Debka

“Ya Zareef at-Tloo waqqif ta qullak

Raayih ‘al-ghorbeh wiblaadak ahsanlak

Khaayif ya zareef itrooh o titmallak

Wit’aashir el-gheir o tinsaany anaa

Oh Zareef at-Tool stop so I can tell you

You are going abroad and your country is

Better for you

I am afraid that you will get established there

And find someone else and forget me”

These lyrics come from a traditional Palestinian song linked to Palestinian folkdance, known as Debka.  Originally, the song expressed the pain of two separated lovers.  After 1948, the lyrics came to express the pain of the Palestinians in Diaspora, separated from their homes and loved ones.  (Yafa Center Our Voice magazine)

Debka troupes abound in Nablus.  Most community centers in the city and in the surrounding refugee camps offer Debka training for children and youth. For many young Palestinians, participating in a Debka troupe creates the chance to preserve Palestinian heritage and also to teach the rest of the world about Palestinian culture and identity. If you meet a young Palestinian who has traveled to Europe or America, it’s likely that she went there with her Debka troupe for an international culture festival or show.

The word debka literally means “stamping of the feet.”[1]  The dance started when the roofs of houses were made of wood, straw and dirt. The dirt roof had to be compacted, so household members would gather to stomp the roof down together.  This stomping eventually led to the rhythmic songs and movements of Debka.

Debka is a line-dance in which the dancers hold each other’s hands tightly as a sign of unity.  They loudly stomp the ground to indicate the strong connection between Palestinians and the land.  Debka dances often portray pastoral scenes, such as peasants tilling the soil, planting, harvesting, celebrating the rain, or coming home after a long day in the field.  An elegant and joyful expression of Palestinian culture, Debka is often danced at important events, such as weddings, festivals, national holidays, and private celebrations.  Debka performers wear traditional costumes that are made from bright, shiny materials.  The women’s clothes are often decorated with traditional Palestinian embroidery.

The following are excerpts from an interview with 24-year-old Debka choreographer and dancer Marcel Rabayy’a.  Marcel leads a young Debka troupe called Akalil, which she started in 2007.  Akalil has 25 dancers, roughly half boys and half girls, whose ages range from 12-25 years old.

What is the definition of Debka?

From my perspective, Debka is an expression of humanity and the soul.  Debka is also an expression of Palestinian heritage, which we got from our ancestors and which we are still developing.

Does debka have a specific message? Palestinian heritage is our identity, and we are people for the sake of our identity.  That is the message.

Do your dances tell specific stories?  Yes…each song we use tells a story about the Palestinian people, whether about their heritage or about their national struggle. We choose our dance moves according to the lyrics of the music. Through our bodies, we try to portray the lyrics of the song.

Can you describe one of these stories?

Besides heritage dance topics like the harvest, the rain, and other seasons, the songs describe important events, like weddings.  We just finished a dance called “Horses have Fallen Down.”  This dance portrays how Palestinian weddings were in the past and how they are now.  It shows how a groom and a bride met, the proposal, the marriage, and their life after the wedding with their children. We also dance to national songs that talk about people who have died and famous people such as Abu Ammar [Yassir Arafat].

Have you faced challenges because you are a woman who dances? All women face problems if they dance in public, especially girls.  In other provinces, such as Bethlehem or Ramallah, it’s normal for a girl to dance, but in Nablus people are like, why are girls dancing like this on a stage in front of strangers?

How do you deal with these challenges?  Slowly things change, the percentage of people who accept what we’re doing will grow.  Show by show, people will see us…and then they will want us to dance.

Is there a special connection between debka and youth in Palestine? According to youth, debka represents the Palestinian cause. Youth want to defend their culture, rights and heritage, and through debka they can do that.

What’s the message that you want to send to people outside of Palestine?

I hope that people understand the situation of Palestinians, that they see how we live, that we are happy, but that every family has problems.  We want them to know that, and to know the reason [for these problems], and we hope that they play a role in finding a solution for our current situation.  We want people to be happier here.

