Speaking Out, Taking Action: Some Friends (Quakers) Address the Conflicts in the Holy Land

Visiting an aide to Senator Ted Kennedy in Boston, February 2009

This is a departure from my ongoing series of dispatches from the Land of Troubles. I’ll return to that theme later.

Co-editor of The Freedom & Justice Crier—member of Friends Meeting at Cambridge—founder and member of the Israel-Palestine Working Group at Friends Meeting at Cambridge—photographer for the past six years in Israel-Palestine

Before a conflict can be resolved it must first be provoked.

—“The Radical Nonviolent Witness of Jesus,” Ched Myers, Friends Journal, May 2009

In 2006, inspired by the growing troubles in Palestine/Israel and by the concerns of various members of Friends Meeting at Cambridge (FMC), about 10 of us began meeting monthly—to learn, consider action, and finally, three years later, take action. We are the Israel-Palestine Working Group at Friends Meeting at Cambridge.

We’ve faced significant difficulty in conversing about Israel-Palestine, encountering seemingly irresolvable conflicts between some of us. Like many communities in the United States, we hold differing opinions about the conditions, justifications, and struggles in Israel-Palestine. Some of us, although not unequivocally supporting policies of the Israeli government, are suspicious of criticism of that government. Others of us tend to concentrate more on Palestinian experience and perspectives.  At times we’ve been hostile to each other, distant, unable to thoughtfully engage either each other or the issues. Some of us have become personally confrontative, eroding community and community spirit.

In this painfully toxic mix of self-silencing and combat we are a microcosm reflecting the wider society—the United States and much of the world. Through our efforts we have been engaging each other to resolve our internal conflicts, and we have begun the conversation about how to foster justice and peace in Israel-Palestine. We pray that we can serve here also as a microcosm, a mustard seed, helping lead the way to a better world.

Despite the problems, our group continues to meet monthly, the number of participants declining to a now solid five. During the first year we’d been gifted with leadership from Linda and Stephen Brion-Meisels, participants in a progressive Jewish congregation, Kahl B’Raira, she a Jew, he from a Christian background. That community, like ours, suffered from a variety of divergent and heated opinions, blocking any concerted action until 2005. Linda and Stephen led several discernment sessions for us, catalyzing us to lift every voice and find common ground, thus struggle forward as a community.

Shortly before we formed, we heard from Diane Balser, executive director of Brit Tzedek v’Shalom,  a centrist Jewish lobby group. Diane’s admonition during a well-attended and highly regarded talk was to hear from a range of voices, including Palestinians. We were able finally in May 2009, after months of searching, to sponsor a talk about the One State Option by Leila Farsakh, a Palestinian academic and activist with recent first hand experience in Palestine-Israel.

In 2007 we organized a workshop based on viewing Landrum Bolling’s video, Searching for Peace in the Middle East. The subsequent discussion aired differences without resulting in much progress.

For our group only, we viewed a video about three local Jewish activists. This inspired us to seek connection with Jewish groups in the Boston area.
Our group has been enormously blessed by our involvement with the Compassionate Listening Project.  This started in 2007 when FMC offered basic training in the method of listening with an open heart across differences.  Following this, we attended a monthly series of Listening Project practice sessions.  Inspired, opened and softened, some of us who were most confrontative found common ground—true breakthroughs.

I, who’s often felt dismissed as misguided, partisan, angry, and anti-Israel because of my photography from Palestine-Israel, discovered that within the context of Compassionate Listening, some others were hearing me deeply for the first time. And I heard from one of my primary adversaries, when his turn came to tell his story related to his family’s experiences of the Holocaust, a basic truth that I’d missed despite knowing him for years and hearing parts of his stories repeatedly. In short: a revolution in hearing and speaking from and to the heart. Many of us have finally heard each other deeply, I at any rate discovering how deeply not only Israelis and Palestinians suffer but many us working on human rights for all in that region. Respect and comprehension grew to the point that now, from this practice and for other reasons, some of us have built bridges between each other, cooperating on matters related to Israel-Palestine.

As Gene Knudsen Hoffman, a primary inspiration for the Compassionate Listening Project said, “An enemy is one whose story we have not heard.”

