Habibti Taita

This is just summarizing my adventures with tracing relatives and family
homes....it will be boring for most people but before I forget
all the names to tell Taita...

I shall share with those who care (apparently me and my interest
is weird) which family members I have met.
  Firstly, Nahla and Xena are the girls of Hanna Deeb(Taita's 1st cousin)
who have children from my age to Jamiel's age. They live in Nasara
where Nadira lives.  Nadira's beloved father George (Taitas 1st cousin) lived in Acko,
where her mother still lives.  He died, but her mother is fit and
gorgeous with two other children who each have young children like
Nadira.  They are all gorgeous.
  Another 1st cousin, "Uncle Yousef" everyone calls him, lives in Haifa.
He's married to Mona (who gave me a bag of clothes and began organizing
my week as soon as I met her - she's a travel guide), and together they
had Lena and Salim who had more wonderful children around my age - all
very intelligent and interesting.  They all live in the same building.
  Uncle Yousef is the fittest of all of Taita's cousins.  He still works
as an engineer with his son, downstairs, and his daughter recently joined
them too with some other helpful job.
  They live in a happy little building.  Mona and her husband recently
had another baby, so when I was there everyone was sleepy eyed from
sleeping in the same room with the baby who never sleeps.

  In Acko I was swept over to Hanna's wifes home.  Hanna was another
of Taita's cousins and so far they've all been children of Shafeeq.
Taita's father Amin had two brothers; Naim and Shafeeq.  All brothers
lived in Ramie (a village maybe 20 minutes from Acko) and Hanna
(the eldest brother) was the first to move to Acko.
  They're first son Shafeeq lives upstairs at Hanna's family home.
He married Nahla - another Deeb! - her mother who now lives in America
is Taita's second or third cousin, and she too was born in Ramie.
  On this occasion it was Waleed's birthday so all the family (Hanna's
children who I've mentioned thus far plus their families) were over.
I ate a lot of cake/knafe after my lunch of cursa and wurra and we sung
and laughed.
  The whole Deeb family is very actively humerous.  When we were singing
Happy Birthday, everyone made such a loud exciting fuss that
the tables and delicate coffee cups shook and the candles went out
from the collective breath as we sung.
  Shafeeq and his wife Nahla have four children: Ola (21) Maha (18)
who very close, Nadine (12) and Hanna (6).  Theyre all the sweetest
things and Ive grown to love them.
See, after meeting them they invited me back to their house to stay next
wednesday!

I will skip my first two days of Acko so that this post is a boring family
one.

  The first night in Acko, a couple with their children came over for dinner.
I knew the man whose sername is Hanna was distantly related to Shafeeq,
but to my surprize we figured out over dinner that his wife's mother, too,
was Taitas cousin.  The family live in Ramie, where Taita was born, and they
said I was welcome to visit this friday and next friday (their weekends).
So on friday we head off in the afternoon.
  We arrive, and drive through the village.  Its much larger than I expected
and looks much like the other villages I've seen, in terms of the array of
50s style houses.  Ramie is much greener, however, blossoming with flowers
and many many humungous Australian eucalpytus trees which look older
than any Ive seen in Australia....they probably just grow well here?

  Within Reems home, I was awaited by Faizi (first cousin on Taitas mum's side
 and Irhad (married to Taita's cousin).
  Faizi wondered whether Taita knew all her siblings had passed away,
and asked about Taita's younger sister in Damascus; about her health and
wellbeing.  She asked why Taita stopped sending letters, greeting cards,
particularly to Assad, who too questioned me later when I met
him (and his wife Abla).  He was also good friends with Jidi,
 they worked together in Jordan, and he was
sorry that while he lived in Perth he never visited us.
  The answers to the ambush of questions were hazy in my mind
 but I said that Taita's hands lacked
blood flow and writing letters is really hard for her, especially
after cooking all her delicious food she does.
  Faizi remembered the dresses Taita made for her when she was younger,
and the details of when they last ate together in Amaan.
  Faizi also knew that while Taita was born in Rami, and visited often
to see her extended family, she lived in Acko.  Where I'd just been
staying.  So I've another house to visit on my list!!

  Everytime Ive met one of Taita's cousins I have shared the 5 or 6 photos
i copied from Taitas albumns to share.  In 2 of them, no one has known
who the people are (dont think Taita knew either, perhaps they were Jidi's
photos???) but the other photos Were exciting enough.