Do you want to add anything?

Our heritage is thousands of years old.  It comes from our ancestors…to keep that heritage, we struggle, continue and build our future.  We have hope.

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[1] Dalia Cohen and Ruth Katz, Palestinian Arab music: A Maqam tradition in Practice, University of Chicago Press, 2006, p. 271

Askar Refugee Camp

I’m home for winter break from the University of Chicago, and I started thinking about Nablus.  It occurred to me that I should post some of the articles I wrote for the Kalimatna Initiative.

Askar Refugee Camps: Old and New

Askar camp was established in 1950 on 209 acres of land within the Nablus municipality.  Refugees in Askar come from 36 villages in the Lydda, Haifa and Jaffa areas. Like other West Bank camps, Askar was established on land that the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNWRA) leased from the adjacent village of Azmout.  This lease was signed for 99 years and will run out in 2049.    The word Askar means military, and the camp was named for the neighboring village of Askar.

In 1965, severe overcrowding led camp residents to expand onto an extra 90 acres that is approximately 1 km from the original camp. This area is called New Askar and the original camp is called Old Askar.  Old Askar falls within Area A and is under Palestinian Authority (PA) control.  New Askar falls within Area B and is under joint PA-Israeli control.  New Askar is situated close to the Israeli settlement Elon Moreh, and because of its close proximity to the settlement, the hill behind the camp is very dangerous.  According to camp residents, if you walk too far in the direction of the Israeli settlement, you will be vulnerable to attacks.  In 2006, three children were killed on that hill because they were throwing stones at Israeli settlers.

New Askar is not officially recognized as a camp, and there is no UNRWA presence there.  The only health clinic in New Askar was destroyed by the Israeli Army during the second Intifada and has not been rebuilt. In response to the lack of official services in New Askar Camp, residents have worked to fill in the gaps.  In 2007, a new elementary school for girls opened. Both local and international donors fund the school.  Before this, the camp’s children made the one-kilometer trek every day to Old Askar.  Now only the boys have to.  The Community Development Center, which was established in 1991, is another example of the camp’s resourcefulness. The idea of the center originated among a group of New Askar youth in an Israeli prison who believed that educational enrichment provides important tools for peaceful and cultural resistance.  At first, the center focused on the camp’s handicapped population, but in 2001 it expanded to include educational and cultural programs for children. The center has over 70 volunteers.

The Abu Ayyman Cafe

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The Askar Gedeed refugee camp at night is a dark jumble of tiny alleyways, concrete houses, and electricity wires. Although the situation in the camp has improved since the grim days of the second Intifada, life in Askar Gedeed continues to be difficult due to lack of job opportunities, overcrowding, and sporadic Israeli military incursions into the camp at night. At first glance, it is hard to imagine that any nightlife exists within this dimly lit labyrinth.

But tucked away above a small convenience store on the edge of the camp is the Abu Ayyman café. Its patrons always mention the name of the café with a giggle, since Abu Ayyman is not really a café. It’s just a room where a group of about ten young men hang out. Abu Ayyman is the name of the father who owns the store downstairs and who established the “café” for his son and his son’s friends. The Abu Ayyman café has two billiard tables, a television, and a small gas burner where the young men make each other coffee and tea. In the following interview, 24-year old Muhammad Saeed (son of Abu Ayyman) tells the story of the Abu Ayyman café.

When was the Abu Ayyman café first established?

During our high school days, we had no place to go after classes, so we used to go to empty playgrounds and fields. Then in the hard days of the second Intifada, we were not able to see each other. In 2007 my father asked me to gather my friends. He established this café above his mini-mart downstairs as a place for us to meet in. This café became our shelter.

What is the purpose of the Abu Ayyman cafe?

It is a place to gather without worrying about money [the café is free]. During the Intifada, most cafes were closed due to the situation… At that time, when kids would leave school, they would go to the hills or the mountains. One time, three kids were killed by rockets. That is why there needs to be a place for young people to gather. There are places, like the Center for Social Development. They have activities for children, to take them off the streets. In the summer there are foreigners that come and organize activities for children.