In the spring of 2008 we learned about other Friends’ meetings who were struggling with the same issues. We contacted Anne Remley of Ann Arbor meeting and submitted material about our work to the website she manages, Quakers with a Concern for Palestine/Israel, (QuakerPI.org). We now feel less alone, more connected with other Quaker groups.

Last winter, 2008-09, after the violence in Gaza, our meeting made significant headway. At our January business meeting we decided to donate $10,000 to the Gaza Community Mental Health program, specifically to aid children who were victims of the recent violence. And we signed onto An Interfaith Declaration for Peace in Gaza, the first organization in the Boston area to do so. This unity on the issue of Israel-Palestine was unprecedented in our meeting, causing many people, despite their views about the issues, to rejoice.

During this period, we began visiting aides to members of Congress. Stressing that we do not represent the meeting, and reminding ourselves that we are under the care of the Peace and Social Concerns Committee of FMC, we presented some of our views and questions concerning Palestine-Israel. We asked the aides to look into certain troubling matters of relevance to Congress, such as heavily biased supportive statements and US foreign aid to Israel, application of the Arms Export and Control Act to Israel, and possible war crimes committed by various parties in the conflict.

At our last meeting an aide to Senator John Kerry urged us to return as a coalition of groups in the Boston area, demonstrating a constituency for an Awakened Congress. And this now is our current direction: forming or joining an interfaith group—Jews, Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, and persons of deep but unaffiliated faith—to exercise our rights and responsibilities as US citizens. Repeating: we do not speak for our meeting, although at some point this might evolve; we speak as a concerned group within our meeting under the care of a standing committee.

Our next steps include learning more about the situation, practicing methods of listening and speaking across differences as taught by the Compassionate Listening Project, sponsoring speakers and other public education events, coalition building to engage with senators and representatives, supporting those of us active on the issues, circulating news of our work, and joining with other Friends nationally (such as the Friends Committee on National Legislation) and internationally to concentrate on this issue.

We hope to listen closely to that still small voice inside, the voice of the divine, of conscience, and regardless of the controversy or the suffering our work might entail, encourage every voice in our community and the wider world to help bring justice and peace, with reconciliation, to the pained and burning Levant.

I have seen in the Light of the Lord, that the day is approaching when the man that is most wise in human policy shall be the greatest fool; and the arm that is mighty to support injustice, shall be broken to pieces: The enemies of righteousness shall make a terrible rattle, and shall mightily torment one another; for He that is omnipotent is rising up to judgment, and will plead the cause of the oppressed; and He commanded me to open the vision.

—John Woolman’s, Journal, January 4, 1770

Further information:

Compassionate Listening Project

Quakers with a Concern for Palestine/Israel

Friends Committee on National Legislation congressional visiting suggestions

Interfaith Peacebuilders congressional visiting suggestions

Skip Schiel and his photographic presentation, Bethlehem the Holy, about the Christian exodus from Palestine, (along with other shows) will be available in New England from November 30 – December 13, 2009. Please contact Martha Yager, myager (at) afsc.org for further information.

Then have the trumpet sounded everywhere…[and] consecrate the fiftieth year and proclaim liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants.

—Leviticus 25

The rising of the light: Solomon’s Pools

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

July 4, 2009, Thursday, Al Rowwad, Aida refugee camp, Bethlehem:

This dream: P and I were standing along a riverfront, maybe the Charles River at the South Natick dam. It was late winter, early spring, river ice was receding. She wore hiking boots. We stood about 3 m up from the water, boys were nearby playing. We might have discussed the ice, how thin it looked. The thinness did not seem to daunt her. She quickly and without conversation went down to the ice and slowly walked out onto it, toward the thinnest part. She seemed to be courting her own death. I quickly brought out my camera, made series as I thought for sure the ice would crash beneath her and she’d fall in. But she didn’t; with a self satisfied smirk, she strolled back to the shore.

I’ve commented on the curious absence of people in my dreams, who’s present, who’s absent. This morning I notice the curious absence of themes: no Israel-Palestine that is immediately evident, no water, no airplane travel, nothing or little that can be unarguably linked with what I’m doing. No grander themes, no insights, no revelations of character—a desert as far as dreaming goes. Let’s hope this changes. I rely on my dreams.