  Later, Reem's sister took me for a walk.  It's funny, they knew
I wanted to see Taitas house which is three minutes away and so
sudenly i catch in the conversation that we're driving there !!?????
 I repeated a few times that I
REALLY didnt mind walking and Reems sister heard my prayers.
She was a really delightful guide: She later admitted that she's
been wanting to give her own children the history of the village,
though I'm afraid even Ramie has been introduced to technology.


  The sun made me nervous;
 it was just about set when we head
out of the house and I knew all that I wanted to see couldn't
be seen within the time frame.  Aditionally, the country side
had a cloudy mist which had been spreading across the fields
since I'd arrived.  It seemed to add to the pressure of the
coming darkness.
  First I entered the old Church
which is now opulent with golden tinkets, the traditional
architechture (with the starry rooves) painted with a different
bright colour on each section!
The big chandelier had one of Taita's cousins name on it -
for he had donated it to the church.

  Then up the cobbled streets to Taitas house.  The slim, stone path
winds through the streets with a thick gutter right in
its centre.
  Taita's cousin's wife Noha still lives there all by herself,
but she works all day in Acko and so was not home at the hour.
As it is such big house there are also a few other families inside
 - Druze families.  One corner of the house is also a supermarket.
The smoky blue sky became a blurry darkness upon arrival, and the
building became a spooky gray colour, save for the balcony.
On the balony sat a family were noisily relaxing, framed by
the bright green and purples
of their grape vine.  Around 10 young children were bouncing from
the walls and running through the garden, oblivious to me as I
photographed their house.  It wasn't the fantasy
home Taita drew in my head, but childhood memories seem to live
only in our own minds anyway.  Moreover,
im confused as to if this house was Taitas or not...but it certainly
belonged to the Deeb family and Taita certainly visited
it very often.
From there, we delved into the old city (which was much smaller then)'s
streets.  Its a really beautifull village with houses tightly squeezed
together, balconies touching so kids can visit eachother easily,
with ropes swung across the baloncies which (apparently) the
children used to send baskets of messages/sweets to their
neighbours.
  Reem's childhood house (Taita's mother's brother's house)
had three houses all joined together with a really abstract stairwell.
  Her grandma lived in the house below
 while her uncles family lived next door... the three
buildings all fit together like Tetras pieces, bound by the
outdoor stairwell where they would call out to eachother through
their windows or doors.


  Though the Deeb family came from Lebanon origionally, they
became one of the most well-known dwellers in the village
of Rami wherein lived Christians Druze and Muslims.
  Moreover, Taita's mother was from Rami - the Jacki
family.  So many houses in the old village (and generally the more
beautifull houses) belonged to Taita's relatives.
`Hanna gave me a history book based on Ramie to give to Taita
(its in arabic) which too looks very interesting!

  Rami was an emotional experience, possibly because I was tired
with hopes to see things only light can reveal....

I'm welcome back there though, and photograph the village in
the light of day.

Back in Nazareth, I have since met Taita's cousins Laila and
Ilaine.  Shafiq's children, sisters of Yousef.
  Laila is in good health, as is her husband Khalil.
They are sooo lovely; village people and like Taita would, Laila kept pulling
me into her arms and kissing me.  She made delicious stuffed eggplant
and kofta and recognized all the people in the photos I took from Taita's
photo albumns!!
Ilaine unfortunaetly is sick, but this is kept a secret from Taita
i repeat: a secret from Taita.  One I will not help break, thankyou.
  The whole family was there when I visited, lifting the atmosphere.
  She is sooo beautifull, like Laila.  Two absolute stunners.

  To my delight, they too were delighted to meet me.  I'm praised
here for my respect, for like in Australia, the western culture
fully exists here and distances grandchildren from their history,
culture, and their grandparents.  Though its not as bad as in Australia
because the taitas and jidis live upstairs...

Nasara

Ahlan wa sahlan ala Nasara
Where its bizarre that my eyebrows are unplucked


Narareth was more shocking than the West Bank.
  The people of Ramallah were restricted due to gossip: if you
wore a hijab one day and not the next, you would be questioned.
  If you are unmarried and seen being friends with men, you are
questioned.
  Many would consider these restrictions based on islamic law
however its really just a modern culture which has evolved with
islam.
In Nazareth more than in the West Bank, women Ive spoken to have
expressed MORE anxiety, more pressure, with a will of more freedom.
  Here, one cannot wear the same dress to two occasions even if people
only see it on facebook.
  One cannot wear shorts and thongs to the supermarket without
being talked about.
  Again, the culture has established itself via gossip and whilst
the women feel trapped within it, I feel they help build it themselves
through accepting it.