What do you do at this café?

We drink coffee, milk, and tea. We play cards and watch TV…We also drink coco, Nescafe, water, ginger, anise, and chamomile. We meet here every day, talking about what we did that day, watching soccer, solving each other problems. Sometimes we listen to music; sometimes we play billiards or cards. We eat hummus, ful, and falafel brought from the “Khamees restaurant.” We also have celebrations here and bring kunafa. We celebrate births, passing the tawjihi [comprehensive exams], weddings, funerals and holidays.

Are there other cafes like this in the camp?

There are two or three other cafes in the camp…but what makes this one distinguished is that there is less noise and all of us are friends.

Missing Palestine

I’ve been home for two and a half weeks, and there are so many things that I miss!  Of course, there are the little things that were just part of the Nablus landscape, like the call to prayer marking the times of day, the smell of zaatar and freshly baking bread wafting up the street, the dryness of the air, and the street sounds: children yelling, the ice-cream truck music signalling the arrival of the gas-man, and the caustic voice of the truck driver constantly circling the neighborhood calling out for broken or used household items.  Then there are the bigger things that I miss: the smiles and laughter of my friends, the constant flow of invitations from my moms to come over for lunch, the weddings, the morning coffee with my colleagues at TYO, and the challenge and thrill of communicating in Arabic.

Now that I’m back in the U.S., I am convinced that my senses are sharper when I’m abroad.  When I was in Palestine, I was always in learning mode, observing, analyzing, and processing.  I miss that heightened awareness.  It is very difficult to maintain it at home.  Reading through old journal entries, I found one that illustrates this sense of heightened awareness:

I came back from Tel Aviv last night and slept in Nic’s empty bed in Ramallah.  I have some cracks in my heels which hurt.  On the bus between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, I listened to Hem, which put me in a reflective mood.  The sun was setting and the landscape was beautiful.  The Israeli kids on the bus in their early 20′s looked like kids from home, listening to ipods and laughing and talking together.  The mixture of the setting sun, green forested hills, and Hem stirred up a sense of nostalgia.  It reminded me of a 9th grade backpacking trip in the western United States and the natural beauty of home.  These memories, the sense of deja vu, left me with an incredible sadness.  I felt as though I had been tricked in my youth, just as the Israeli kids around me had been tricked.  Looking out at the natural beauty on the road between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, it was easy to feel a false sense of calm, like things were right in the world.  Beauty can be deceiving.  Just as things are so incredibly wrong in the kingdom of Israel, and the natural beauty that I saw exists at the expense of a whole population of people, things are wrong in the United States.  The beauty, comfort, and easy living that I experience at home also exists at someone’s expense.  I realized that I am like the Israeli kids, going through life, enjoying the beauty around me not thinking enough about who is suffering for my ease and comfort.  This realization left me overwhelmed with a sense of  falseness and injustice.  Something I hope I can keep with me when I’m back home.

The Number 6

I’m back in the U.S. after a little more than three months in Palestine.  Even though I was sad to leave, in many ways it’s nice to be back.  It’s a relief.  The Tel Aviv airport was the last straw.  After I told the Israeli soldiers that I had spent time in Nablus, they gave me a 6.  In case you don’t know, a 6 in the Tel Aviv airport means the highest security check.  Apparently, I am a threat because I know Palestinians.  Because I am friends with Palestinians.

Palestinians in the West Bank cannot fly out of Ben-Gurion airport.  If they are able to leave the country, they fly out of Amman.  The absence of Palestinians at Ben-Gurion means that the Israeli border officers can focus their energies on humiliating and harassing humanitarian aid workers, journalists, and other  internationals like me who work, live, or have spent a short amount of time in the West Bank.  They don’t want us to come back, and they do their best to make that clear.

