These following journal entries were written in my frail journal from May 16th to July 5th:
16 de mai
monday 816pm
i'm on a malev airplane scheduled to reach budapest in two hours and fifteen minutes. I regret the time that went by not spent on documenting my ideas in this little book.
all the stewardesses are getting ready for take off. Around me, I hear Dutch, English and Hungarian.
after landing in Budapest, we'll have to remain there for ten hours.
just now our friendly, reliable Hungarian captain gave us the preliminary flight announcement in English. His accent was so elastic, up and down like a bobbing buoy in the precarious grip of a wave in a mild tempered sea.
1 de juin
1131pm
haifa, israel
boundaries on maps are arbitrary. They're easy to change. Think about how many times that's happened.
{there's a picnic of Uzbekis outside my window. The street is full of their voices.}
9 de juin
jerusalem, israel
muslim quarter
i'm sitting in the Hashimi Hotel in the Muslim Quarter. Leaving the hotel, you enter the curvy, vibrant market corridor filled with the pungent smell of Arab spices. My ears are telling me that I could buy many things for ten shekels. The sun is hot and EVERYONE has somewhere to be.
11 de juin
1243pm
en route to ramallah, palestine
walking around, yesterday in the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem's Old City, I saw bare white feet and then a white American male dressed like the common European portrayal of Jesus Christ. He had a wide smile on his face that looked infused with something eerie and extraterrestrial. His bare feet paced through the narrow corridors of the Arab market picking up bits of old rotten cabbage, spit, and butchered animal entrails with them. To everyone, he said GOD BLESS YOU with a gaze that threw off their steps.
NOW, I'm in the bus. I hear the call to prayer echoing all about the beige stoned city.
12 de juin
1732pm
hebron, palestine
i'm sitting speechless next to Abraham's tomb, Isaac's tomb, Rebecca's, Sarah's and Muhammad's preserved footstep. Hebron is a fucking warzone controlled by Israeli border patrol and Israeli Defense Forces or IDF. Old Arab markets that were bustling sometime in the blurry past are covered in dust, debris, stars of David and broken windows thanks to the rocks that were thrown through them.
On our way to the tomb of Ibrahim (or Abraham or Avraham), which is located in an old mosque, we passed through a market. Looking up at the sky, my view was cluttered by bricks, bottles, boots and piece of glass sitting on an overlying fence thrown by Jewish settlers with hopes to ruin the stability and security of Palestinian life.
I spoke to a Palestinian and he told us how a family of ten was killed by a Molotov cocktail that flew into their dining room.
When he oes home, people throw all sorts of shit at him. Now he's a beggar. In a way, he is Palestine: small, weak, desperate, and thinking of him depresses me.
He gets spit for Zionism. He probably lives in a refugee camp, a concrete skeleton of a home.
Zionism spits on him and his people. I saw some vigilante graffiti that said "Gas the Arabs!" Gangs of Zionist zealots walk around the Arab neighborhoods terrorizing what lies in their path.
And then I think of that Palestinian guy we spoke with whose father was shot in the leg while praying in a mosque. These settlements expand and expand suffocating Palestinian life. In Hebron, the Jewish settlement begins where an old souq (Arab markey) was once in use.
The first soldier upon entering the settlement was confused as to why we'd want to come to Hebron. He said we should go to Tel Aviv to drink and smoke (to numb our senses, to blur our vision of this very real violation of human rights going on behind the armed IDF checkpoint).
Two people stick out in my mind. Two children under the age of 13. A girl and a boy:
As we made our way out of the Jewish settlement to head back to Jerusalem, I looked to my left up at the Palestinian section and saw a little girl with her little brother who had run away previoisly from the picture I was about to take of him.She walked down the stone stairs covered in rubble. I said kif halik (how are you)?
She said alhamdulillah which translates to "Thank God" or "Grateful". This little girl really moved me. She was proud despite all the violence, hatred and degeneration around her. She stood up for her existence despite those wanted to diminish it. She was helpless, but she was grateful.
An hour or so before this episode, there was a little boy that particularly caught my attention. We were speaking with an Australian border patrol, when two pre-pubescent boys came into our view. As children behave in the height of their curiosity, the two boys were peeking into an abandon house. The patrolman must've thought they were causing trouble. He yelled something in Arabic to the boys. They either didn't hear or chose not to hear. "Shu (what)?", one of the boys asked. The guard repeated himself. Shu? responded the boy again. The guard repeated himself like a broken record. Shu? said the boy. This eleven or so year old boy was playing with the nineteen year old Australian who left Down Under to go "home" as many Jewish people say who make aliyot or move to Israel for the rest of their lives fulfilling their duty to return to the Land of Israel.
This little boy stood up for himself. The size of an Israeli gun didn't matter. Growing up in this "shit hole" as the patrolman described it, this little boy probably had nothing to lose, just like the numerous Palestinians giving their lives to end Israeli occupation in the West Bank.
Ruh! said the Australian to the boys, which means Go Away. They walked away.
I saw apartheid and racism masked in security today. I think again back to when we first entered the Jewish settlement in Hebron's Old City: the man that led us, the Palestinian who's been rendered a beggar by Israeli occupation, who wore old scars on his neck and face, who has to live in this abomination and accept it. He has to accept rejection in his own land, the land of his forefathers. Walking through the military checkpoint, the guard who knew him, asked him the usual questions like why, what, when, where. Jacob and I asked if he knew him (the Palestinian). The guard said "yea, he's alright. Sometimes, he make trouble, but he's alright."
15 de juin
haifa, israel
the last sunset
once again, there i was with my good friend jacob in the carmel park across from the school. when we left our repose on the park bench which sat before the view of the valley leading to the Mediterranean sea, enlightened by a razor sharp orange, we encountered the rise of a gargantuan moon. It sat perfectly on the other side of the sky, directly opposing the sun. I remember its size vividly. It loomed up there like a person less halo, it was just this gray disk suspended in the heavens, observing. Very eerie. Leaving the park, we didn't realize that this was the beginning of a lunar eclipse.
16 de juin
istanbul
18:32
I am on the plane that will bring me to Addis Ababa. I'm going to Africa, the motherland. But will I be welcomed in the same way I will welcome the differences of this mystic land? The same way I've always welcomed it?
