SAREEN HAMDAN

I was at an art exhibition at An-Najah University and was especially moved by the work of a local artist called Sereen Hamdan. I was impressed with her use of imagery in particular in depicting some of the issues facing modern-day Palestine.

She agreed for me to take photos of some of her pieces and post them on this blog. She’s really keen to get any feedback on her work, so if you have two minutes to post a comment she (and I) would really appreciate it.

She told me a little about her thoughts when producing certain pieces, but I think the images can speak for themselves.

ART AND FILMS

AN-NAJAH UNIVERSITY

On Sunday, I spent a bit of time at An-Najah University seeing an art exhibition and then a film being shown as part of the Palestine Human Rights Film Festival. I was shown around by Sajah, a student who also does some volunteering with Project Hope. (As ever, I have no idea if I’ve spelt the name correctly.) The art exhibition was really impressive. Everything that was there was made by hand by the students. There was silver jewellery, wood carvings, calligraphy and drawings. I was really impressed by all the creativity on show. There was one artist that really impressed me, but I’ll talk about her in a separate post.

WOOD CARVINGS

Then I went to see the film. It was called “Children in Gaza”. It covered the effects of the recent Gaza War on different children growing up in that area, including the psychological effects of living in a war zone and seeing family members being killed in front of you. They hadn’t been able to get a copy of the film with English subtitles past the border, but Sajah was kind enough to translate for me the key points. It didn’t need much translation, though, as the suffering was written all over the children’s faces. It was a very well made and important film, but I found it so hard to watch. I was left feeling that there was no hope for these kids, given all they’d seen.

I couldn’t handle working in Gaza.

The next day, however, I saw another film as part of the festival that acted as a useful counter-point. This was the story of “Budrus”, a village in the West Bank that was due to have an Israeli security wall running through it. The building of the wall was going to require the uprooting of the majority of the village’s olive trees, and therefore the villagers’ livelihoods. (Uprooting of olive trees on Palestinian land is a common occurrence by Israeli forces, always in the name of “security”.) The villagers, led by a local activist called Ayed Morrar who was at the screening, held non-violent demonstrations against the building of the wall. They used women in the front line of their demonstrations, sought and achieved political unity between Fatah, Hamas and other political groups on the issue and maintained their non-violent stance in the face of extreme provocation, and violence, by the Israeli army. Eventually, Israel decided to change the root of the security wall, saving Budrus and many other villages in a similar situation. It’s maybe a relatively small victory, given the recent history of the region, but it was good to see something that could be considered as a success story, certainly for the people of Budrus.

So these were two films depicting the ying and the yang, no hope and then maybe a little bit of hope. I guess that’s what it’s about in these parts.

GOOD MORNING MISTER JIMMY

So, that’s me done my first few classes. So far so good.

Firstly, I was in Askar Al-Jadeed to work with the teenage girls in the local school. They were mostly thirteen and fourteen year olds and were actually very similar to teenage girls back home. Some were shy, some were studious, some were boisterous, a lot were very giggly. All in all, they were good fun. I agreed to work with them for a month or so initially, but I think I’ll be keen to work with them for longer than that. I might have as many as four classes with the school next week.

My other two groups, Women’s Corner and Women’s Union Committee (WUC), I’m working with twice a week each. They’re both adult groups so very different from the girls. They’re very keen to learn, keep asking for homework and don’t giggle very often. With WUC, I have a local volunteer, Wajeeh, to help me out. He’s a nice lad. It’s been useful to have someone there not only to translate when required but also to explain what things like “present continuous” mean (to me, I mean, not to the group). He’ll also tell me when the stuff I’m doing is maybe a little harder to grasp than I thought. The Women’s Corner group is a little more advanced so I’m able to cope with them on my own.