I walked into the airport alone.  My friends had suggested that I wear my most revealing outfit, tons of makeup, and my hair up in a pony tail to look like I had come straight from the clubs in Tel Aviv.  I took their advice and put on my one tank top.  For some reason, this didn’t work.  The moment I stepped into the security line, three Israeli soldiers started aggressively questioning me.  I wasn’t going to lie to them about having been in Nablus.  So I told them.  Then came a series of questions: You chose to work in Nablus? (yes) You have friends in Nablus? (of course, I spent three months there) What did you do with your days? (I taught English) What did you do with your free time? (I watched movies.) These were just some of their questions.  Apparently my answers didn’t satisfy them, so they slapped stickers with the number 6 all over me and my bags.  I knew I was in for  trouble.

After putting my bags through the security machines, I was sent to the security officers who proceeded to unpack and finger  every single item in my bags.  Every piece of  dirty underwear was put on display.  Five different security officers (all under 25 years old) asked me about every detail: Why is there tape on your computer?  (there’s a crack in my computer) Who put it there?  ( I did) When? (years ago) Why did you do it? (because I wanted to protect my computer from water) What is this book?  (animal farm in english and arabic) Where did you get it? (it was a gift from a child) Every question was an accusation.

After unpacking both of my bags (which I had to repack afterwards), the soldiers marched me to the private room for a personal body check.  That’s when I broke down into tears.  The girl asked me what was wrong. I told her that I felt humiliated.  She told me that this was a standard procedure, as though the fact that humiliating people for working in the West Bank is a standard procedure would somehow make me feel better.  But it could have been worse.  One of my close friends who works for a humanitarian agency in Ramallah was strip searched three times when she flew out of Ben-Gurion.  I’ve even heard of people who had  “cavity searches” simply because they worked in the West Bank.

In the end, a soldier escorted me to passport control.  They let me leave the country, making it clear that I am not welcome back.  I sat at my gate, feeling utterly humiliated and infuriated.  Looking around me at all the smiling people who had obviously enjoyed their stay in Israel, I felt even more angry.  If you fit the right profile (jewish, not-pro palestinian, not friendly towards palestinians etc) then you have no problems at the airport.  This was probably the first time in my life that I experienced what it’s like to be on the “wrong side.”

Next time I’m flying out of Jordan.  No way am I ever going through the airport again.  The airport is worse than Allenby (the border crossing between Israel and Jordan).  At Allenby, the soldiers are so busy harassing Palestinians they don’t have too much time for foreigners.  At the airport, they have way too much time for evil foreigners like myself.  The worst thing is that they end up making you feel like you’ve done something shameful and bad, when you absolutely haven’t.  This was my first personal experience with the humiliation of the occupation.  Something the Palestinians go through all the time and to a much greater degree.  And I have the ability to leave, while  the Palestinians don’t.

Arab generosity is not a myth!

Since I’ve been in Nablus, I’ve accumulated a lot of evidence that Arab generosity is not a myth.  First of all, I have to be careful telling people that I like their clothing or jewelry because they will definitely take whatever it is off and give it to me.  Second, almost all of my students have invited me to eat luxurious meals at their houses.  At these meals, the women of the family and I all eat together, but it’s clear that I am the honored guest because they usually give me about one whole chicken to eat by myself.  They expect me to eat it all!  And finally, I never leave a house empty-handed.  Here are just some examples of the kind of gifts I’ve been given.

A Zeitoon Afternoon

Last Sunday, I had the pleasure of an extended visit with the Zeitoon family.   Zeitoon women make up six out of the eight students in my lower level English class here at TYO.  Last term, they rarely came to class, and when they did all six would stroll in at the same time (usually late), babies in tow, laughing raucously, never-ever remembering all 26 letters of the alphabet.  Whenever I heard their booming voices echoing in the hallway outside of my classroom, I was always filled with simultaneous dread and pleasure.

The Zeitoon family is from Balata refugee camp, the largest and most crowded refugee camp in the West Bank.  People say the problems that pervade the camps in the West Bank are worse in Balata because it is smaller and more crowded – 25,000 people live together on one square kilometer.  Balata is where the first events of the 1987 Intifada took place, and it is also where the Second Intifada turned into an armed uprising.  Balata also happens to be the home of about fifty Zeitoons.