Again, the West Bank is given only dirty unhealthy tapwater.  I was
happy to go to Nazareth where I would no longer spend such
money: where one can drink tap water.
  Oh how shocked I was.  Here, everyone buys hektik water
filters (which serves boiled water just as readily as cold water)
or bottled water anyway.  Because they're used to it...

Quickly:
  Nazareth, traditionally, is mostly made up of Christians.  Now
however, the islams make up the majority (the whole babies thing)
Whilst there is a jewish section called 'Nazareth Illit' (like
elite).  Its uglier and newer.  Though whilst only arabs live
in the section I've been living in, all the shops have hebrew
names and No One. Mentions. Politics.
(cept in the car where Im strictly reminded to stop talking)

 
  So the lucky little me has a home in Nazareth where my gorgeous
and so distantly related family accept me as a cousin and spoil
me silly, and where my beloved "cousin" (though mroe like third aunt)
seems to be the Queen of the social scene.
  I love my family here.  The littlest daughter never stops
talking to me, though she knows very well how I struggle to
understand her arabic.  We share a room, see, so she's given
plenty of time to pour her heart out to me.
The first thing she said (which her mother
kindly translated) was how little my ears are.  The second was
that she was born just one kilo.  Which was true.

  The middle child is highly sensitive.  He's obsessed with his
mother.  And highly afriad of losing her. His mother meanwhile,
is becoming mad trying to get rid of her extra shadow.

  The eldest is sa gentlemen (they all have the sweetest hearts) who
plays chess and backgammon with me at my request!

  They fight endlessly, and have grown voices to yell over
Their loud (arabic) parents.

  The first night I arrived, we went to the fanciest restaurant
of my life.  Me in my dirty sandals which Ive worn everyday for
over a month, and my clothes which I've worked in, camped in the
desert in, and swum in...
  My cousin most certainly has given me a makeover since then.
  I wonder if her long arabic phone calls are made asking for
donations, to help her poor, unkept cousin.  Whose two bras are
falling apart.  Whose clothes are all fit for a grandmother
of two seasons ago (who smelt really bad). And whose hair
couldnt be straightened or else people would notice she cut it
herself....

  See, my luggage has now doubled.  She was sure to wash every last
material of my luggage tout-suit (‌even my sandals went into
the washing mashine, to my disbelief).  I've been given every last
product so that no part of my body can emitt its natural smell.
  Body lotion, deoderant, spray deoderant, expensive perfume,
  My other cousin bought me shoes!! And Taitas cousins wife gave
me a WHOLE BAG full of fresh, like-new (wouldnt be surprized)
clothes as though it was normal.  Now I can fit in just fine
with the Stepford wives, in my hot pink three quarter pants and
matching sweater.
  Not that I'm not thankful.  Im overwhelmed with gratitude I am.
 
  But the money! The wastage!  I went to a wedding party where the
many tables where smothered in food (hommos, tabouleh, everything!)
  Any tray which was nibbled at was replaced within seconds with
a fresh one.  Not that anyone ate much! The women seemed
afraid to eat beside eachother. All husbands were on a diet (so they
filled up on bread and whisky).  All dancers were restricted to move
in all directions, whther it was due to their tiny attire or their
self-consciousness...I know I didnt let my clothes stop me.

:P

But oh my clothes.  I am the youngest daughters new doll, she does
my hair all the time.  For the parties, I am her mother's doll.
  I recieved three new dresses whilst trying on clothes for the party.
  One hot pink, the other two white.  If only I could avoid dirtying them.
 

  Its a small price for me, to accept their gifts. Though the biggest
gift of all is the acceptance i've from the family.  They have so much
love for me, whose grandmother only their dead parents remember.
  I was so afriad.  I thought no one would particularly care to meet me,
wondering why I wasnt at university, why I wasn't tending to my grandparents
I claim to love so dearly, why an Australian is claiming to be a part
of an arabic family...
  But they love me and love to feed me and I'm showered with compliments
I can barely accept between mouthfulls of knafe.