DOWNTOWN (VIEW FROM WOMEN'S CORNER)

All things considered, I reckon I’m doing okay. I have a lot of experience working with different groups, so I’m happy enough that my delivery is okay. I just hope the content’s good and I’m pitching it at the right level. I’ll be working with these groups for another two and a half months, though, so I’m sure they’ll learn something, even if it’s just the phrase “a wee cup of tea”.

TAXI TO ASKAR

As of tomorrow, I will officially be an English teacher. How did that happen?

I’ve managed to get myself roped into taking a couple of classes for teenage girls (12 to 15 year olds) on Saturday mornings. I couldn’t say no but, as a youth worker, it’ll be interesting to compare Palestinian teenagers with teenagers back home.

The classes will be at Madraset Askar Al-Mokhtalata (Askar Mixed School). It’s in Askar Al-Jadeed (New Askar), one of the refugee camps. It’s the newest camp, built to house the overflow from Old Askar. (I haven’t learnt the Arabic for “old” yet.) I took a servees (a shared taxi) out there yesterday with Mohammed, one of the local volunteers, so that I would know how to get there for tomorrow. Thankfully, it’s easy enough to get to so – even though I’m in a foreign country, can’t speak the language and have a poor sense of direction at the best of times – I’m sure I won’t get lost.

Didn’t get to see much of the refugee camp itself, but walked up to where the school is. It was a big UNRWA (UN Relief and Works Association... I think) flag outside and a plaque by the main door which says that the building was built with money from the Norwegian government. ‘Mon the Norwegians! (There’s apparently an equivalent school in Balata camp built with money from the Netherlands government. ‘Mon the Dutch!) On the main door there’s a sign that has a rifle and a big red line through it. Someone has graffiti’ed onto the sign, in English: “I love you”.

Also met the Women’s Union Comittee group on Wednesday. I'll be doing English classes with them twice a week starting next week. They’re a really nice bunch and seem really keen to learn. I’m not used to working with people who are so keen, so that might take a bit of getting used to. They’re mostly women, as you might expect, and mostly housewives from what I could tell. I did a brief exercise with them, asking them to write down as much in English as they could, in an attempt to gauge how much English they already have.

Examples of what they wrote:

“I am from Nablus,”

“I hope for peace.”

“My favourite colour is red.”

“My husband is in an Israeli prison.”

BEGINNING TO LEARN

I’ve had a lot of conversations about politics, religion and and other issues over the past few days. One of these conversations was with two female English students at the University. They wanted to know my opinion on the hijab (possibly thinking about what’s been happening in France), on how Western women dress and on the American guy who was planning to burn the Koran. We had a good chat and shared our different perspectives on these issues.

Afterwards, I was reflecting on the common Western perception that women in Islamic countries are oppressed. From speaking to these two women, however, I didn’t get the impression that they were oppressed. Wearing the hijab, for example, was for them a choice they had made that for them was very important to their identity as Muslim women.

I know I shouldn’t make judgements on an entire culture based on a conversation with two people, but for me it represents a much more reliable source than the media back home.

In other conversations, mainly with the other international volunteers, I’ve found myself sitting on the fence over some things. This isn’t because I’m shy in voicing an opinion, as those of you who know me would agree, but because at this stage I don’t consider myself to know enough about “the issues”. I read up a little bit on the conflict before I left Scotland, but deliberately didn’t do too much research as I wanted to find out about the realities of life in the West Bank for myself.

I was speaking to Hakim, the director of Project Hope the other day, and quoted something someone said to me during my first week In Northern Ireland: “If you think you know what’s going on in Northern Ireland, you know nothing. If you’re totally confused, then you’re beginning to learn.” I’m just beginning to learn.

In terms of volunteering, I’ve had a meeting with the local University who are looking to set up a Creative Writing group for some students in their English Department. I should know by the end of week more details, but I’m hoping it could start up from as early as next week.