I will be the second to my sister to reach Africa since my ancestors were brought to the New World in chains. My people came from the West. I am going to the East where all people came from.
21:08
I am having thoughts about what are now memories, my life in Haifa, Israel. It's all in the past now. The setting sun is replaced by a rising moon and the the setting moon is replaced by just night. Soon after, we see the rising sun again and on and on it all goes.
The image of my empty room right before leaving for the airport sits slothfully in my thoughts. Suddnely, the deserted rom is replace with various glimpses of the times when life filled the air with laughter, sex, grief and that which comes with living.
Before I locked the door behind me forever, it was just a room, Just Talia 221 Apt. 1 like in the beginning.
Shit! How profound is the meaning people can put on the inanimate. Looking at that desolate room, I broke the monotony with golden memories. At times, I laughed like I've never laughed before in that room.
20 de juin
monday
9:19am
addis ababa, ethiopia
the taitu hotel
I hear a bird singing a sweet song. It goes: dadadadadadada da dada, dadadadadadada da dada. I guess a straight recording would be better.
In a way, my upbringing has distanced me from my own people in the Old World. In my efforts to coexist coolly on the Addis Ababa and Shashamene streets, the sounds from my tongue throw up a barrier. Oftentimes, more than I think...
11:20am
Sitting on the lawn near the main library of Addis Ababa University. The building for Ethiopian Studies was the old palace of Ras Tafari or Emperor Haile Selassie.
There's always a feeling of camaraderie in an academic setting. For brief pockets of time, I forget the nation I am in because I am in the microcosm of the University.
18 de juin
saturday
noke, Shashemene
ethiopia
this place is a real thrill. The next moment is as unpredictable as the moment after that one.
Shashemene is the Rastafarian capital of the world. Many Jamaicans have migrated here to "escape Babylon" as Ras Fitzi told us earlier in this little museum/room full of Rastafarian memorabilia, history, artifacts, like Nyabhingi Drums.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Written May 7th 2011 Outside Somewhere in the Extreme North of Israel.
Today we walked around Tzvat, one of the four Holy cities in Israel out of Jerusalem, Tzvat, Tiberias and Hebron in the West Bank. Following the curvy and narrow beige streets under the sharp blue sky, I could help but imagine what this place must have been like hundreds or thousands or years ago. Same architecture, same cobble stone streets but very different people.
Small children ran after each other in the streets yelling youthful Hebrew through laughter. These children were Orthodox Jews, committed before their birth to carry on this ultra-conservative tradition. I thought to myself: Would they have chosen this life for themselves? In a certain way, ignorance bliss? Not knowing the possibility of any other life would leave one happy in whatever life one is tied to.
We stopped at one point to see some street music performers. I'll never forget the Israeli Bell Drum that one man played. It looked like a turtle with both a dorsal and an anterior shell without a head or any appendages. Hitting the outer edges produced a high bell sound and hitting the interior produced a low deep "boom". It was really interesting and hypnotic.
Next we went to a Kabbala painter's gallery and watched in awe how he explained the interconnectedness of the world and of man in this world through psychedelic charged visual art. It was cool to say the least and this man was extraordinary.
Now I am going to sleep out here in the grass beneath the observant stars. Goodnight.
Small children ran after each other in the streets yelling youthful Hebrew through laughter. These children were Orthodox Jews, committed before their birth to carry on this ultra-conservative tradition. I thought to myself: Would they have chosen this life for themselves? In a certain way, ignorance bliss? Not knowing the possibility of any other life would leave one happy in whatever life one is tied to.
We stopped at one point to see some street music performers. I'll never forget the Israeli Bell Drum that one man played. It looked like a turtle with both a dorsal and an anterior shell without a head or any appendages. Hitting the outer edges produced a high bell sound and hitting the interior produced a low deep "boom". It was really interesting and hypnotic.
Next we went to a Kabbala painter's gallery and watched in awe how he explained the interconnectedness of the world and of man in this world through psychedelic charged visual art. It was cool to say the least and this man was extraordinary.
Now I am going to sleep out here in the grass beneath the observant stars. Goodnight.
Independence Day: May 10, 2011.
Today is Independence Day in Israel, the day Israel prevailed over all the resistance of its establishment. I hear music blaring from the park. I hear people singing to the music.
In fives days, it will be Nakba Day, the day marking the subjugation of the Palestinian people and their flight from lands placed under Israeli rule and independence.
Today the West Bank could either be silent or tumultuous. The air is probably thick with an unquellable bitterness masked in voiceless humility.
On this same day, one group rejoices and the other laments.
In fives days, it will be Nakba Day, the day marking the subjugation of the Palestinian people and their flight from lands placed under Israeli rule and independence.
Today the West Bank could either be silent or tumultuous. The air is probably thick with an unquellable bitterness masked in voiceless humility.
On this same day, one group rejoices and the other laments.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Everyone's Right (or Wrong)
Why does it have to be about Christ or Moses or Muhammad and Heaven and Hell?
This earth has been floating in space for a barely definable amount of time.
Think of all the religions that have come and gone.
Why were the Arawak Indians heathens?
Who really knows anything?
This earth has been floating in space for a barely definable amount of time.
Think of all the religions that have come and gone.
Why were the Arawak Indians heathens?
Who really knows anything?
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Taksim Square, Istanbul. 21st of April.
Everyone here thinks I am Muslim.
It must be the beard.
Istanbul is definitely one of the most diverse, eclectic, lively, vibrant, aesthetically beautiful cities I've ever been to in the world. As the second largest city on the globe, we cannot deny the empirical evidence that people over the course of history have naturally gravitated to this place. Turkey has been a civilization for the Byzantine, the Persians, the Greeks, the Ottomans and other historically esoteric ethnic groups. All this past gives birth to a present glowing, sparkling, exploding with cultural splendor.
This place also has its retardation. There are many things that are old fashion. On most street or alley corners there are shoe shiners wearing dusty shoes. They've got lustrous golden shoeshine boxes with brushes and sponges sticking out at the sides. They sit on the sidewalk begging people to be their servant. From the eyes of a person conditioned in the West, this is an archaic method at dealing with the merciless, skewed distribution of wealth.