So last Sunday afternoon, I made my way over to Balata camp to spend time with Mona, Sameera, Samar, Fawziyya, Nisreen, and Salam, my Zeitoon mothers.  I had a meeting at TYO at 5:00, and I assumed that two and a half hours of lunch and socializing in a language that I cannot speak fluently would be more than enough time.  Of course, I should have known better.

After arriving at Mona’s house and sitting for an hour with the twenty children and grandchildren that filled the tiny sitting room, Mona explained to me that we were going on a special trip to a “nadi” or club.  The club, she explained, is a members-only club for the rich, influential families of Nablus.  “Are you members?” I asked, confused and somewhat incredulous.  Was I missing something?  Are the Zeitoons rich and influential and I just hadn’t noticed?  “No, we are not members,” Mona explained.  “You see, the club is closed on Sundays.  But my mom and dad live at the club.  My dad is the security guard.  He has the key.”

Every Sunday for the past fifteen years, the whole Zeitoon clan has taken over the fields and patios of this exclusive country club, leaving the cramped spaces and cloying smells of Balata refugee camp behind.  As Mona explained to me, “everyone needs a change of air every now and then.”  Of course, Mona is  right, but I couldn’t help but be amazed at the good fortune of this family that in so many other respects seems very unfortunate.  Dispossessed of land and home, subjected to life in a dangerous and impoverished refugee camp, the Zeitoons get to spend their Sunday afternoons sitting among the rose bushes of a swanky Nabulsi country club.

So what I thought would be a two and a half hour lunch with the Zeitoon ladies turned into an eight hour extravaganza with Zeitoon uncles, aunts, grandparents, children, grandchildren, and cousins.  As I watched the multitude of Zeitoon children running around riding bicycles, bouncing balls, and swinging on swings, I happily surrendered to the reality that I would not be able to leave the club anytime soon.  There were no cars in site, and the only way home was by way of a Zeitoon cousin who drives a taxi. And anyway, I didn’t want to cut short the one day of the week when the Zeitoons get to enjoy themselves outside.

Together, the Zeitoons and I ate six huge trays of home-made oozi topped with sour goats milk yogurt.  We drank cup after cup of sweetened tea, black coffee, and various soft drinks.  The men of the family sat on one side of the empty parking lot under a loquat tree  smoking argileh.  The ladies sat on the other side of the parking lot with the babies, toddlers, teenagers, and other youth of the Zeitoon clan.  The division of labor in the family was clear: the ladies took care of everything.  They prepared the trays of food, set up the tables, fed the army of children, cleaned the tables, and organized whatever needed to be organized.  Meanwhile, the men sat, smoked, and ate.

Finally, at 9:30 at night, when the mosquitoes and the cold-night air no longer made sitting outside comfortable, the family started to consider heading back to the camp.  They packed me into the first shuttle back to the city, my hands overflowing with fresh loquats and a new basil plant.  I went to bed that night stuffed to the gills and smiling, feeling lucky that I got to share in a little bit of this crazy family’s fun.

Karkuba

Some mornings I walk downstairs to TYO’s classrooms, transitioning from the American English-speaking enclave to the world of Arabic, and Arabic just doesn’t come out of my mouth right.  It doesn’t matter how much progress I’ve been making, some days even simple sentences are impossible for me.  I try to let these days slide off my back because to be honest, by now, I’m used to them.  I’ve had enough bad Arabic-speaking-days to last a lifetime.

But a few weeks ago there was one bad Arabic-speaking-day of particular note.  It all started at around 9:30 AM when Ameera, one of my mothers (a.k.a. one of the students in my class for mothers) called me to find out about class.

“Allo.” I said (allo in Arabic = hello in English)

“Allo Mary, it’s Ameera. Do we have class today?”

Immediately I was confused.  Which Ameera could this be?  I have two Ameera’s in my classes and I thought only the most advanced Ameera had my number, but this Ameera sounded like the less advanced Ameera.