The main event of yesterday—other than meeting Z, a young woman from Scotland, now living in the guesthouse with Akram and me—was walking to Solomon’s Pools. Told by someone I met as I left the camp they were about 8 km south of Aida camp in Bethlehem  and I could take a taxi, I brazenly said, I’ll walk. Turned out to be a very long walk, either much longer than 8 km or my age is catching up with me. Allowing for the hour or so I stopped for lunch (at the Italian restaurant our Cambridge Bethlehem delegation had patronized in 2007) it must have taken some 2 hours. I’d forgotten my sunscreen, mistakenly wore my black Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, Dream Now t-shirt in the hot sun, and generally was not functioning yesterday with all my senses. Perhaps my muses were fatigued, took the day off (anticipating July 4th).

But I made it. I was glad I made it, not so much for the self-satisfaction of completing an arduous walk but because the site is grand. Yes, pools, plural: pools. Three of them, descending in elevation, huge, maybe 1/3 km wide, 10-20 meters deep, each hewn from the limestone and faced with something resembling concrete. Apparently the 2 upper pools were constructed during Roman times 2000 years ago and the lowest during the Ottoman period, about 300 years ago. The ruins of pumping stations date back to the British Mandate period, early 20th century. Why Solomon? No one knows, maybe from  the following reference: I made myself pools from which to water the forest of growing trees. (Ecclesiastes 2.6)

Their original form may be unknown. Did a type of facing material exist then, like concrete?

Pumping station from the British Mandate period, early 20th century

Looking north toward Bethlehem and Jerusalem, direction of the outflow

Many more questions: How were they dug? How did all this function hydrologically? Why so far from Jerusalem? What was the water source? The pools are now empty, altho a photo I’ve seen shows water as late as 1900—Z told me she met someone who remembers a time when water filled the pools, but the authorities drained the pools because of the many drowning. How did the pools connect? How did the water reach Jerusalem? ( By gravity I suppose) What channel did the water flow in, a conduit specially constructed for this purpose or a natural ravine ? (No sign of either at the lowest pool, or the lowest one I scouted) Is this now something of a park area, a recreation area, used for picnics, parties, etc? (I spotted a few parked cars suggesting this, and trails into higher ground which I did not explore) And what would I have discovered if I’d continued walking downhill along the road? (By now I was tired and had to at least walk up the hill to the main road.).

The Pools in 1900

I made an extensive set of photos, probably joining 1000s of others, mostly tourists, maybe some like me fascinated by hydrology. Using the wide angle lens for the walk in and the 50 mm for the walk out, they might seam well together. The light was harsh, as it usually is at this time of year, bright shadowy Mediterranean light, the light of summer. Altho I carried my infrared filter I found nothing to use it on. Had I thought more about this maybe it would have enhanced the set of photos I made of an adjoining modern structure, one so pathetic to observe and investigate as to nearly bring tears to my eyes.

This structure, about 5 levels high, very wide, with alcoves, walkways, places for plants, is called a Palace. It is loosely attached to a building once used as a khan or way station for travelers, the Castle, erected about 400 years ago during the reign of the Ottomans. It reminded me of Jersash, the ancient Roman city of Jerash originally part of the Decapolis League, the 10 main Roman cities in this region. I visited it in 2003. Jerash had been a complex of shops, temples, amphitheaters, and as far as I know thrived as a metropolitan center. It now is mostly abandoned, a standing memory of another era, another people. Unlike Jerash, the Palace at Solomon’s pools is memory reversed: nothing ever happened here once the Palace was built, as far as I know. Its intended purposes were never fulfilled. It might have evolved during the Oslo period, when hopes were high, money was plentiful, the Matrix of Control had eased somewhat, dreams soared. And then the 2nd Intifada and the failure of the Palace. Shops decayed, never used. The amphitheater might have seen a few shows, and then none. Weeds grow thru cracks, limestone facing falls off walls, electrical fixtures dangle from ceilings, doors are locked, barricades erected. This is very sad—a testament to he occupation.