Also, there are men who pick up trash form the streets in a way I've never seen without looking at a black and white picture. They roll these massive carts holding a bag that could double as a parachute up hills, downs, where ever trash lied unattended. This too was old fashion to me. Seeing this triggered thoughts of ancient Egypt, slaves of Ramses carrying colossal stones through the sand. This reminded me of a primary resource I read about Brazil in the 1870s which made accounts of slaves carrying their masters who sat on these chair-like things on their backs into town for an evening of amusement.
I hold no offense to Turkish society. Any society whether American, Israeli or Chinese has its ugly attributes.
It must be the beard.
Istanbul is definitely one of the most diverse, eclectic, lively, vibrant, aesthetically beautiful cities I've ever been to in the world. As the second largest city on the globe, we cannot deny the empirical evidence that people over the course of history have naturally gravitated to this place. Turkey has been a civilization for the Byzantine, the Persians, the Greeks, the Ottomans and other historically esoteric ethnic groups. All this past gives birth to a present glowing, sparkling, exploding with cultural splendor.
This place also has its retardation. There are many things that are old fashion. On most street or alley corners there are shoe shiners wearing dusty shoes. They've got lustrous golden shoeshine boxes with brushes and sponges sticking out at the sides. They sit on the sidewalk begging people to be their servant. From the eyes of a person conditioned in the West, this is an archaic method at dealing with the merciless, skewed distribution of wealth.
Also, there are men who pick up trash form the streets in a way I've never seen without looking at a black and white picture. They roll these massive carts holding a bag that could double as a parachute up hills, downs, where ever trash lied unattended. This too was old fashion to me. Seeing this triggered thoughts of ancient Egypt, slaves of Ramses carrying colossal stones through the sand. This reminded me of a primary resource I read about Brazil in the 1870s which made accounts of slaves carrying their masters who sat on these chair-like things on their backs into town for an evening of amusement.
I hold no offense to Turkish society. Any society whether American, Israeli or Chinese has its ugly attributes.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
On Taking Photos. (Written April 20something 2011)
Walking through Istanbul's windy streets laden with ancient cobblestone overshadowed by mosques, the most magnificent, spectacular architectural phenomena in the city, I feel the urge to take photos. All that which surrounds me awakens within me the obligation to replicate this image for future admiration.
But really, the photograph cannot capture all the splendor, all the surrealism of a mysterious place. The camera cannot grasp the humbling brilliance of the dense orange sunset, the last stand of the sun's enlivening rays behind the silhouette of the mosques sitting on hilltops with distant pigeons gliding over the city pulsating with life. A picture cannot explain the sounds, the smells, the sensations. It can only attempt to remind the photographer. But he, in his focus on aesthetics, can fail to remember that which breathes life into the image.
But really, the photograph cannot capture all the splendor, all the surrealism of a mysterious place. The camera cannot grasp the humbling brilliance of the dense orange sunset, the last stand of the sun's enlivening rays behind the silhouette of the mosques sitting on hilltops with distant pigeons gliding over the city pulsating with life. A picture cannot explain the sounds, the smells, the sensations. It can only attempt to remind the photographer. But he, in his focus on aesthetics, can fail to remember that which breathes life into the image.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
<{:!:tHe drUze:!:}>
The Druze are the most compassionate people in Israel but the least recognized anywhere.
This ethnic group is composed of Arabs displaced all about the Fertile Crescent. In order to be Druze, one must be apart of the blood lineage that spans back thousands of years. Druze is not a race, it is a religion. (The differences between race, religion and nationality are commonly ignored in Israel depending on any of the touchy contexts here).
The Druze have five prophets represented by five colors: Red, White, Yellow, Blue and Green. Whether you take a ride in a sheroot ( a small bus that cost 6 shekels or a dollar seventy) or you actually have the pleasure of visiting a Druze village, the Druze star can be seen dangling from some necklace or the Druze flag can be seen flowing proudly in the desert wind either blowing in from the ajar window or from over the tundra of sand or the fields of green.
They believe in reincarnation because earth is heavenly enough. Their Hell is coming back as a non-Druze.
Quintessential Druze culture requires a dedication to hospitality. I had the benefit of witnessing this first hand. It enveloped me. One of the first Israelis that I've met here at the University, Tamer Atalla, became a friend and he invited me and some other good people to Yirka, a Druze village in the north of Israel that one could see from the Mount Carmel where this school sits in the clouds. From the school, Yirka is a expanse of brown-white before the mountains that hide Lebanon.
But, Tamer can trace his last name back thousands of years. His family, his people, his clan, his tribe migrated from Lebanon long ago. His last name means "a gift from God" in Arabic. He has thousands of relatives. Everyone seemed to be his uncle or his cousin. Traveling to Yirka, I had preconceived notions of the Druze. This was not the first time I felt the warm embrace of their kindness. My friend Brian and I decided to bring his family a small tapoozini (or kumquat ) tree, in order to return the immense kindness that we anticipated to meet. Mirjam and Leah brought the family a wild assortment of flowers.
Walking up to the door, I saw his mother answer with a smile on her face, one that I saw upon exiting the car that stopped over ten meters away. I scrambled for the Arabic greetings I had just learned in class. I said "Marhaba, kif halik", which means "Hello, how are you." She was "Mniha. Alhan wa sahlan" which means "Good. Welcome". I, then, said "Fiki" which is a reply to her previous address that has various meanings, definitionally ambiguous to the native English speaker. This was the beginning.
She had peppers, tea and so many other plants growing in her garden. However, she did not have a tapoozini tree. We were happy to make a unique addition.
The rest of the day was full of conversation, good tea and coffee, real tea and coffee, pure tea and coffee, fresh fruits and laughs. Dinner consisted of Lamb and Chicken Kebab with Pita Bread, Druze bread, chips (freedom fries for my fellow Amuricans), salted shredded lemon cabbage and other tasty things. That kept me full for the next two days.