Now I need to get ready for another wedding party...
Not sure if I should wear the hot pink dress or the white dress! Its a
tough life.

Road To Nasara

It was sad to leave, though I knew I'd be coming back.
I've become very close to my fwends in Ramallah.
  After working days we'd spend long nights teaching
eachother languages, playing chess, watching olympics,
smoking shisha, going out in Ramallah, eating, drinking,
watching arabic skits, listening to live music which
comes to the centre to practice etc

So I was to catch a bus to Jerusalem then another to Petah
Tikvah from there.  I thought it would take me 40 minutes
to Jersusalem then an hour from there, so I thought I'll
leave 3 hours before Im meeting them to ensure I'm not
late.  I was over two hours late.
  I was stuck on my way to Jerusalem for over 1 hour
at the checkpoint alone.  The people have learnt how to
push their way through, and I suspect I was pushed back
many times.  Finally when I got to Jerusalem, I had to
find the right bus.  I asked for directions from many people.
One said to go in one direction, and after walking around
one kilometre I asked someone else who said TO GO THE
OPPOSITE WAY AGAIN.  Most people in fact were tourists
or foreigners.  Barely anyone seemed to know their way around,
it seemed.  Cept the soliders.  Finally I found the tram
to take me to the bus stop.  Transport is like Melbourne there,
with buses and trams all with dear expenses.
  One difference however is to get into the bus depot, everyone
lines up and has their bag exrayed as they walk through a
beepy machine.
  So arabs arent the only pushy ones.
  I find my bus and am relieved as I take off my backpack
(carrying all mi stuff).
  Id spent most of my money by now, but a lovely arabic girl
lent me enough to buy a ticket.
  She turned my day around, and I enjoyed the bus ride as
a little jewish-hatted boy slept pressed against me.

a surprizing highpoint

My boyfriends from Ramallah all applied for a months
allowance to travel outside of the West Bank! This was approved
within the month.  It costs over 500 sheckles (over 140 dollars).
MM.
Anyway so they invited me to go to Jerusalem with them one night
and I said Why not, and left my girls at home who had better
things to do.
  It was 830pm when we left, for some reason (my arabic disables
a lot of communication) and by the time we got through the checkpoint
and to Jerusalem it was about 1030. Sorry, when I say Jerusalem,
I mean a half an hours bus ride from the old city to a huge
shopping mall. Like South Land, or Highpoint.  It was the first
time out of the West Bank for most of them, and this was the
best thing they'd ever seen.

  Unfortunately, most of the shops were actually closed by now
and moreover if we were to make the last buses back to Ramallah
we barely had an hour to look around at the mall.
  I spent one sheckle (10 cents maybe) on a bouncy ball and played
down ball with whoever I could distract at a time.
  I think I was annoying...see I kept (trying to) speak arabic on the
bus ride home and they seemed to be almost ashamed to speak
arabic.
Once back in Ramallah I ate the best falafel sandawich ever. See,
in Ramallah the shops are open all night long though in the mall even
the food shops were closing.
  Arabs seem to have endless energy.