I wonder how many tourists and other visitors to the pools photograph the Palace, and if they do, how do they do it, with what motivation, what intention? Mine is to create the semblance of a fantasy, a failed fantasy, which demonstrates clearly the cost of the troubles in this pained land.

Reaching this place makes scant story, just long, hot, mostly uphill, nothing much to photograph. The lunch delicious (chicken over veggies, sitting out on the patio alone as Friday prayers finish and men stream out of the nearby mosque). Transitioning from commercial-residential to mostly industrial and less built up. Past Dheisheh refugee camp, but I felt I’ve seen it enough times so I didn’t stop in.

I noticed in the many produce stands not one banana. Raising the obvious question: what happened to all the bananas? When I arrived 2 weeks ago, there was plenty of bananas, I ate one a day. I need them for the potassium to inhibit my night leg cramps.

Returning to the camp was more a story, not much but a story. I was determined not to walk, a yellow service taxi pulled up, I said Aida? Going to Aida? They 2 young men consulted each other, speaking Arabic of course, I understood nothing, heard an occasional shekel, thought they might be considering driving me—it was Friday, not many people were looking for service taxis, business was slow—and if so how much to charge me. They finally looked at me and I thought said, arba, 4. I held up 4 fingers to confirm this (and 4 seemed reasonable since the man who’d directed me here said he thought I could find a taxi for 2, he might have meant a service and these guys were now operating as a special taxi, price goes up, but still, 10 shekels I thought was the upper limit for anywhere in Bethlehem, oh the joys of being a foreigner).

So I got in, they indicated I should wear my seat belt (Ramzi had told me that the Palestinian Authority now required seat belts), no problem from me here, we drove less than 1/2 km when we stopped and the men chatted with an older guy in a taxi. You can get out and ride in my taxi, the older fellow commanded, I’m driving to Aida, I live there. Just pay this driver who is my son.

So I found a 5 shekel coin, handed it over, the driver looked puzzled. More conversation. Oh, not 4, arba, but 40, he exclaimed.

What?! I thought we agreed to 4. I held up my fingers to confirm. I realized holding up 4 digits might signal either 4 or 40 or 400 or 4000, makes no difference.

More conversation.

Ok, arba. So the driver returned 1 shekel and I felt miserly.

Do I pay again at the end of your ride? I asked the elder. No. you’ve paid.

So he drove me directly to the camp, refused my tip of 5 or 10 shekels I forgot what I drew out, I was trying to redeem myself. He told me his son was one of the debke dancers about to leave for the US on tour. He knew many of the staff, seemed very grateful for the program, explained to me that he’d spoken to the parents of kids going on tour, alerting them to the realities of life in America. I told him about my work with the Center, and I believe now he refused payment because of our mutual connection with Al Rowwad.

I’ll save writing about Z for another time (if ever, same old story).

Today: last day at Aida, for now, depending. I might return if Gaza does not work out. Call Amal to see about the permit, call Yusef to learn how to reach Jenin, maybe put up one more subsite, one more blog from aida, help Chris with the photography teaching, and gird myself for another ride thru the Valley of Fire, to Ramallah.

Including the old photo and link to history

Map of the region

Wikipedia’s view

Other links:

One

Two (with drawings)

Jerash

The rising of the light: Playing with tubes & exhausting the water supply

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

July 2, 2009, Thursday, Al Rowwad, Aida refugee camp, Bethlehem:

Mainly, in the grander scheme of things—how the occupation works with a personal slant from my heavily biased reporting—yesterday was the story of Ramzi, the tour guide and olive woodcrafter whom I’d met in late 2004 during the Steps of the Magi pilgrimage across the Judean Wilderness Desert. On none of my last trips before this one did I seek him out, even when in Bethlehem with the delegation in 2007, primarily because of my laziness. This time, sauntering thru town few days ago, I stopped at a large souvenir store, inquired about the guide who works in olive wood and whose grandfather invented the process. Oh yes, that’s Ramzi and here’s his number.

When I phoned, reaching his wife who speaks fairly clear English, she didn’t remember me, nor did Ramzi precisely when we spoke by phone. However when he pulled up last evening around 7:30 at the “Key to the Camp,” our assignation point, he enthusiastically told me, Now I remember you, everything about you, meeting you near Jericho, downloading your photos onto my computer, you staying with my brother and family in the family house.