The next day, we finally met his family. We went to a part of Yirka where most of the Atalla's seemed to live. Leaving the car, he pointed to the various houses. This one was his maternal uncle's, that one his paternal aunt's, this one his maternal grandmother's, that one his paternal grandfather's. We reached his paternal grandfather's house where maybe fifteen members of his family from a variety of generations sat and ate two types of Druze bread dishes: one with zhatar which is quite similar to oregano and one with "fil-fil" which was nice and spicy. We ate awhile, exchanged words with his family and enjoyed the sun's gaze. After some time, we climbed up onto the roof of his Grandfather's house via a ladder who's weakness could only sustain one person at a time. Looking south from this roof, Haifa University presented itself as a distant toothpick on a far away mound. Looking north, I saw green Lebanon, meek and silent.
We climbed down. I reach the ground first. Tamer's grandfather in Orthodox Druze dress invited me inside. He had a large white mustache, a white head cloth and a navy blue robe. He led me to the "living room" for lack of a better word. This room was more than any living room. It had a certain foreign serenity.
Along every wall, there were couches dedicated to the comfort of the visitor. (I bet there are more words in Arabic for "hello" than "goodbye". I realized this walking into this room. With all these chairs, the crucial part of human relations to the Druze has to be the "Hello" and the "Sit down. You are welcome in my home. Relax". This was the same at Tamer house: many many chairs). We sat down. I looked around and saw Druze history all about the off-white walls. Pictures, paintings, adages, even the family tree from Adam to Muhammad including the myriad of Druze prophets who actually have presence in the Old Testament, the Koran and ancient Greek text. Socrates and Aristotle are believed to have relations to the Druze.
Tamer's little cousin had big bag full of almonds straight from the tree. These are not almonds from the supermarkets I've been to. These were covered by a fuzzy green jacket. The custom was to dip them in salt and then eat them. There was no need to strip the nut from its natural environment. And we drank strong coffee of course.
I said what I could to Tamer's grandfather, who's English was nearly nonexistent. My limited Arabic and Hebrew was enough to establish respect between us. He urged me to take more and more almonds and I did with pleasure.
Next we drove to a bushy place. We left the car and continued the trek on foot through muddy lanes and rocky streams while men on bare horse backs trotted past. After fifteen minutes, we reached the source that provided these paths of stone with trickling waters. Around this source, dubbed "the eye" families of Druze, people young and old gathered in recreation on an aesthetically pleasing day in Yirka. (Also, there were horses everywhere. Horse handling has its place in Druze culture.
Children ran five meters before jumping into "the eye", which was 9 meters deep of pristine, primitive water. Boys towards the end of their teenage years sat on a massive boulder smoking nargila or hookah. The older men and women conversed and laughed over picnic. Some had music, very lively music, good spirited music. The scene felt strangely familiar, distantly familiar.
We all sat, talked, drank tea and coffee under the sunshine. After some time, I chose to wander about the hills and the olive trees.
When I came back and met everyone, we were met by two guys around the age of 18 or 19 riding ATVs. "Want to ride?" asked Tamer. I said yes. Brian rode the other one. We zoomed through streams, mud and jagged beds of rock. Looking to one side or the other, chances were that I would see small enclaves of Druze life. These were people bound by blood and history nourishing each other with food, drink and love. These pleasant scenes of Druze families in nature and levity fast forwarded before me.
This ethnic group is composed of Arabs displaced all about the Fertile Crescent. In order to be Druze, one must be apart of the blood lineage that spans back thousands of years. Druze is not a race, it is a religion. (The differences between race, religion and nationality are commonly ignored in Israel depending on any of the touchy contexts here).
The Druze have five prophets represented by five colors: Red, White, Yellow, Blue and Green. Whether you take a ride in a sheroot ( a small bus that cost 6 shekels or a dollar seventy) or you actually have the pleasure of visiting a Druze village, the Druze star can be seen dangling from some necklace or the Druze flag can be seen flowing proudly in the desert wind either blowing in from the ajar window or from over the tundra of sand or the fields of green.
They believe in reincarnation because earth is heavenly enough. Their Hell is coming back as a non-Druze.
Quintessential Druze culture requires a dedication to hospitality. I had the benefit of witnessing this first hand. It enveloped me. One of the first Israelis that I've met here at the University, Tamer Atalla, became a friend and he invited me and some other good people to Yirka, a Druze village in the north of Israel that one could see from the Mount Carmel where this school sits in the clouds. From the school, Yirka is a expanse of brown-white before the mountains that hide Lebanon.
But, Tamer can trace his last name back thousands of years. His family, his people, his clan, his tribe migrated from Lebanon long ago. His last name means "a gift from God" in Arabic. He has thousands of relatives. Everyone seemed to be his uncle or his cousin. Traveling to Yirka, I had preconceived notions of the Druze. This was not the first time I felt the warm embrace of their kindness. My friend Brian and I decided to bring his family a small tapoozini (or kumquat ) tree, in order to return the immense kindness that we anticipated to meet. Mirjam and Leah brought the family a wild assortment of flowers.
Walking up to the door, I saw his mother answer with a smile on her face, one that I saw upon exiting the car that stopped over ten meters away. I scrambled for the Arabic greetings I had just learned in class. I said "Marhaba, kif halik", which means "Hello, how are you." She was "Mniha. Alhan wa sahlan" which means "Good. Welcome". I, then, said "Fiki" which is a reply to her previous address that has various meanings, definitionally ambiguous to the native English speaker. This was the beginning.
She had peppers, tea and so many other plants growing in her garden. However, she did not have a tapoozini tree. We were happy to make a unique addition.
The rest of the day was full of conversation, good tea and coffee, real tea and coffee, pure tea and coffee, fresh fruits and laughs. Dinner consisted of Lamb and Chicken Kebab with Pita Bread, Druze bread, chips (freedom fries for my fellow Amuricans), salted shredded lemon cabbage and other tasty things. That kept me full for the next two days.
The next day, we finally met his family. We went to a part of Yirka where most of the Atalla's seemed to live. Leaving the car, he pointed to the various houses. This one was his maternal uncle's, that one his paternal aunt's, this one his maternal grandmother's, that one his paternal grandfather's. We reached his paternal grandfather's house where maybe fifteen members of his family from a variety of generations sat and ate two types of Druze bread dishes: one with zhatar which is quite similar to oregano and one with "fil-fil" which was nice and spicy. We ate awhile, exchanged words with his family and enjoyed the sun's gaze. After some time, we climbed up onto the roof of his Grandfather's house via a ladder who's weakness could only sustain one person at a time. Looking south from this roof, Haifa University presented itself as a distant toothpick on a far away mound. Looking north, I saw green Lebanon, meek and silent.