Ana bitsiame :P

  After a week at the centre Mayada took me to her Taita's
home and farm in the village of Zowiye.  On the bus ride I saw
more olive trees than I have ever seen all together in my whole
life!  I realized why Palestinians have so many babies; so that
they could harvest all their olives.  My goodness! But unfortunately
at least half of the olive farms have been stolen by the israelis,
including much of Mayada's Taita's land.
  That evening Mayada's uncle (who lives downstairs from her Taita
with his family) drove us around the village.  We could see Tel Aviv,
a 20 minute drive away, though (the familiar story) a place which
costs Palestinians a lot to reach.
  We also drove to a door, shaded by an olive tree (where a donkey
nibbled grass) in the big, concrete wall.  Here lives an old man
who refused to move from his home even after the wall cut him
off from his village.  Thus, his front door is guarded and he
must explain his own reasonings upon exiting and entering his home.
  Zowiye is a poor village where most villagers cannot read or write.
In effect, the people learn from what they hear only, and so their
idea of the khoran is warped by gossip.
  Mayada stopped translating much of what her Taita said to me,
and instead, began making explanations as to why her Taita
believed such nonsense.  You see, she was keen to convert me
to Islam (although "Christians and Muslims are friends").  Aparently
all I need to do is admit that Mohammed is the most recent prophet
and wulla! I'm accepted into heaven.
  I'm no muslim, but perhaps I pleased her as the following day I
fasted.  Mayada, her Taita and her Aunty would take me to
Al Quds (Jerusalm) to pray at the mosque and break our fast.
Due to israeli rules, you cannot enter the mosque without
muslim garb, so they also dressed me up.  I wore a long black
robe (the black is a modern day fashion thing: traditionally
they wore light colours and the dress was practical in the hot
climate).
  We caught a bus chockaz full of fasting women who were
proud to see me participating with their religion!
(I thought they'd hate me and see me as a lier).
  Once we got to the suburb of the checkpoint, the bus was
halted by traffic. It's very highly credited in Islam to
pray and break your fast at the mosque on a friday.  It was a friday.
And everyone was hungry for the mosque.  We got out of the bus
and walked the old lady through the hot, hungry, pushing crowds
for a couple of kilometers or more.
  The check point itself was worse, and once we got to the
actual officers/soliders/israelis behind the glass talking
to us through a microphone, everyone who'd caught the bus
save for Mayada and I were not allowed in.  I felt so bad,
but we continued into Jerusalem and Maa Salaama'ed the others.

  I had driven through Jerusalem before, but did not realize
I had not seen the old city/where the action is.  Boy is it
beautifull!!
  We were taken with the crowd through Damascus gate and
into old city where bodies against bodies held oneanother
upright and carried eachother along and to the mosque.  No
one could feel sorry for themselves for being in such a hungry
or fatigued state for everyone was in it together, and ultimately,
you simply sought to support those around you because
you understood how they felt.  So as we fought as one united
 crowd to the mosque, the ramadan lights glittered in the
ancient stone streets, passing nooks and crannys full of
delightful surprizes.  Many stalls sold only two items:
toy guns and prayer beads (this I found baffelling). Many
sold sweets, pickles, falafel, prayer mats, clothes, leather
handicrafts, etc.
  At last we reached the mosque, sitting at the top of the stairs
with a golden sultan hat, it certainly offered refuge.  Billions
of people ran around gleefully, though as we climbed up to the mosque,
the broad field around it was blanketed in men and women praying
and awaiting the time of iftah.
  We had stupidly bought falafel and hommos from one of the hektik
stalls within the old city (I could have killed all of their customers
it was so chaotic), and with this we anxiously watched the sun set onto
Jersalem while free food and drink was passed around.
  (so many organizations donate food to the poor during Ramadan).
  The cannon was fired, and our little picnic was joined by a group
of lovely women who shared with us a basket of figs and juice.
  Feasting was interrupted by prayer time, where rows and rows
and culumns of people (mostly women, actually) stood side by side;
bending and bowing in response to the prayer.  I was hopeless,
everytime I bowed (a moment too late) I would stumble on my dress,
or realize it had unbuttoned and began to rebutton it, or begin to
pick at one of my nails, or accidently ask Mayada a question, etc.
  However, due to my dodgy knee I could barely do the prayers properly
anyway.  Though I know God forgives me for that, as I have forgiven him
for it.
  After dinner we so longed our kind hearted friends and head again through
the crazy crowds to get OUT. After trying to to exit the way we came, we
realized it was too busy and head out again.  Here, I was stopped
by an officer and asked if I was muslim.  'uh!' I replied.
 See, though I'll never get used to it 'uh' is the arabic 'yes.'
all the other variations are from different dialects and translate here
(most commonly) to 'what?'.  Luckily Mayada stepped in and began
explaining how muslim I am.
  We back to Ramallah and, of-coarse, all the boys were there to see
us dressed so modestly.  Then we all got icecream (boosa.  Everyone
loves ice-cream here. They dont understand that someone who lives
in a foreign country is much more excited by knafe or fresh figs)!!