A highlight of last evening, besides the scrumptious chicken veggie dinner over rice—and the large bottle of Holland-produced beer (a true gift to the spirit since I’ve refrained from beer while living in the camp, self denial as painful as other vices I’m giving up while residing in the camp)—was meeting Iliana. She is 9 years old and her personality soars, and with that her character. Her pronunciation was difficult to understand, despite being first in her class in English. She often exclaimed Wow (but never Cool) and I love such and such. She’s been to France, Germany, speaks German and I think she said French as well (Ramzi studied French, is fluent, and mostly guides French groups).

Iliana (not a common Arabic name, the family is Christian) wants to own 2 businesses when she grows up and be rich; altho her uncle, Ramzi’s brother, sitting with us for a short while (the entire extended family lives in this 4 story complex, with the oldest on the first floor) pointed out mostly to me that being rich is not the only worthy goal in life, not even a worthy one. Whether Iliana will grow out of this stage is to be seen. From what Ramzi and others have told me no one in the family is rich, altho most are entrepreneurs.

On the way from collecting me we’d driven toward Har Homa, a massive Israeli colony, to pick up Ramzi’s wife and daughter who were at a relatives for some celebration. They live in new housing, very elegant housing, on the hill just down from the settlement. Not dangerous here, Ramzi told me. I asked him about the housing complex erected by the Greek Orthodox Church, the man we’d visited in 2004, his house under demolition orders. The same, Ramzi confided, no change, still threatened, they never know.

Now about Ramzi: he told me tourism is down, seriously down, a result of the recent violence in Gaza and the global economic catastrophe, or The New Nakba. And this affects Israel also. Confirming what I’ve heard elsewhere, few people visiting Bethlehem stay overnight. He avoids political discussions while touring because this might endanger his permit to guide in Israel. Whereas his brother, also a guide, specializes in the political, guiding mainly American and Irish groups, and he does not have permission to guide in Israel. So this is one of the throttle points Israel has to cut risks from an otherwise insurrectionary vocation: tour guiding.

Water—my main reason for coming at this time of year—is definitely a problem for Ramzi and family and I arrived at a perfect moment to try to show how this problem manifests. The family had exhausted its water supply and none would arrive until Saturday which is too long to wait. So they ordered a tanker full and it arrived with me. By now darkness had fallen, so the lighting, mainly from a portable fluorescent lamp, made a set of dramatic images. Tanker on street level, high above the house, can’t be seen in the photos, long thick pulsating wide hose, ending in one of 3 metal tanks on the ground. Water gushing forth. 3 tanks so the worker and Ramzi had to move the hose periodically which threatened me with showering and provided more grist for the photo mill.

The brother explained later that all the water used in Bethlehem and probably thru the territories collects in aquifers under the West Bank but is stolen by Israel and resold to Palestinians—usually at rates exceeding those charged t Israelis. The charge for I believe he said 50 cubic meters was $80. What this is in terms of number of tanks I’m not sure but can find out.

All the while the family was apologizing for delaying the dinner. No problem, no problem at all, I’d like to photograph all this.

One brother had tried to set up an olive wood export business in Europe, from what Ramzi said, and tended to live high, hotels, restaurant, and he barely broke even. Thus a failure. Ramzi’s mother, by contrast, apparently did fairly well on her trip to the USA around the time I first met Ramzi. Now however, with the current tourist and economic slumps, business is way down.

Ramzi, I inquired as we slurped down our delicious dinner, the elderly gent in his perpetual pajama top (that’s how I remember Ramzi’s father from my first visit) at one end of the table, Ramzi’s slender wife diagonally across from me next to Ramzi, their very active boy child grabbing and nabbing food willy nilly next to Ramzi (the boy is recovering from very painful chick pox, as is his sister), grandma playing solitaire on the computer, having cooked and eaten, What do you do when touring near the wall? How do you avoid politics?

I say this is the wall of separation. And if they ask how the wall is affecting life for Palestinians? It is making it very difficult, and I give examples. And if they ask how Israel justifies the wall? I tell them Israel says it is for security, and indeed suicide attacks are down. And about Palestinians attitudes now about suicide attacks? No one supports this failed policy anymore.

