for a king and it was starting to become embarrassing. I appreciate that our presence there was a big deal but I just wish there was a day where I could wait on them, hand and foot. Soon after, I received news of our evening plans – a meal at the home of one of the locals – so I used the little time I had to rest and recuperate before then.

We went for dinner and once we arrived, it was somewhat awkward being greeted by the host and his nephew. The cause of our awkwardness was the nephew – Since our arrival, he had caused us a lot of problems (although I am certain that he meant well). Some of his antics, along with a small group of others, included throwing stones at us and insisting we let him into the community centre at all hours amongst other things. We were forced to report him on several occasions to the contact we had in the camp, G. The boy was around 15 years old, didn’t speak English and always had a creepy smile on his face; his eyes wide open in a manner that always left me on edge. Something just didn’t feel right. Despite knowing that we were not happy with his mischief, he welcomed us with that same smile but this time, he was more subdued in the presence of the elders. His mother had recently passed away – I believe it was cancer – and his father was also not around, meaning that he lived with his uncle who apologised on behalf of his nephew who he labelled as mischievous. It’s funny in such situations how you suddenly trade allegiances – in the name of politeness, we were now, it would appear, on the side of mischief and assured his uncle there was no harm done. As the boy sat there at our mercy, I saw a child who was forced to grow up way too fast and now that we were sketchily informed of the traumatic events surrounding his life, I lamented.

The host had bought us all a ‘shawarma’ wrap and we ate in a room which was quite modern in its furnishings; grand, brightly coloured fabric sofas surrounding a glass table. I sat on the floor, leaning against one of the sofas; I just find it more comfortable to do so. G, our first port of call in the camp (and very quickly a personal friend), also joined us for dinner and after tea and coffee, we parted ways with the host.  The rest of the group headed back to the community centre whilst I accompanied G to meet a friend he hadn’t seen in a while.

As we approached the house, we could hear the blast of Arabic music through its wide open windows, protected only by metal bars. It was quite bizarre to hear music playing loudly so late at night and I could almost visualise all the signatures on the petition had this been in the UK. There, we were greeted by a man and his two sons who led us into the living room. The room was lined with Islamic art and also several photographs, mainly consisting of the youngest son of the family posing at his graduation ceremony with his proud parents next to him. We smoked ‘arghila’ and ate sesame snacks with coffee as we watched a recent wedding video together with the groom who excitedly pointed himself out on the screen as he danced on someone’s shoulders, embarrassed but enthralled in equal measure, reliving the happy day. At the end of the night, the father gave us a gift - It was a beautiful coffee set that he had purchased from his recent trip to Makkah. He really didn’t have to but it seems Palestinian hospitality knows no bounds and I gladly accepted it on behalf of the charity.

And with that, a long day drew to a close, as I surrendered to the fact that there was no way I’d get any planning done for tomorrow. Most nights ended in the same way but no pressure, those kids just wana have fun!

“It has been said, time heals all wounds. I do not agree. The wound remains. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens, but it is never gone.”

Rose F. Kennedy

Journey to Palestine: Day 9

It’s a lovely start to the day and I wake up to the sight of illuminating smiles and coffee by my side, just how every good morning should start. The first time I tried it, I found the strong coffee - qahwah’ - quite repulsive and I remember reluctantly sipping at it out of politeness. By the end of my trip, I’d wake up every morning in the hope of smelling the coffee. I leapt out of bed and stretched before being embraced by our coordinator as he whispered “Mabrook” in my ear. I was taken aback. It was my birthday but I genuinely did not remember and that shouldn’t be so hard to believe considering where I was; however, it’s definitely one I’ll remember.

It must be like 100 degrees outside and we hurry down the road towards a small shop which has a tree at the foot of its entrance. Its shade provides some relief from the blistering heat as the group stocks up on water before we catch a ‘servees’ and head to Ramallah for the day. The journey is a bit of a rollercoaster since we take a perilous, mountainous route, the ‘servees’ having to turn at ridiculous angles. Although I’m aware it’s not his first time, the wicked smile on the driver’s face does little to instil me with comfort. Still, the mountainous view all around us does provide for a stunning setting. Solar powered street lamps line our path and Herodium – a volcano-like hill, the zenith being where Herod built a fortress and palace – lies to the right of us, trailing behind us in the way that the moon appears to do so on a clear night.