  The following day all the gang were to head off to Nablus.  Ehna
Mithamsein!!!! (We are excited, yani, I kept saying it which I soon
regretted because now my every second question is 'Sofia, mithamsi?'
Are you excited? Are you happy?. At least I'm used to it from
Australia.
Before we head off, I dragged Powla off to watch a friend I'd made
roasting nuts at the nut shop he worked at.  Wasn't as complicated
as I'd thought it, turns out.
Now I get free nuts

:D

Anway, we made up two car loads (or one mini bus) and arrived in Nablus
at 6ish.  The boys had asked me what I wanted to do in Nablus.
Eat Knafe, Go to the old city, see the soap factory....and inshallah.
  I actually thoiught this is what I would do.  See here in Palestine
life, and one's idea of fun revolves around food and family.  The first
thing we did was organize food (which I partially wasn't aware of).
  And then together we marched up the mountain to the spot where we'd eat.
The boys are hilarious, and we're always laughing together, and
so we just played at the mountain top until dinner time
When Shafeeqs huge family (hs father has remarried around 4 times)
arrived with a huge cake of Makloube, and drinks for all tastebuds.
  There were around 10 sisters (or half sisters...I became lost in
the family's details) who loved saying that they loved me, and making
me echo arabic lyrics to them.
  After announcing Al Hamdulillah (Thanks God (thus I'm fed)) we
went on camel rides all over the mountain.  Suddenly the clock struck
10pm - the time our friends in an awesome Tarrub band were performing
in Ramallah.  We waited another hour for a taxi, spending the while
appologising for why we coudnt stay the night with them and
YIPEEEEEEEEE
Got some Knafe Nabulsiyye on our way home.
SOO YUMMY
Naturally the band had finished when we arrived but performing
were a group of Dubke dancers.  I love Dubke.  You know when you see
someone doing something and you think oh I want to be able to do that too?
  Its inspiring.

I'm skipping so much, I've had so much fun with my family in Ramallah
but why bother explain my fun when we could be having fun?

Beit Jala and Bethlehem

  To go to Beit Jala I text messaged a number Phillip gave me.  The number
didn't belong to the house owner, and I'd forgotten their relation to Phillip,
they may not have even lived in Palestine for all I knew and there I was inviting
myself over to their house.
  They replied! And I phoned them and hoorar! they are christian so its
not awkward if im there over breakie and lunch. I left the centre tout suit.
  I jump into a service taxi from ramallah tartah (downtown).
Every trip I had done in service taxis thus far had sat me beside sleazy
men.  Kind, so kind, but I couldn't have cared less this day.  I wasn't very
nice to him, and answered his questions bluntly.
  I needed to get to the church of St Nicola and he said that he too was going there!
  I said I was fine numerous times but when the bus dropped us off
 in bethlehem I realized I had little other choice.  I would have had to ask
someone for directions and this man was on me like a rash.
  So I followed him through Bethlehem (blind to its beauty...I find the beauty
 here often takes a second look to appreciate) and to the nativity church.
See tourist groups, like schools of fish, were hurrying everywhere.
  Inside was worse in terms of tourists.  I'm in a million photos now.
Then I realized which church I was in: the one built at the site
of Jesus' birth.  I told him I had to go and he said 'yes, lets go for a drink'
So I told him I was staying and he was going. I pointed to the exit and
 told him to go away.  He didn't look back! I think I was gaping as I watched him
walk away.  He was probably used to tourists turning him down, but in such touristy
places men are always so sleazy, suggesting many tourists just go wild.
  You cannot pray at the Nativity church.  You cannot avoid being in photos
at the nativity church.  I would not call it a church.  Then another man
came up to me and offered me a tour.  i told him I wanted to go around by
myself but because I said it in arabic he was too intrigued to listen.
Turned out he genuinly knew his history and took me around explaining everything.
  The room where Jesus was born had a long line of tourists, the first third from
China, second from Italy, third from America etc.  I was in a hurry (the mysterious
person Id been texting was picking me up soon - I called them) and said I didn't care
to see the site of Jesus, particularly.  But he insisted, and asked the police to let me
go the back way (avoiding the line) into the million dollar spot where the manger
had lay.  I was still in a grumpy mood and told him it was most likely the wrong spot
 and to my surprize he agreed but added that people like it better knowing where
 Jesus was born.  I didn't see the spot very well, for I stood behind a pushing
tight-squeezed line of tourists being yelled at to hurry up 'no more photos!
you can buy post cards! Go! Go! Go! Go!'. The people literally walked right past
the spot allowing but a glance (and missing the beautifull art work the walls
were covered with.  Then my phone rang and I was yelled at by numerous people to get out.
I ran out of Jesus' birth place, and the church, on my phone with a tour guide chasing
me asking for my number.