Well, then Ramzi my friend, is the intifada finished? No, it continues in many communities, in many forms.

And conditions now, under occupation, better or worse than one year ago? Better. Fewer checkpoints, more freedom, I guess the Israelis do not fear us as much.

I felt this as well, traveling between Ramallah and Bethlehem. Not one checkpoint. However, conditions in Gaza are worse then ever, perhaps at the nadir of its history. And much of the Matrix of Control, the term Jeff Halper gives to the mechanism of occupation, has tightened and become less visible.

Watching a video of a ceremony for Ramzi’s daughter

Next Tuesday Ramzi leaves for nearly one month of guiding, 3 groups, some of them French. I should have asked how lucrative the job is, thinking it might be very, especially if in business for oneself.

Iliana, living on the top floor, where I believe I stayed when here (I remember it as fairly barren, maybe they’d just moved in, and with one lonely Christmas tree in the main room, lights twinkling thru the night), wandered in and out, finally joining us for the ride back to Aida camp (along with the mother and her 2 children, a curious group to accompany me home). I asked Iliana if she’d like to see photos of my family, she nodded an excited yes, and after studying them responded with, These are beautiful, thank you for showing them to me. Very polite. I’d also brought gift photos, the girl in a Gaza hospital, and gave one to Iliana, inscribing it from me to her. I thought this a particularly apt gift, girl to girl, about the same age, both Palestinians, both suffering.

Before heading back, we talked about the camp. Iliana has never been to one, doesn’t know anyone from them, and Ramzi, when I suggested we could stroll thru the camp before saying good night, suggested this would not be appropriate at her age. In school soon she will earn about camps, refugees, history of the Nakba, and the school will tour them. I wonder about this, should corroborate it with Samira. As we drove past the never used Pope’s platform against the wall, we noticed a throng of teens. Ramzi discovered it was some sort of festival. I decided not to join, the hour late, having to arise fairly early this morning for the walk to Robin’s office.

In retrospect, the evening was extraordinarily rich, more than the food, the beer, the night out, the opportunity to connect deeply with a Palestinian family was vital. We hit it off, you might say, and they extended to me what I understood to be a life long invitation to return. Ramzi insisted I call him in August so we can arrange another meeting.

Ramzi and family were not the entire day. I also made a short walk in the early afternoon heat (probably nearing 90 F, but dry) to the Key, thru the cemetery, charting out my walk of today to Robin’s office. I hadn’t realized how near Rachel’s tomb is to the camp, borders it. I saw the globular roof, high walls, and towers, double and triple security fences. Was the Muslim cemetery originally sited to be near the tomb? And now it is cut off from it. I also wondered if any of the watch towers were staffed, whether anyone was peering at me, wondering who I was, what I was up to, whether I constituted a threat, maybe should be shot. A scary prospect, and a laughable irony if they did shoot me: American photographer killed while walking thru a Muslim cemetery just outside Rachel’s tomb. That would make a story—or maybe not, given Israel’s impunity.

Rachel’s tomb on the Israeli side of the Separation Wall from the Muslim cemetery

At the Center, working yesterday morning in the rehearsal room where I get decent but slow wifi, a most elegant slender longhaired woman strolled thru a few times. I was tempted to introduce myself, but didn’t, being shy. And curious, what could I learn about her by pure observation? Two Palestine men soon joined her, one the rotund sweet fellow that photographed me at the festival. She brought out plastic tubes and appeared to be training them in using them. Then a hoard of small kids, ages about 5-8 years, descended on the room. They screamed, they scampered, one grabbed my Nikon from the table next to me and began trying to use it. Rather than objecting I attempted to play along, giving a number of these rambunctious mischievous children a chance to use a professional camera. As it developed I saw she must be a trainer of trainers, showing them how to use the plastic tubes to build observation, rhythm, play skills. All perhaps pre-theater training.

Finally the kids concentrated, their energy razor sharp on the tubes and what they could do with them. Needless to say, I made a few photos.