We climbed down. I reach the ground first. Tamer's grandfather in Orthodox Druze dress invited me inside. He had a large white mustache, a white head cloth and a navy blue robe. He led me to the "living room" for lack of a better word. This room was more than any living room. It had a certain foreign serenity.
Along every wall, there were couches dedicated to the comfort of the visitor. (I bet there are more words in Arabic for "hello" than "goodbye". I realized this walking into this room. With all these chairs, the crucial part of human relations to the Druze has to be the "Hello" and the "Sit down. You are welcome in my home. Relax". This was the same at Tamer house: many many chairs). We sat down. I looked around and saw Druze history all about the off-white walls. Pictures, paintings, adages, even the family tree from Adam to Muhammad including the myriad of Druze prophets who actually have presence in the Old Testament, the Koran and ancient Greek text. Socrates and Aristotle are believed to have relations to the Druze.
Tamer's little cousin had big bag full of almonds straight from the tree. These are not almonds from the supermarkets I've been to. These were covered by a fuzzy green jacket. The custom was to dip them in salt and then eat them. There was no need to strip the nut from its natural environment. And we drank strong coffee of course.
I said what I could to Tamer's grandfather, who's English was nearly nonexistent. My limited Arabic and Hebrew was enough to establish respect between us. He urged me to take more and more almonds and I did with pleasure.
Next we drove to a bushy place. We left the car and continued the trek on foot through muddy lanes and rocky streams while men on bare horse backs trotted past. After fifteen minutes, we reached the source that provided these paths of stone with trickling waters. Around this source, dubbed "the eye" families of Druze, people young and old gathered in recreation on an aesthetically pleasing day in Yirka. (Also, there were horses everywhere. Horse handling has its place in Druze culture.
Children ran five meters before jumping into "the eye", which was 9 meters deep of pristine, primitive water. Boys towards the end of their teenage years sat on a massive boulder smoking nargila or hookah. The older men and women conversed and laughed over picnic. Some had music, very lively music, good spirited music. The scene felt strangely familiar, distantly familiar.
We all sat, talked, drank tea and coffee under the sunshine. After some time, I chose to wander about the hills and the olive trees.
When I came back and met everyone, we were met by two guys around the age of 18 or 19 riding ATVs. "Want to ride?" asked Tamer. I said yes. Brian rode the other one. We zoomed through streams, mud and jagged beds of rock. Looking to one side or the other, chances were that I would see small enclaves of Druze life. These were people bound by blood and history nourishing each other with food, drink and love. These pleasant scenes of Druze families in nature and levity fast forwarded before me.
Monday, April 4, 2011
.already april already.
I've been living and studying in Israel since January 23rd. When I discovered that the study-abroad program in Niger was canceled, the greatest despair surged through me and for sometime depressed my spirits as well as inflated them with a silent bitterness. My life-long dream to see the West African bush and soil, to feel the true divinity and intensity of the sun, to feel all that which this sphere of flames can make man feel -- this dream remained, as before, beyond my grasp, beyond my embrace, beyond my reality.
So, I wound up in Haifa after an arbitrary choice. I came to Israel nearly indifferent as to the experience I could have, blind and ignorant to the immensely valuable and cherishable experience that I'm currently having. I'll never forget the people I've met here, the people I've come to love. I'll never forget them even after I've returned to the monotony, the daily grind of our obligations at home which right now seems so dreadful.
But we all have to move on. Our Universe is birth, experience and death whether we refer to the feeble human, the assured animals, the ancient trees, a full glass of water or the situations that seem to absorb us. Things begin, endure and then end. Time flees; it escapes from our surroundings into our memories. This is all that we can be sure of.
Once my time here ends, who knows how exactly I'll interpret or how we'll all interpret the Separation. I'm as clueless about the future as I was two weeks before January 23rd.
Sweet optimism reminds me that when something dies, something else is born.
So, I wound up in Haifa after an arbitrary choice. I came to Israel nearly indifferent as to the experience I could have, blind and ignorant to the immensely valuable and cherishable experience that I'm currently having. I'll never forget the people I've met here, the people I've come to love. I'll never forget them even after I've returned to the monotony, the daily grind of our obligations at home which right now seems so dreadful.
But we all have to move on. Our Universe is birth, experience and death whether we refer to the feeble human, the assured animals, the ancient trees, a full glass of water or the situations that seem to absorb us. Things begin, endure and then end. Time flees; it escapes from our surroundings into our memories. This is all that we can be sure of.
Once my time here ends, who knows how exactly I'll interpret or how we'll all interpret the Separation. I'm as clueless about the future as I was two weeks before January 23rd.
Sweet optimism reminds me that when something dies, something else is born.
Friday, March 18, 2011
March 12: Heading Towards Eilat from the Israeli-Egyptian Border.
We hiked for eight hours up, down and through mountains in the arid Middle Eastern sand. In the first part of the day, I saw the sky enlivened by stars. This was around 3 o'clock in the morning. It was very cold; the merciless desert unleashed low penetrating temperatures.
After it all, we reached the Israeli-Egyptian border. I saw a lonely watchtower occupied by a lonely border guard whose obligation was to shoot any person ambitious enough or crazy enough to jump over the dusty barbed wire. The security guards on our little trip are Druze so they speak Arabic. They went down and shook hands with the Egyptian over barbed wire.
They were linked by language: politics didn't matter.
After it all, we reached the Israeli-Egyptian border. I saw a lonely watchtower occupied by a lonely border guard whose obligation was to shoot any person ambitious enough or crazy enough to jump over the dusty barbed wire. The security guards on our little trip are Druze so they speak Arabic. They went down and shook hands with the Egyptian over barbed wire.
They were linked by language: politics didn't matter.
March 11th: Somewhere in the Hilly Negev Desert around Eilat.
We hiked for 6 kilometers to this campsite where everyone's working to prepare dinner. These are the pure, nearly untouched hills of the Old. There's nothing here. This site is in the embrace of jagged mountains. Light pollution has yet to taint these skies. From the finest grain of sand to the gargantuan bolder, nature lives in harmony.