We arrive in Ramallah (which literally means ‘Height of God’) and it is...different. No sooner had we exited the ‘servees’ did I thank God for allowing me to be placed in the camp I was in, closer to Hebron. Ramallah is generally considered the most liberal of all Palestinian cities and that was apparent immediately. Stone statues and monuments dominated the surroundings while bizarrely dressed men in high boots sauntered along the streets, vending coffee to passers-by. Tourists lined the congested streets and we blended in with the noisy crowds but for some reason, I felt more alienated than I did in the camp. In a weird and wonderful way, I preferred to be in Hebron, despite the continuous tension and presence of only a handful of foreigners.

Although considered an interim solution, Ramallah has quickly become the capital of the Palestinian Authority, hosting almost all governmental headquarters. Many Palestinians I spoke to were quick to point out that this was no accident. According to them, ever since the initiation of Israeli occupation, Israel had taken steps to allow Ramallah to flourish, prompting Palestine to adopt it as its capital, thereby allowing Israel to lay a greater claim to Jerusalem as its own capital. Sneaky.

A little wander drifts us away from the hubbub and we arrive at the entrance of the tomb of Yasser Arafat. The entrance was guarded by two armed policemen of the Palestinian Authority who were quite pleasant actually, as opposed to the mardy-arse nature of...never mind. The grounds were less secure than I had envisaged and they were quick, almost careless in waving us through. I anticipated it to be full of people but it wasn’t; it was just us. I walked over to where he was buried, enclosed in a simple but graceful structure erected on the grounds, again guarded by two officers. I paid my respects and that was that.

We then made our way to a lovely seating area, public but also quite enclosed from the raucousness that tourists bring. It was mainly occupied by families and there, we were reunited with some of the groups who were working in the other camps. In all honesty, we hadn’t spent much time together prior to this and the only interaction we had was at the training days. However, it was an absolute delight to see them. We were a family. Maybe it was the mutual goals we shared but they’re some of the most thoughtful, funniest, and heart­-warming individuals I’ve ever had the pleasure of calling my friends – and I assure you, this is not some perfunctory statement that stems from the party-poppers, cake, ‘keffiyeh’ and without doubt the best birthday card I have ever received :D It was really sweet. There were some who questioned whether my surprise was genuine but it really was! I was overwhelmed.

Even though seeing some of the others was wonderful, it was also slightly awkward because in such a short time, we had become accustomed to not interacting with women so freely. This was demonstrated by uncomfortable handshakes and close-call embraces. Speaking on behalf of the group I was a part of, it’s almost as if we preferred the more conservative setting – believe it or not, it IS liberating. Regardless, it was great to share our experiences and get an insight into how the others were spending their time in the camps. We shared our stories – mostly uplifting but it was also heartbreaking to hear the story of one boy who had been shot in the head – I can’t remember the details surrounding the incident but it was a stark reminder of the real dangers that encompassed the Palestinian people and for a short while, us too.

It had been a long day and I was exhausted. I fell asleep in the ‘servees’ as we made our way back to the camp. On our return, I headed to the masjid and after salah, I sat with an elderly gentleman – Shaykh Nimr, who had taught himself English, quite superbly might I add. Before my trip to Palestine, I was warned to steer clear of discussions related to politics and religion...so what did we discuss? Politics and religion. Being a Muslim, I felt that the locals were just so quick to open up to me; they didn’t hesitate and I had nothing but time to listen. He nodded in a sense of fatherly disapproval when I told him I couldn’t speak Arabic. Thereafter, he spent around 20 minutes speaking to me in nothing but Arabic. Amidst the unbearable awkwardness, it was kinda invigorating. I’m really competitive so I leant forward to grasp as many Arabic words that came out of his mouth, translating as many as I could in super quick time. Whenever I tried to respond in English, he would smile half a smile, barely displaying the whites of his teeth, and place his hands over his ears. He was quite impressed actually and assured me that if I stayed with him for six months, I would become fluent. I was chuffed and even spontaneously raised my shoulders in a way a child might after being praised - I’m an easy audience lol. He invited me back to his home – a natural consequence of my unequivocal charm :D – but I look up, scroll through an imaginary calendar and promise him that I’ll visit tomorrow.

After I leave, I catch up with the rest of the group who manage to get a table in the local cafe. Tonight, the place is packed and has a bar atmosphere as crowds surround the TVs to watch Brazil play Paraguay in the Copa America. I’m nearly brought to tears as local friends, brothers, have gone out of their way to buy me birthday gifts, further welcoming me into their family, though undeserved. It was a fitting end to the night and I got to finally partake in the customary four kisses by which men greet each other and guess what, it wasn’t weird at all! In fact, it was kinda nice :)