Minor point but could be major, I learned what the problem is with my phone giving me a zero balance immediately after recharging it. Somehow I have 2 accounts, the first or primary one does not get recharged and constantly shows zero balance. My secondary account is at 181 shekels or minutes—I’m not sure they’re equivalent. Without much trouble I reached a live support person, an Israeli woman with broken English, who explained to me this odd system and how to access it. She also told me that the balance would be put in storage if elapsed after one month, but could be rejuvenated by recharging. All this is a huge mystery to me. Exactly how much I’m paying for this phone is an unknown.

Clearer is my bank and visa accts. I remembered to check them both, paid on line. Swiftly, cleanly, a gift of the Internet.

Today, another possibly rich meeting, this time with Robin T who on some previous trips has been noticeably absent from my life. I will walk from the guest house, under the Key, past the cemetery, left on the main road (the old path between Jerusalem and Hebron, Bethlehem a way point), along the Wall, to the checkpoint, thru the checkpoint and down the main road to Jerusalem, the same road I walked along 2 years ago on my solo Xmas pilgrimage to Shepherds’ Fields. Akram is due here this evening, so I will have to end my nude romps thru the guesthouse. I will have to wear pants, at least when I enter public spaces.

The rising of the light: Mobile Beautiful Resistance, a Celebration

Aida refugee camp, Bethlehem

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

July 1, 2009, Wednesday, Al Rowwad, Aida refugee camp, Bethlehem:

One scant dream, about watching M perform in a play. I was sitting with P, I knew something special was about to happen with M, and sure enough, bare-chested (or maybe entirely nude)—I noted to myself that this was the first time I’d seen her breasts—she flew off, over the stage and above the audience, on wires. P also discovered that M practiced yoga, she could tell from her performance.

Otherwise the calmest quietest coolest (yet hot) most comfortable night yet in the camp. Sleeping in the front room, subject to street sounds, there were only a few. The grating sound that woke me yesterday morning, I discovered by noticing all the water hoses lying about and pumps running, was indeed, as suspected, a water pump filling the roof tanks. Not even the muezzin seemed to disturb me. Roosters crowed at the appropriate moment but these are lilting sounds, lulling sounds, reminding me of farms. No problem here.

Yesterday began calmly enough until Ahmed came by to tell me, Can you be ready to go in a few minutes, you can come with us to set up for the festivities. I still wasn’t sure where and what the festivities were, imagining something joyous, outside, and based on hands on work with kids, maybe art and performance activities. This I gleaned from the brochure Samira had given me. So I rapidly put away my journal writing (when Ahmed arrived I was bare bottomed, but luckily I’d left my key in the lock so he couldn’t immediately enter, I had time to put on my shorts, look decent.) did my toilet, packed my gear, and set off…to wait.

How typical—and this is not meant as criticism of the Center’s practices, I encounter it regularly while on the road: hurry up and wait. Plans change. I’ve become much more patient and understanding about this, I carry a book, snacks, water, and I always have my camera, so I can entertain myself if needed. I waited one hour for a bus to arrive, boarded it with many kids and a few staff and then rode thru town to a social center. More waiting as staff set up chairs, kids flowed in. By the coordinator’s reckoning they totaled 700, some 150 for each of 5 sites, mostly refugee camps in the area, I think I heard as far away as Hebron. Kids were young, between about 5 and 12 years old, most wore the white t-shirts of Al-Rowwad, some wore the tan caps of the Center. This is a program called Mobile Beautiful Resistance which I think consists mainly of art and culture training at various sites. It is funded by “Her Highness Shekha Jawaher Bint Mohammed Al-Qasimi, wife of the Sheikh Dr. Sultan Bin Mohammed Al-Qasim, member of the Higher Council and Ruler of Sharjah.” Never heard of any of it, might be an oil-based Arab kingdom.

Lots of noise, lots of waiting—the show finally began around 10:30—and lousy light. I’d brought the wrong equipment, no external flash which I left in Ramallah, and no fast lens which I didn’t think I’d need if we were to be outside. I did bring the Canon camera and so could use its telephoto function.  Otherwise, looking at the photos later I was disappointed—reddish, blotchy, too many too wide, not enough concentration on single kids, little action, too much sitting around. Yuck!