“Ameera, how are you?  Which Ameera are you?  Do you know the English letters?”

She started laughing, and after a few minutes of shouting back and forth, I figured out that she was in the lower level English class and would have class on Monday.  (We had this conversation on Sunday)

“Ameera,” I explained, “you don’t have class today. You have class on Monday.

“Tomorrow?” she said.

“No Ameera, not tomorrow, Monday!”

“Tomorrow?” she asked again.  ‘What is wrong with her?’ I thought to myself.  ‘Doesn’t she understand that we have class on Monday, NOT tomorrow?  Maybe my Arabic just isn’t good enough to explain this simple idea.’  So after a few more minutes of shouting back and forth and laughing out of exasperation, I handed the phone over to Yassir, our fix-everything man at TYO, to talk to Ameera and explain that she has class on Monday, not tomorrow.

“Mary,” Yassir said.  “What are you talking about? When does Ameera have class?”

“Ameera has class on Monday and she keeps saying tomorrow!  Will you explain to her that she has class on Monday?”

“Tomorrow is Monday,” Yassir said, shaking his head.

After the conversation with Ameera, I taught the more advanced mothers English class from 10:00-11:30 and then called my Arabic teacher, Ustedth Muhammad, to set up a focus group with youth in Balata Camp for later that day.  U. Muhammad told me that he had spoken to this friend, Abu Ibrahim, who is the director of a youth club in the camp, and that I should call him for more details about when and where to meet.  After hanging up with U. Muhammad, I called Abu Ibrahim

“Allo. Do you speak English?” I asked.  Not the most polite way to start a conversation, but I wanted to get the details right.  The focus group was important and talking on the phone in Arabic could mess things up.

Instead of a response, all I got was muffled laughter on the other end.  Ok fine, he doesn’t speak English.

“Do you know U. Muhammad?” I asked. “I’m his student and he told me that I should call you because we want to come to Balata today.”

More laughter on the other end.  “Yes, yes, I know, I know, call Abu Ibrahim.” he replied, in a mixture of broken English and Arabic.  So I started speaking English and broken Arabic.

“But you are Abu Ibrahim!” I demanded. “Do you speak English? Do you know U. Muhammad? He said I should call you!”

“Yes, I am Muhammad.” He replied.

“You are Muhammad? Do you work for Abu Ibrahim? Where is Abu Ibrahim? I would like to talk to him.”

“No, I am not Abu Ibrahim,” he said

“Well, do you work at the youth club too? Did he tell you about my meeting?  You see, we want to set up a meeting at the club with young men.”

The conversation went on like this for around seven minutes in a mixture of English and Arabic that was obviously not effectively communicating either of our ideas.  I grew very confused and exasperated. Why was this conversation so difficult?

“Mary, what is wrong with your mind?” The person on the other end of the line demanded.

Then I realized.  I immediately broke into a cold sweat, overcome with embarrassment.  Completely mortified, I asked in a quieter voice, “Are you U. Muhammad?”

“Mary, what is wrong with you? I am in a meeting.  I have to go.”

Ahhh!!!  I had been talking to U. Muhammad the whole time!  I had called him back instead of calling Abu Ibrahim.  And he was in a meeting!

“I’m so so sorry U Muhammad, so sorry.  I was confused!  I’m so sorry.  I will call Abu Ibrahim now!”

“Ok ok, I have to go.”

Anyway, sometimes my bad Arabic-speaking days are really very bad.  Luckily, I have good Arabic-speaking-days too.

When I told Khamees, my partner for the Kalimtna Project about these conversations, he started laughing, as he always does, and said, “Mary you are karkouba!” “Karkouba? What is karkouba” I asked.   Karkouba, Imad explained, means “flaky.”  ‘Oh dear,’ I thought to myself, ‘I am karkouba.’  “I don’t want to be karkouba! Karbouba is not very nice!” No no, Imad reassured me, karkouba isn’t mean.  It has a kinder connotation than “flaky.”