Nora Lester Murad - The View From My Window in Palestine

Archives for April 2012

Lots of Activities for Writers and Readers in Palestine!

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The Palestine Writing Workshop 

is pleased to announce as part of
The 5th Annual Palestine Festival of Literature

Upcoming activities, including a children’s literature festival, a series of creative writing workshops, a public literary event, and children’s storytelling.

4 May 2012 (Friday) 9:00 – 16:00

Children’s Activity: A full day Children’s Literature Festival entitled “Cave of Imagination” in the old city of Abwein with Sonia Nimr.

5 May 2012 (Saturday) 10:00-12:00

Workshop: A two hour training on Writing About Culture with writer Rachel Holmes in Birzeit to introduce research and composition skills for writing about culture and the concerns of everyday life.

5 – 11 May 2012

Workshop: A 15 hour (over 5 days) training on creating Stories for the Radio that covers basic journalistic skills with radio journalist Bee Rowlatt, meeting in Birzeit.

5 May 2012 (Saturday) 19:30-21:00

Public Literary Reading: “Representing Lives through Literature” with writers Maya al Hayat, Abed al Rahim al Shaikh, Rachel Holmes, and Bee Rowlatt at the Khalil Sakakini Cultural Centre.

6 May 2012 (Sunday) 14:00 – 16:00

Children’s Activity: Interactive Storytelling in English “The Mornings Smelt Like Chocolate” with Bee Rowlatt at Beit Nimeh, Birzeit.

6 May 2012 (Sunday) 14:30 – 16:30

Workshop: This one day training on Character Development explores how to create characters and bring them to life with writer Rachel Holmes, held in Birzeit.

7 May 2012 (Monday) 14:00 – 17:00

Workshop: This one day training in Birzeit on Draft Editing with writer Rachel Holmes introduces three tools of the writing process to help writers produce well-written, effective texts.

7 May 2012 (Monday) 16:00 – 18:00

Children’s Activity: Interactive Storytelling in Arabic at the Khalil Sakakini Cultural Center.

8 May 2012 (Tuesday) 16:00 – 18:00

Children’s Activity: Interactive Storytelling in English “The Mornings Smelt Like Chocolate” with Bee Rowlatt at Khalil Sakakini Cultural Center, Ramallah.

9 May 2012 (Wednesday) 15:30 – 17:30

Workshop: This one day training with writer Rachel Holmes on Publishing Digital Non Fiction is for writers in Gaza and introduces some essential skills for transforming currents events into good, accessible writing. Given via video conferencing.

10 May 2012 (Thursday) 14:30 – 17:30

Workshop: This 3 hour e workshop will be held via video conferencing with journalist Bee Rowlatt for writers in Gaza on Blogging-Get Yourself Out There! 

10 May 2012 (Thursday) 17:00 – 18:30

Children’s Activity: Interactive Storytelling in Arabic at the Khalil Sakakini Cultural

Center.

May 11 2012 (Friday) 16:00 – 17:30

Literary Tea with author Rachel Holmes, discussing her book “The Hottentot Venus: the life and death of Saarjtie Baartman: born 1709-buried 2002.” Pick up book in advance to read.

May 12 2012 (Saturday) 11:30 – 13:00  

Literary Tea with author Bee Rowlatt, discussing her book “Talking About Jane Austen In Baghdad: The True Story of an Unlikely Friendship.” Pick up book in advance to read.

A big thank you to our partners: Palestine Festival of Literature, British Council, Khalil Sakakini Cultural Center, Riwaq, Tamer Institute, and Danish Center for Culture and Development

For more information on any of the above, email us at write@palestineworkshop.org or call +970-(0)597651408

 

Trying to Reach PalFest LAST YEAR (written on April 21, 2011)

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The 2012 PalFest activities are about to begin! I’m hoping to participate more than I did last year. What happened last year? Read this story about my unsuccessful attempt to attend the PalFest 2011 closing event in Silwan.

April 11, 2011: Last night my family was sitting around doing nothing in particular, but I still had to pester and beg and insist that we go out. We live in Jerusalem, a world-class city! Even on the Palestinian side of town, there are things to see. But too often we let the most banal of life’s obligations fill up our time and we get stuck in a rut.