Streaks on the sides of mountains from previous engagement with other rocks suggests organization, order in a seemingly random world.
Streaks on the sides of mountains from previous engagement with other rocks suggests organization, order in a seemingly random world.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
It Was Written (on february 27th on the way to Jerusalem and afterwards.)
In the advent of getting my camera stolen, I've temporarily lost the ability to document properly this new, extraordinary experience. I'll have to draw pictures with words. I'll have to paint the old walls and streets of the Holy City through prose.
Right now we're passing through the hills heading east towards Jerusalem. These hills are dotted with clumps of white, like life size pieces of feta cheese. (I think our tour guide said that it was limestone). We're passing some hill where Elijah the Prophet did something that upheld his status as a prophet.
(Her voice has too much treble. It needs a little bass.)
Anyways, these hills hug a valley adorn with a diverse population of trees. Some tall and skinny, some short and fat, and some in between.
This field here to the right looks like it should be in the Bible. The writers of this historical phenomenon probably wandered these lands aimed east somewhere over the next hill.
The only thing that's different are these strips of pavement, hardened trails of once steaming tar. The only thing that's different are the signs in Hebrew, Arabic and English. The only thing that's different are these white smoke stacks and the fenced property below.
after Jerusalem:
Jerusalem was surreal. The dense history of this place was difficult to grasp in twelve hours. Seeing the Dome of the Rock glisten in golden brilliance, seeing the Western Wall where people prayed with tears in their eyes, seeing young orthodox Jewish school boys sing in pure jubilance in near vertigo with hands joined, seeing over five shades of skin colored people come together to rejoice in celebration of the Supernatural, seeing Muslims, Jews and Christians bump shoulders - seeing all this rendered me a little numb. With so much there that could potentially move me religiously depending on my faith, I couldn't feel the same as those on their knees kissing the Tomb of Jesus Christ with intense, wild zeal or with listless, modest docility. The religious energy of the Old City, at times, blurred my focus on the historical aspects. Religion is ever present in the Culture from which I've risen into the World. But perhaps, through me, my culture is undergoing evolution.
Right now we're passing through the hills heading east towards Jerusalem. These hills are dotted with clumps of white, like life size pieces of feta cheese. (I think our tour guide said that it was limestone). We're passing some hill where Elijah the Prophet did something that upheld his status as a prophet.
(Her voice has too much treble. It needs a little bass.)
Anyways, these hills hug a valley adorn with a diverse population of trees. Some tall and skinny, some short and fat, and some in between.
This field here to the right looks like it should be in the Bible. The writers of this historical phenomenon probably wandered these lands aimed east somewhere over the next hill.
The only thing that's different are these strips of pavement, hardened trails of once steaming tar. The only thing that's different are the signs in Hebrew, Arabic and English. The only thing that's different are these white smoke stacks and the fenced property below.
after Jerusalem:
Jerusalem was surreal. The dense history of this place was difficult to grasp in twelve hours. Seeing the Dome of the Rock glisten in golden brilliance, seeing the Western Wall where people prayed with tears in their eyes, seeing young orthodox Jewish school boys sing in pure jubilance in near vertigo with hands joined, seeing over five shades of skin colored people come together to rejoice in celebration of the Supernatural, seeing Muslims, Jews and Christians bump shoulders - seeing all this rendered me a little numb. With so much there that could potentially move me religiously depending on my faith, I couldn't feel the same as those on their knees kissing the Tomb of Jesus Christ with intense, wild zeal or with listless, modest docility. The religious energy of the Old City, at times, blurred my focus on the historical aspects. Religion is ever present in the Culture from which I've risen into the World. But perhaps, through me, my culture is undergoing evolution.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Eilat: The Wedge between Egypt and Jordan. (Feb. 18)
I was floating in the Red Sea, the one that Moses split open.
Straight ahead is south. Ethiopia is somewhere over there. To my left is Jordan - sharp surreal mountains lie to the left. I think that's Jordan. The Eastern Gateway to the Arab world.
This place is blue~brown. The glow from the formidable, penetrating sunlight sits peacefully above the jagged mountains marking the Jordanian Border. The sun's rays produces a myriad of ultra white lustrous specks of light adorning the sea with an impeccable beauty that spans all the way to the horizon: the off yellow horizon that fills my head with so much wonder, so much suspense.
This beach has no shells, only rocks, jagged rocks that decorate the sandy beaches and smooth rocks that bring to the sea mystery as to what other attributes exist the further one goes out towards the horizon.
After an eight hour bus ride, I still can't sleep. My eye lids are heavy from the day before, but my eyes move about in excitement to grasp all of this experience, to absorb it all through their small, black pupils. Right now, I'm neither nocturnal nor "dayturnal". Neither tired nor awake. In my marveling at the golden brown horizon, I have no reason to pass the time in clueless darkness. No reason to escape what lies before me. This is a dream I dread waking from.
Straight ahead is south. Ethiopia is somewhere over there. To my left is Jordan - sharp surreal mountains lie to the left. I think that's Jordan. The Eastern Gateway to the Arab world.
This place is blue~brown. The glow from the formidable, penetrating sunlight sits peacefully above the jagged mountains marking the Jordanian Border. The sun's rays produces a myriad of ultra white lustrous specks of light adorning the sea with an impeccable beauty that spans all the way to the horizon: the off yellow horizon that fills my head with so much wonder, so much suspense.
This beach has no shells, only rocks, jagged rocks that decorate the sandy beaches and smooth rocks that bring to the sea mystery as to what other attributes exist the further one goes out towards the horizon.
After an eight hour bus ride, I still can't sleep. My eye lids are heavy from the day before, but my eyes move about in excitement to grasp all of this experience, to absorb it all through their small, black pupils. Right now, I'm neither nocturnal nor "dayturnal". Neither tired nor awake. In my marveling at the golden brown horizon, I have no reason to pass the time in clueless darkness. No reason to escape what lies before me. This is a dream I dread waking from.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Cat Wars
This place, this country, this region of the world is overrun by cats. Everywhere on University of Haifa's campus there are congregations of cats. This morning I saw three cats run after each other in a single file line. One by one by one. They ran around the corner. They were hidden by the dormitory walls; anyone could hear their shrieks and squalls. Recently, I found out that it was mating season for these cats. The men are fighting other men, competing with each other for access to the women. The female cats sit peacefully in the trees beneath the moonlight while lumpen street cats sink their claws into each other, wailing and moaning for survival, for the passage of their genetic material into the future, a world that they will never see as time slowly kills them.