I’ve also been persuaded to do some English classes to bulk up my schedule. Initially, I felt a wee bit nervous about doing this but, having looked out a few resources, I think I should do fine. (By comparison, I’ve realised I’m actually feeling pretty relaxed about doing Creative Writing workshops.) Right now, I’m just keen to get stuck in.

NABLUS

I’ll say a little about Nablus, my home for the next three months. It’s a beautiful wee city, population just a wee bit less than Dundee, situated between two valleys. I have a great view down into the valley and to the hill opposite from the Project Hope building. We can’t decide if we’re looking out towards the north or the south hill but whichever it is myself and Thomas, a volunteer from Fermanagh, climbed up it today. By climbing, I mean that we got a taxi to a picnic spot near the top. From there you can see pretty much the whole city sprawling across the valley. It all looks pretty impressive from up there. Apparently, you can’t get right to the top of either hill, though, as both peaks are controlled by Israeli forces.

VIEW FROM SAMA NABLUS (THE SKY OF NABLUS)

From Project Hope you can also see Al-Ein refugee camp, easily spotted by the lack of high rises and how cramped it looks. This refugee camp has been in existence since I think the late forties, when a massive number of Palestinians were displaced during the Arab-Israeli war. Apparently the conditions in this and the other three refugee camps around Nablus are pretty grim. The words “hopelessness” has been used in describing to me the mood there. I may get the chance to visit one or more of the refugee camps at some point.

VIEW FROM PROJECT HOPE (AL-EIN CAMP IS ON THE LEFT)

LOOKING WEST (OR MAYBE EAST)

The Old City is right at the centre of town. It’s a walled city, similar to Derry in Northern Ireland I suppose, although a lot more cramped. Inside, it’s basically one huge marketplace selling everything from fresh fruit and local delicacies to mobile phones. There are also Turkish baths, open five days a week for men and one day a week for women (closed on Sabt – the Sabath). I’ll have to give one a wee visit some day though, knowing me, I’ll end up going along on ladies day.

The Old City’s got a lot of character, although there are also signs of the conflict with some buildings lying in ruins. This apparently dates back to the Second Intifada, although I’m not sure if as a result of demolition or bombing. Either way, I do know that people died there.

My favourite local food so far is kufta (which probably isn’t spelt like that). It’s similar to a doner kebab, only nicer. So nice in fact, that I didn’t even mind when our poor Arabic resulted in us accidentally ordered six between two of us.

The locals are generally friendly and tolerant of Westerners with no Arabic.

NOW IT STARTS

So, now it’s my weekend, which I’ve been spending it unpacking, getting myself settled into the international volunteers residence (which it turns out is on the bottom floor of the Project Hope offices), getting to know the other volunteers (all good people) and generally relaxing after a tiring few days. I made the right choice in arriving just before a weekend. I report to work on Sunday morning. I’m hoping to deliver creative writing workshops for local Palestinians, although how exactly this will work I’ll have to wait and see. It may be that the first few days will be spent helping out with whatever, something I’m more than willing to do.

It feels like I’ve been waiting for ages to get to Palestine. I was accepted as a volunteer, and attended training down in London, back in March. After six months, it feels good to finally be here.

Now it starts. What exactly, I’m not sure, but no going back now.

WELCOME

So, on the Thursday morning, onwards to the West Bank and to Nablus, where I am due to be volunteering with an organisation called Project Hope. Again, I was nervous, this time about passing through the checkpoint into the West Bank. Again, I needn’t have worried as the bus I was travelling on wasn’t even stopped. (Again, I’m told it’s more hassle on the way out. Again, I’ll worry about that when the time comes.)

Arriving into the West Bank, the first thing I noticed was a Coca-Cola truck driving past, then a massive mural of Yasser Arafat.

In Nablus, I was met by Nizar. To be honest, I’m not sure exactly what his role is with Project Hope, or whether he is a volunteer or paid staff, but he seems to be the man responsible for making sure people get to the Project Hope offices okay and get all the relevant paperwork filled out. He also gave me a wee impromptu tour of the Old City. Having just arrived in Nablus, there was almost too much to take in, though I was touched by the time taken to introduce me to the city.