  Beside Bethlehem are two great mountains; where Beit Jala and Beit Sahoor lie
(two ancient villages).  As in all of Palestine the people hold pride concerning
where they're from, and Beit Jala and Beit sahoor have a (fun, they all
go to school together) competition going on.  Much to Beit Sahoors dissatisfaction
I stayed in Beit Jala.  Driving up the mountian, I could barely see the beautiful
houses due to the greenery! How refreshing.
Mona drove me up.  Like knafe itself, she was lovely.  We picked up her daughter
from their beautifull, grape vine entangled homestead in Beit Jala before
driving up and up the mountain to the home of Im Hanna (Phillips sister).
  Within awaited Hanna, his mother, his wife, her sister, and three (more)
beautifull children.  Im Hanna (Mother of Hanna: Fimia Costa) is a delight.
 I feel bad talking about this one family when I have neglected all the others
who have welcomed me.
  But god it was refreshing to be in a Christian home; somehow, they are
more like my own family.  Less rules, perhaps?
  I think they also eat big lunches and tiny dinners while muslims generally
have huge dinners and a nibble for breakie/lunch.
  Beit Jala is the village where Saint Nicholas is from!!!! It's where
he dropped goods into people's chimneys and gave all he could to the poor.
The Church of Saint Nicola is his church and my favourite church in life
so far.  I should have taken photos but I felt like that would be
disrespectful.  The paintings on the wall were very trippy.  Jesus pranced,
with diolated pupils, beside flying fish and firey water.

  I suspected I'd be invited to stay the night but I didn't count on it.
 Yes, they invited me to stay the night, and the next day they invited me to
stay the week.  I said no for many reasons, and after lunching on fresh
Palestinian Molokheyye (THE BEST THING EVER) me and the kids head off for
Bethlehem.
  I said thankyou and goodbye everyone, feeling as though my fate lay with
them for longer.  Fimia held my hand for ages, forgetting I was saying
goodbye and began repeating stories to me.
  The old women of villages are all so strong: most have stories about how
they manned the fields, harvested all the trees, only ate from their land,
etc.  That's until their land was stolen.

  Back to Bethlehem.  We walked through the colourful souq-like streets,
admired the view, revisited the Nativity Church and museum, and then I jumped
into a service taxi home.

the blue clouds of palestine

Its now the 28th of July (in three minutes the 29th).  That means I've been in Palestine
for 15 days now.  I've really just been chilling out in Ramallah most of this time (workin'
and resting after work), though its been a highly emotional experience.  I could blame a variety
of reasons but whatever my excuse Ive still been quite up and down. Very childish.
  Firstly, the work place is a little bit chaotic and I found myself thinking 'i'm here
to help' and thus running around like a maniac helping everyone and worrying that I'm not
helpful enough.
  I will tell you abit about the school.  Since summer school has finished,
I have simply been helping with the autistic child in the day time.  This is around 4 hours
straight.  There should be around three kids but luckily for me two have been sick or leaving early (!!!)
Yousef is three years old and beautifull.  The aim of my time with him is to teach him how
to trust people who aren't Mayada.  This involves having him in a room screaming for around 1
hour (this time span has become increasingly lower) The screaming is painful and makes me want
to scream and cry myself.  However, i have learnt that if you remain as calm as a spring
lake he will respond better.  Eventually he falls asleep as we caress him and Powla or I arouse him before his
father arrives to pick him up. We cross our fingers that he'll be in a good mood to play.
He's moody.  I'm glad to be working with Powla, shes amazing and has converted me to a
Polyamorist (a big sorry to the Palestinians who are looking to marry).
  I have fallen in love with him.  But Austism challenges my character greatly as you get
next to no attention from the children: You do not exist in their world. Your merely a
collection of fragments that make up everything; so when they look at you
they look past you.  Its hard to get their attention.  Keep in mind all three children
have different types of Autism, as do all Austistic people.
  Another interesting part is the ignorance families have with Autism: theyre continuously
seeking to find what's 'wrong' with their child and with those words its so obvious
that the problem lies in the parents attitude.


  After that, I have been helping around the place with random chores.  Cleaning, making
resources for the children, participating in Powla's dance classes (its contemporary dance
and a lot of fun)... I go to the market most days too.