It was the last day of PalFest (the annual Palestinian Literature Festival) and we had already missed most of the contemporary dance festival. My eldest really, really, really didn’t want to go, so she stayed with her friends celebrating the last school day before the Easter break. My middle child, characteristically eager to please me, was happy to join, but she brought a book expecting to bored. My youngest was playing with another 7-year old. I called the girl’s mother, a dear friend, and convinced her to put the girls in her car and drive behind us to PalFest.

The closing event of the 2011 PalFest was being held at the Silwan Solidarity Tent where internationals and locals gather to protest the demolition orders on 80 or so of Silwan’s Palestinian homes. It’s a Palestinian community just adjacent to the Old City, and one that, unfortunately, has religious significance to Jews. It might be a lost cause, but Silwan is going down fighting – hard (get more information here and here).

It only took 10 minutes to get to the corner of the Old City walls where the road curves down and left to Silwan, but that road was roped off. We had forgotten Passover. There are always closures and detours and traffic problems on Jewish holidays, but this one was massive. Cars everywhere with nowhere to go.

We took a right, away from Silwan and drove to the Palestinian bus station to ask a Silwan bus driver (#76 if you ever need to know) what he suggested. He said there are back roads, but it would take more than an hour and we might not get there. We deliberated. My friend had the idea to walk straight through the Old City; Silwan is just beyond the Jewish Quarter. It was 8 pm and the event should have been starting, but the chances were that if we couldn’t get to the venue on time, the performers might also be late. And since the weather was lovely and the kids were awake, we parked near Damascus Gate and walked into the Old City.

I was euphoric. First of all, the Old City is beautiful at night. I don’t remember the last time I was there at night. It was alive and crowded with pushy, noisy vendors and tourists. Taking advantage of the visit, I was quickly able to buy the piece of Palestinian embroidery I wanted to send to my cousin. I was also excited about the line up. DAM, an internationally recognized rap group was playing. Suad Amiry, an internationally recognized author (and friend) was scheduled to MC.

Actually, I saw DAM perform just last week at TEDx in Ramallah (which surreally was held in Bethlehem) and I was hoping they would play their song, “I’m in love with a Jew” about falling in love with a Jew in an elevator (“She was going up, I was going down, down, down”). For some reason, I like that song!

The adults, walking fast to get to the show we were already late for, were followed by the three kids. We took the left fork at the bottom of the Damascus Gate entrance and my friend led us this way and that way until we found ourselves in a sea of black hats. I have never been in the midst (really the midst) of SO many orthodox Jews before and it made me nervous. My friend (who is Palestinian) and I look like foreigners but my husband is clearly Arab. Although no one seemed to notice us or care, I found my stomach tied in nervous knots for the rest of the night.

The checkpoint into the Jewish Quarter was closed and there was already a crowd of angry Jews yelling at the soldiers because they wanted to get in. It didn’t seem smart hang around to watch a fight brew between the Israeli army and religious Jews, so we followed someone’s directions and took two left turns to get to the other entrance into the Jewish Quarter. There, we found ourselves on some stairs in a crowd of hundreds of people standing packed between the narrow alley walls. No one was moving. My husband wasn’t nervous at all (amazing) and asked someone what the delay was (though by talking, most people would know for certain that he’s an Arab). It turned out a “suspicious object” had been found just ahead and that checkpoint was also closed. I pulled my husband away from the crowd, sure that he’d be rounded up. We walked fast into the Arab section where I could breathe again.

We pondered whether we should give up or not, but my friend kept saying, “It’s right there” pointing to the wall. She meant that Silwan was just on the other side of the wall, which was true, but somehow an understatement and an overstatement at the same time. I, too, really wanted to go to that PalFest event. Badly.

Kids in tow, we backtracked to the place where the “suspicious object” had been and found, strangely, the path was open. Completely open. We walked down the stairs and up to the next checkpoint without even slowing down. Jerusalem is such a weird place. Then, despite all the focus on “security,” no one paid any attention to us at the checkpoint because an international guy was carrying a box of what looked like fossilized chips of biblical cooking pots, and the soldiers were so interested, they didn’t pay attention to anyone else. We breezed through that checkpoint and walked straight down to the Wailing Wall. There must have been thousands of people there. It was all lit up. Beautiful in its own right, but so strange to walk through that reality out the Dung Gate to the top of the hill over Silwan, one of Palestine’s hottest hot spots.