Cats are always digging in the garbage for food.
This Happened on the Twelfth of February. It was Written at 4:35pm on the Beach of Haifa, Israel
I just touched the Mediterranean Sea for the very first time after hours of hiking down the bushy thorny mountain. We started at the Carmel Park that sits across the street from the University on the tallest summit in Haifa. I saw trees I've never seen, bushes of thorns indigenous to this part of the world, a species of bushes that were probably used to crown Jesus as he walked towards enlightening death.
I'm not religious.
Coming down, we found civilization. Simple cafes, gas stations, Russians, Ethiopians, roundabouts. We crossed train tracks, a busy highway and now I sit on a rock, moist from the Mediterranean Sea Spray. Je regarde les vagues calmes viennent a moi comme je regarde le soleil dans le ciel. The sun will be setting soon. The bright luster, the blinding magnificence of the sun that sends a myriad of twinkles from my feet all the way to the horizon - All this will become orange and pink, all this will soften into scarlet indigo. All this will lead to distant stars, little twinkles in the deep navy blue sky as if the twinkles I see now on the sea will separate and rise to give light to the night.
I'm not religious.
Coming down, we found civilization. Simple cafes, gas stations, Russians, Ethiopians, roundabouts. We crossed train tracks, a busy highway and now I sit on a rock, moist from the Mediterranean Sea Spray. Je regarde les vagues calmes viennent a moi comme je regarde le soleil dans le ciel. The sun will be setting soon. The bright luster, the blinding magnificence of the sun that sends a myriad of twinkles from my feet all the way to the horizon - All this will become orange and pink, all this will soften into scarlet indigo. All this will lead to distant stars, little twinkles in the deep navy blue sky as if the twinkles I see now on the sea will separate and rise to give light to the night.
The Middle Eastern Sunset just like any Sunset.
After the day, before the night, I find myself staring at all that which is vast like the gliding clouds beneath pockets of orange, blotches of the sunset's fiery magenta.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
I Can't Believe I Forgot to Add that...
We went to this "Arab" neighborhood that was built on an old spillway where the city's filth flowed on blasting water into the sea. Just like any city, ethnic groups here (Arabs, Jews, Ethiopians, Christians and others) live in polarization. Those atop the Mount Carmel don't care to come to these neighborhoods hidden by the mountain's very shadow. This neighborhood was strictly Arab with tight roads and surplus of zooming cars and vespas. I saw children running around with footballs (the kind you play with your feet), looking at us like people look at strange exhibits in museums. We walked some and reached these two falafel places that stood right across from each other. I turned to the one on the right where there was no line. There, I ate the best falafel I ever had. I drank Hebrew Coca-Cola. I looked up and saw a picture in the corner between the wall and ceiling. It was a little league basketball team clad in Hebrew. This reminded me of all the pizza places in New Jersey and New York that had little league baseball or basketball team pictures overlooking the establishment. The "NO SMOKING" sign could be read by Hebrew, Arabic, Russian, or English speakers. I thought, " damn it's like an alternate Universe."But no. It is the world we live in. Vast and full of things very different but small and full of things metaphysically similar.
The Anniversary of my Escape from the Depths of Womb Matter.
Yesterday was the day of my birth. I am now twenty one. I spent it touring Haifa, Israel from the top of the extravagant, lush Bahai gardens that sit on the summit of Mount Carmel where on a clear day one can see the city of Acco where the best falafel in the world is created by experienced hands. The gardens decline smoothly until it reaches the Shrine of Bab. The history of all this was represented in this spectacle but is still hidden by hundreds, maybe thousands of years and of course my foreign status to Israel. Afterwards, we went to a Souq (pronounced Shook) an expansive outdoor marketplace where one could buy literally anything. From fruits and vegetables to licorice liquor to electronics. I surveyed each store eating a pomegranate, chewing the juices out of the bright crimson seeds that lived in sweet darkness until I came along. I stopped at this one shop and bought some Middle Eastern spices, spices to which I was ignorant. Right now they are sitting in my room filling the space with its alluring scent.
Monday, January 24, 2011
poltics
It's arduous to declare american citizenship to the common people of the Haifa streets who demand to know your nationality especially if you are the only black person (of west african descent among black people of ethiopian descent). Haifa consists of Jews and Arabs, mostly. Supposedly, there is equality here. But hey? : what if some guy hates americans? fuck.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
On the Plane
The screen in front of me says that it is 10:43AM in America and 5:43PM in Israel. I am somewhere over the island of Cyprus - so foreign to me. When I look to my left, I see symmetrical stripes of colors falling from indigo to blue stalking the aircraft's windows. When I look to my right, I see earth, the horizon and then the fiery molten twilight that recedes in intensity and vibrance upwards reaching turquoise and then the same dull blue that I see to my left. The almost supernatural glaze of these high skies plants wonder in my thoughts. Such beauty is so mysterious, so elusive since these are new skies to me, virgin skies before my penetrating gaze.
January 22nd, 2011 4:14pm-New Jersey.
Tonight I fly out to Tel Aviv. Wheels leave the ground at 11PM, wheels touch the ground again at 4PM. I'll take some sort of transportation to Haifa. I'll open the door to my room. The suitcase hits the floor. I'll get settled until fatigue comes. Then my head will hit the pillow, the same pillow for the next five months. I'll be away for a while so I am ever so conscious of the time that's going by before departure. The ticks of the clock echoes around my brain
From this day, I will hold onto the time spent with my family and the distant glow of the sunset looming behind the naked creaking trees that live in my backyard.
From this day, I will hold onto the time spent with my family and the distant glow of the sunset looming behind the naked creaking trees that live in my backyard.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
i BLAME history.
Recently, there have been a stream of abductions in Niger. Very recently, two French nationals were kidnapped in Niamey, at a popular restaurant that, at the time, was probably alive with laughing, talking people and brought to the golden brown desert where they were killed by big machine guns. This specific place where their lives ended took place in a remoteness that may have brought the echo of their cries to the old library walls of Timbuktu.
