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.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
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.
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