Tour busses (Passover, remember?) were lined up to our left but to our right was the entrance to Silwan and nearly empty. We started to walk down the hill toward the solidarity tent, but locals came forward and told us to re-consider. Soldiers had tear-gassed the tent. There was rock throwing. My old activist persona wanted to go anyway, to show support, and to bear witness, but my mother identity won out. It was too dangerous. We turned back.

We had been walking through a maze of human, political, cultural, physical and vehicular obstacles for more than an hour-and-a-half trying to reach a place that was an easy 15-minute drive from our house. We arrived but couldn’t take part. Instead, we went to the Austrian Hospice and had tea and cake.

Here’s a video about PalFest including footage at the end of what we missed:

PalFest 2011

The Aroma of Tear Gas in the Air…

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Now that I have a car, I am often lazy and drive to Ramallah on the days I have business there. It’s best to go early and beat the intense traffic that is inevitable when a population expands and expands over decades but the roads are allowed to decay.

Recently, I drove into Qalandia checkpoint around 7:25 am and my eyes started stinging immediately. Damn tear gas. Not a nice way to start a day. Later I found out that a Palestinian boy had been killed the night before, martyred as they say locally, and the smell of tear gas was remnant from the battle that took his life. Not a battle, really. Palestinian boys with rocks against Israeli boys with guns. More of a set up than a battle.

I shouldn’t drink coffee even on good days. I should definitely not drink coffee on top of tear gas. It was a long, shaky day.

On the way home, there were still tires burning along the side of the main road down to Qalandia. I veered left to take Jeba’a Road (also called death way) and had to swerve around various burning items. That’s not all that unusual, but the smell of fresh tear gas was disconcerting. From a car, you can’t see what’s going on around you. You might unknowingly drive right into danger. I cracked the window and tried to hear.

My friend sat in the front seat next to me and commented casually about the shooting in front of us. I squinted into the dusk and saw long arcs of tear gas shot from the military vehicles up ahead on our left into the community of Ram on our right. I pulled to the side to confer with my friend. “Straight ahead or turn around?” Some cars were driving forward under the tear gas and others were turning around.

“They’re shooting into the air,” she said. “It’s only tear gas. It’s not like we’re going to get shot.” I took that as advice that I should press forward. I, too, wanted to go home, not get stuck on the short stretch of road between two hot spots. I drove fast.

We got to the roundabout near the Israeli settlement and seamlessly resumed our previous conversation about the community’s role in monitoring development projects. The gas was behind us. There was nothing more to say about it.

I got home and washed my clothes separate from our other clothes. I showered and washed my hair three times. My daughter said I smelled good, but my eyes still sting hours later.

Altogether, not an atypical day in Palestine.

 

This is like what I saw, but I didn't take this photo.

My Mother-in-law’s Shaywa’ar

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“Open the door for me, Im Yaseen,” my mother-in-law says to me. I don’t have a son, but if I did, he would be named Yaseen after my father-in-law. The other daughters-in-law who do not yet have sons are also called “Im Yaseen. It’s like a placeholder for a future identity.

I hold open the screen door so she can get through with a huge metal tray piled with freshly-picked herbs. She balances it expertly on the wall of the front porch in a patch of sun so they can continue to dry.

“I like shaywa’ar more than I like maramiya,” I say reaching deep into the soft pile and inhaling deeply.

“I like maramiya better,” she says. But then, as if not to disappoint me, she adds, “and I like shaywar, too.”

“They aren’t familiar with this herb in Jerusalem. Did you know that?” The things I know better than my mother-in-law are limited to two categories: books (she is illiterate), and the world outside the Galilee (in her 73 years, she has barely traveled).

“Pick out the yellow leaves,” my mother-in-law directs me. And she goes to the backyard to bring another tray of shaywa’ar.

I pick out the yellow leaves and get hypnotized by the sweet, rich smell and the appearance of the delicate, curled leaves bursting from the little twigs. I think about the shaywa’ar I have at home in an old, plastic yogurt container that my mother-in-law gave me last time she dried a batch. I think about those little twigs and how they irritate me floating on the surface of my tea, making it hard to sip without spilling on myself. I decide, out of love for my mother-in-law, to do what she doesn’t have time to do herself—make this batch of shaywa’ar the cleanest batch ever.