We met a man whose name was something like “Sameh” who almost immediately invited me to his house. Here I was given tea and some sweet pastries left over from Eid, the holiday that marks the end of Ramadan. My host was also kind enough to try to teach me a few Arabic words and phrases.

I was disappointed with myself that, despite the time this man had taken to welcome me and show his hospitality, I couldn’t quite get his name.

I had already concluded that I would struggle to remember names when, back at the Project Hope offices, I was first introduced to a few staff and some local volunteers. The problem wasn’t just the number of people I was meeting in such a short period of time, or the fact that I’m bad with names generally. The issue was more that most names, as with most Arabic words, sound to my ignorant Western ears like a random collection of vowel and consonant sounds (many of which my mouth doesn’t seem to be able to reproduce). Unlike with most European languages, there is absolutely nothing for my brain to latch on to in attempting to ensure I can recall what I’m hearing.

For example, I was introduced to four or five local volunteers at once. I made a joke about the fact that I wouldn’t remember all their names. They laughed politely. One volunteer attempted to make sure that I at least remembered his name by pointing at himself and enthusiastically chanting his name over and over. Later, he asked me what his name was and I had absolutely no idea. He told me again but, as I write this, I can’t be sure of what his name is. It may be something along the lines of “Fadi”.

I’m regretting not having learnt at least a wee bit of Arabic before I came over, though I was pleased to learn that I will be provided with some Arabic classes while I’m here. I will be a model student.

I’ve already lost count of the number of times somebody has said to me, “you’re very welcome”.

Old habits that I must try harder to break: stretching my feet out in front of me when I sit, eating and/or drinking with my left hand, putting toilet paper into the toilet. An old habit that will serve me well: drinking my tea strong and with lots of sugar.

SOMEWHERE NEW

I’ve now been in the West Bank for a day and a half, so I guess it’s time to start my blog. I’ll start by talking about how I got here.

I set off on Wednesday. I was a wee bit nervous about the journey, partly because I don’t really like travelling and certainly don’t like airports, but also because of some of the stories I had heard about people having difficulty getting into Israel, with a lot of hassle being dished out by airport security. As it happens, barring a slight delay at Luton, the trip went without a hitch. I sailed through the passport control at Tel Aviv in no time. I was so tired by the time I got there that I could barely string a coherent sentence together, but I think the man behind the desk reached the conclusion that I was an idiot as opposed to a genuine terrorist threat.

I started thinking that maybe the stories I’d heard had been exaggerated, or maybe this was a sign that things in the Middle East were getting better, but two volunteers who arrived today (well, that would be yesterday now) told me that they’d had a much harder time getting into Israel. One told me he had been interrogated for near enough four hours before they let him in. I guess I was just lucky. Also, I’m told people get a lot more hassle on their way out. Ach well. I’ll worry about that when the time comes.

I was met at the airport by George, a family friend and Church of Scotland minister who’s been working in Jerusalem for the past year and a half. I was due to spend the night at a guest house linked to his church and he had kindly agreed to pick me up at the airport and give me a lift there.

The drive from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem was my first chance to see Israel. I was disappointed that, at that time of night, it could have passed for any of a number of countries I’d been to before: the US, Romania, El Salvador. A motorway anywhere in the world is just another motorway, and lights are just lights. There was certainly nothing new and exciting to see. (We even stopped off for a McDonalds on the way, but thankfully it was shut. I would have been disappointed in myself if I’d spent my first shekels in there.) Later on, though, I was having a smoke out on the veranda on the second floor of the guest house, waiting for my pizza to arrive. I was looking out towards the walls of the old city of Jerusalem, all lit up in the night time, and it hit me that this was somewhere new. And, in a way, somewhere exciting. This was not my end destination, though.