Who killed these people? The media says that terrorists did it - Al-Qaeda. Every depiction brings to focus wild, reckless, crazy murderers wielding AK 47s in the cool, dusty Sahel night. Putting all our trust in the media, we see that these terrorists are fiends pitted against Good. They might as well be vampires as we know them.
But what do we know? The trusted journalists of CNN, The New York Times, Al Jazeera, all they did was put words together in a document. We weren't there that night on the Mali border where French blood was drawn. We weren't there before that night. We have never asked a "terrorist" why. Very rarely do we swim against stream. What if these "terrorists" are responding to some historical context established on more bloodshed?
Why are so many African countries bedlams rendering any combing through impossible? Why?! Why is it that such a rich, beautiful, mysterious continent, the one from which man arose - why is it so torn apart by war? Endless wars that build opaque viscous clouds of consternation that just sustain it all? I blame history. I blame the Europeans who cut their way through the vast land stripping all its treasures from African hands, exploiting the land and the people, subjecting them to the bowels, the depths of despair, the same hopelessness and helplessness that say a drug addicted sex slave would fall to after submission, submission, submission!
This historical phenomenon set up by the Berlin Conference doomed various countries of the Continent to poor development, to retardation, to the creation of hellish monotonous cycles of failure and self destruction.
The French nationals who were kidnapped in Niger had ties to the large nuclear energy company called Areva. So now things begin to make a little sense. Areva is probably a company like Walmart that exploits workers overseas, takes advantage of their cheap labor while depleting the valuable resources of this foreign country. It doesn't get any closer to slavery than that in these days of globalization, in these days of the World Wide Web spun by discrete, dexterous, poisonous predators, successful in holding humanity in these silky traps.
We will never know the entire story as to what exactly rendered countries like Niger into the poverty and AIDs stricken arena of violence it has become today. But I do know that people have been kidnapped and killed this past week. But why? Why is there a group of people that is today's "Commies", today's "Nazis", why are they in Niamey kidnapping laughing, talking people out of restaurants? Why are they the reason that I may not experience Niger after years of dreaming about Africa? History. An unfortunate succession of events brings us to 2011, a time where we cannot do what we want, a time where we are not free. I blame history as I anticipate the blurry future, as I hope, in spite of my cynicism, that the present can prove my wild conclusions wrong.
Who killed these people? The media says that terrorists did it - Al-Qaeda. Every depiction brings to focus wild, reckless, crazy murderers wielding AK 47s in the cool, dusty Sahel night. Putting all our trust in the media, we see that these terrorists are fiends pitted against Good. They might as well be vampires as we know them.
But what do we know? The trusted journalists of CNN, The New York Times, Al Jazeera, all they did was put words together in a document. We weren't there that night on the Mali border where French blood was drawn. We weren't there before that night. We have never asked a "terrorist" why. Very rarely do we swim against stream. What if these "terrorists" are responding to some historical context established on more bloodshed?
Why are so many African countries bedlams rendering any combing through impossible? Why?! Why is it that such a rich, beautiful, mysterious continent, the one from which man arose - why is it so torn apart by war? Endless wars that build opaque viscous clouds of consternation that just sustain it all? I blame history. I blame the Europeans who cut their way through the vast land stripping all its treasures from African hands, exploiting the land and the people, subjecting them to the bowels, the depths of despair, the same hopelessness and helplessness that say a drug addicted sex slave would fall to after submission, submission, submission!
This historical phenomenon set up by the Berlin Conference doomed various countries of the Continent to poor development, to retardation, to the creation of hellish monotonous cycles of failure and self destruction.
The French nationals who were kidnapped in Niger had ties to the large nuclear energy company called Areva. So now things begin to make a little sense. Areva is probably a company like Walmart that exploits workers overseas, takes advantage of their cheap labor while depleting the valuable resources of this foreign country. It doesn't get any closer to slavery than that in these days of globalization, in these days of the World Wide Web spun by discrete, dexterous, poisonous predators, successful in holding humanity in these silky traps.
We will never know the entire story as to what exactly rendered countries like Niger into the poverty and AIDs stricken arena of violence it has become today. But I do know that people have been kidnapped and killed this past week. But why? Why is there a group of people that is today's "Commies", today's "Nazis", why are they in Niamey kidnapping laughing, talking people out of restaurants? Why are they the reason that I may not experience Niger after years of dreaming about Africa? History. An unfortunate succession of events brings us to 2011, a time where we cannot do what we want, a time where we are not free. I blame history as I anticipate the blurry future, as I hope, in spite of my cynicism, that the present can prove my wild conclusions wrong.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
anticipation is blurry foresight
I sit here patiently, clueless as to what my long stay in Niger will bring to me or how it will shape me. Right now, to me, Niger is a concept, an idea, a shape on a map. Numerous people have described to me the country's beauty and the its people who, through custom and habit, maintain this image.
But these are just subjective experiences, based on individual interpretations. One person sees a baseball bat as a tool to send a baseball out of range of the opposing team players. Another person may see it as a weapon to blah blah blah. Another person may it as memorabilia. Recounting experiences requires the combination of the factual and transcendent aspects, a duality that involves that which really actually exists and that which we spawn in our minds (something that transcends reality). Everyone is different. Therefore we all distort these two aspects, we all emphasize one part of this duplicity differently. Relying on the perspective of another keeps me ignorant and eager to the thing that I've yet to experience for myself. Right now, Niger is just some bright place in my thoughts.
That'll change in sixteen days.
But these are just subjective experiences, based on individual interpretations. One person sees a baseball bat as a tool to send a baseball out of range of the opposing team players. Another person may see it as a weapon to blah blah blah. Another person may it as memorabilia. Recounting experiences requires the combination of the factual and transcendent aspects, a duality that involves that which really actually exists and that which we spawn in our minds (something that transcends reality). Everyone is different. Therefore we all distort these two aspects, we all emphasize one part of this duplicity differently. Relying on the perspective of another keeps me ignorant and eager to the thing that I've yet to experience for myself. Right now, Niger is just some bright place in my thoughts.
That'll change in sixteen days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)