I push the big pile of green-gray herbs to the far side of the tray and pull a fist -sized amount toward me. I pick up each twig. When the twigs are dry, the leaves fall right off; when the twigs are still moist with recent life, I have to pull each individual leaf to get it to release. I move the leaves to one side and make a stack of little twigs on the wall.

My mother-in-law sits next to me for a minute. Then she stands up and brings a plastic dish from the kitchen. She puts my little twigs into the plastic dish.

“Did you pick this shaywa’ar wild from the mountain?” I ask.

“No, we cultivated it in our fields.”

“From seeds?”

“From cuttings that we picked in the wild.”

“Does it grow out of control like mint?”

“No,” she answers. “Not like mint.”

And meanwhile, I am focused on cleaning every single twig of its leaves. On impressing my mother-in-law by cleaning her shaywa’ar better than it has ever been cleaned before. On building up my stack of twigs.

A young woman married to my husband’s cousin across the alley comes by for a minute and helps pick through shaywa’ar. Then she leaves. Then my husband’s uncle’s second wife comes by and pulls up a stool and starts picking at the tray. My mother-in-law stands over me although there is a chair for her to sit in.

“Hajji,” my husband’s uncle’s second wife asks my mother-in-law. “Why are you picking out those little twigs?” She gestures towards the plastic plate piled with tiny, naked twigs all lying neatly in the same direction.

“Im Yaseen did that,” she smiles at me politely.

“But they are flavorful,” my husband’s uncle’s second wife says to my mother-in-law, completely ignoring me. “Why do you waste them?”

“Oh!” I snap out of my shaywa’ar-induced trance. “Why didn’t you tell me I was doing it wrong, Hajji?”

“I told you to pick out the yellow leaves,” my mother-in-law says matter-of-factly. And she dumps the stack of neatly piled twigs in the center of the tray of leaves.

I’m not hurt. No one loves me more than my mother-in-law. But I’m a bit embarrassed. After twenty-five years in the family, I can’t do even the simplest of tasks correctly.

I lean back on the heavy plastic chair and let my hands, lightly powdered with nature’s dirt, rest in my lap. I look at the pile of twigs on top of the pile of leaves and identify with them – belonging but separate, giving flavor, but looking out of place.

Authentic Shaywa'ar from the Galilee

Can Palestinian Kids Hang Out at the Mall in Israel Safely?

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I know I have to write about what happened in Malha mall, but where can I find the words? Right in front of Aldo shoes, near the H&M where my daughters hold blouses up and ask, “How does this look on me?” and steps away from Lalushka where they buy pointe shoes and leotards – there was a mob riot. Sports fans from the nearby stadium streamed in shouting. They worked themselves into a frenzy chanting “Death to Arabs.” According to the reports, they attacked three Palestinian women with children eating in the food court!

Bad things happen every day here. Every single day someone is kidnapped from his bed in the middle of the night by Israeli soldiers, devastating his wife and children who look on helplessly. Every single day soldiers fire on peaceful protesters, sometimes knocking an eye out, or worse. Every single day soldiers stop young men in the street and frisk them against a wall, shaming them in front of neighbors and making them late for work. And of course there is “nonviolent” violence like revoking people’s residency rights, arbitrarily closing cultural institutions, and the like. It’s sad and scary and infuriating and unacceptable.

But the riot at Malha mall crossed a line. It erased a line! It’s a line that Israel tries to maintain to delude us into thinking that if we behave, everything will be fine, and that only “bad” people are at risk. No! Racism is an attack on all human beings.

PLEASE watch the video of the riot and read the short story and click on the links at this post of Electronic Intifada: http://electronicintifada.net/blogs/ali-abunimah/video-emerges-israeli-mob-shouting-death-arabs-attacked-palestinians-jerusalem#comment-4006. Watch it from beginning to end. Keep watching when it’s upsetting, and when you think it couldn’t possibly go on. Keep watching.

Imagine that this happened at the mall where your kids hang out, or on the bus that your kids take to school, or at a restaurant that you frequent as a family. Imagine the hatred was aimed at you. Imagine that mall security didn’t intervene. Imagine that your local police decided not to arrest anyone. Would you feel safe?

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