  The market is a bit of a smack in the face.  I have been associating with educated Palestinians
here, but Ramallah tarta (downtown) is full of slimy men calling out the english they learnt on
 trashy TV.  Palestinians are heavily taxed by the israeli government while recieving little to no
attention.  The people are also "unallowed" to build in their own country, or repair houses. Thus,
the streets can seem shabby and the people desperate.  But considering their situation, I'm very
impressed with the lack of this poverty.  It lies souely in the downtown market.  The other streets
excite me as they weave and branch into sneaky stairways and alleys where you spy plum trees and kittens.
They all, however, lead to houses or backyards (all houses, if not an apartment, have ideal backyards:
full of fruit trees).  The houses too are well maintained.  They're beautifully designed and opulent
with pot plants and ramadan decorations and of-coarse, outside seating areas sheltered by grape vines.

  But the men in the market all yell 'hey where you from' and all the people I meet ask (much more
politely) the same.  Mayada always introduces me as Palestinian which I find helpful.  Probably because
after that I feel more welcome.  Though it still leaves me lacking an excuse as to why I know so little
arabic and why I've never visited before.  Though I'm learning very fast.  And with each word I learn,
I forget a french word. And I suspect that even returning back to Australia, this dialect wont be very useful.

  Though I am a better Palestinian than some.  There are many spies all over.  Many Palestinians work
with Israel.  Many are brainwashed into believing that arabic culture is insuperior.  Mostly, they just
want to escape.  This is natural, as they are contained in their cities like fish in their bowls and only
if one is lucky enough to have an overseas passport are they permitted to leave.  This has restricted my travel
as most Palestians I've met cannot take me to Al coots (Jerusalem), Jenin, Hebron: and these places
are within the West Bank.

  Here at the theatre we are very strict distinguishing ourselves from Israel.  No israeli workers, funding,
no buying of Israeli products (its hard to find Palestinian products, but you can), and what I've more recently
discovered no socializing with non Palestinians who live in occupied land.
  I cried yesterday.  See, I had organized to get out of Ramallah and meet a friend of Jamiel's who lives
in Jerusalem, is Jewish etc.  She offered to take me to a multi-cultural festival between the segregated
cities of Jerusalem and have me in her home for a night as well as take me to a Palestinian village where
she worked as a volunteer.  It turned out this is forbidden and if I were to associate
with such people I would be unwelcome to return here to the theatre.  Spies cause major difficulties while
running a pro Palestinian organization.
  I think I cried because we had an all nighter the night before so I was tired.  Also because of how difficult
it is to simply do things here.  Also because I looked stupid.  Also because they would throw me out after I have
given so much and am now such good friends with everyone here; theyve become like my family.

  Here in the centre we equally aim to distance ourselves from politics.  Though sometimes when I can't understand
the arabic yet still feel my energy slowly dying from empathy I guess that its politcal.  Despite the lack of
politics, sad stories are inevitable.  In almost every family someone has been to jail.  Though they themselves
generally speak of very positive topics and tell jokes I don't understand (which for them makes them all the
funnier...I guess that theyre often about me...)
  The distancing of polictics merely means that we should aim to be more productive with our time, and relaxed,
although politics restricts us so much here.  After travelling Jordan, I feel as though I'm wrapped in gladwrap
and can barely waddle my arms and legs.  There is so much people are paranoid about and its driving me crazy.
 Surely its just a tactic to weaken the people? To separate two sides?  Though while the consequences are extreme when they
do take place at all (jail, death etc), everyone is fairly relaxed whilst being cautious.  They still joke around
exeedingly.  One girl I've hung out with (my age) lends her husband her brothers passport to sneak out of the West Bank.
She drove me to Jafa for a swim at the beach.
  It was so bazaar to see the city. Though most of the historical sights have been destroyed, the same Palestinian houses
 as in Rammallah are shine through the cracks of israeli decoration.  It reminded me of an animal in a circus,
 they were dressed as coffee shops and designer saloons.  The streets were shockingly well kept and I realized
suddenly how poor the government services are in all the other places I'd visited.
  Equally, I felt as though I was back in Australia.  The jumble of races all naming themselves Australian on
indigenous land.  The ...pretentiousness? The city's style was parelel with Australia's. Save for the old
architechture.  Even my romantic idea of the mediteranean was shocked as I thought I was looking at St Kilda.

  Anyway, that seems to be all for now, though I havent told you about all my new friends and actual activity...
  Salamat