Debke, Palestinian national dance

The early events—a bunch of talks by elders, including Abed—did not exactly ignite the audience. Children were restive, noisy, playful, but respectful. Only when children themselves took the stage, giving readings, singing, and finally the ultimate: the debke, did the children pay much attention. Watching debke, kids in the back stood on chairs, clapped wildly. I hope I show some of this excitement.

During a pause I noticed a startlingly gorgeous—how else describe her classic beauty?—young Western woman sitting with a small child, the child snuggling up to the woman. I was attracted as much by her beauty as by the meaning of this singular event, the touch between younger and older. Unfortunately a head intervened and blocked a clear view of the scene. I tried, but the scene had ended by the time I found a good position. Plus I did not want to be noticed gawking.

Samira pleaded with me to download all the photos immediately into one of their computers, not to wait the one day I’d requested so I could select and process (Hurry and wait) because “the TV stations need them.” I did this, noting to Murad that most of the photos are in Raw file format and therefore not easily useable. He seemed undaunted, claimed to know what to do with them. After downloading into my computer so I could work on them at home, I put them on the Center’s computer, leaving the card and reader downloading while I left for home, thoroughly fatigued.

Working late last night, they now do not seem half bad, but oh, so much better had I thought to ask more about the event, bring the proper equipment. Lesson learned: ask first, discover enough about the photo session to anticipate all needs.

I should finally download a noise reduction plug-in to see if it makes a difference. This is a continually vexing problem for me, low light, blotchy reddish images. I can remove the red, not the blotches.

Then on the other side of the event—I’m still not sure what they call it, festivity, celebration, commencement, opening?—more waiting. By now I was exhausted, spent, depleted, had had enough kids, enough tumult, enough cacophony and chaos. Our Aida camp group was among the last to leave. Buses came, went, returned. However as I lingered I might have made some of my best photos of the entire day: the drumming and singing, kids hanging on adults, the balloon breaking game. Staff seemed very resourceful in finding activities while waiting. While someone was face painting next to me, she spilled yellow paint on my bag. I have this as a souvenir. Also, while photographing the drumming, a staff member, a rotund smiling friendly guy, asked to borrow my camera and photographed me clapping my hands in time with the drumming and singing—a cameo appearance of the photographer.

M commented on my taxi video, observing that the objects dangling from the rear view mirror showed the taxi’s motion. I’d not noticed this, either in the taxi or the video, but it helps portray the speed and curviness and danger of the ride. The video had reminded her of a similar ride on narrow roads in Pakistan with her sister, the same terror. I asked if she’d been chanting Namu myoho renge kyo then and wrote how it helped save me.

I contacted Robin T and set up an appointment tomorrow at his office. I hope he gives me many water leads. I may be strongly reminded of ME since I assume this is where she worked when here 3 years ago interning.

Today: computer work at the Center, maybe more work on yesterday’s photos with Murad, for sure give him a set of altered photos from last night, dinner with Ramzi at his house tonight, maybe a walk around town. Oh yes, the Freedom and Justice Crier, let’s see if I can finish it today. Plus backup everything made to date in Bethlehem.

The rising of the light: This is Not Disney Land

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

June 27, 2009, Saturday, Al Rowwad, Aida refugee camp, Bethlehem

A remarkable set of dreams about ME: I saw her from a distance, she was as usual lovely and irresistible, but this time she sat next to a young man about her age, resembling her. Might have been her brother but more likely I thought it might be her beau. The setting was a Quaker meeting, I’m not sure she noticed me.

The scene shifted abruptly. We were together; I was peering into her face, drawn irrevocably to her beauty and tenderness. I loved her fully and wished to join with her carnally. I’m not sure about her reaction.

In the meeting there was much talk just in the introductory section. A few windbags went on and on. ME sat in on all this. When my turn came I had only 2 words to express my being: joy and despair. I added that joy was multi colored and despair was a dull shade of gray. I threw in a rant about people talking too much. ME faded in importance in this part of the dream.

Next I was with family at some sort of military demonstration. The soldiers may have been US or Israeli. They shot thru a metal door, making a loud noise. And then everything turned into a festival for African tribal kings in their regalia. I brought my grandson into the massive toilet facility to pee. My credit card and other important papers fell from my pockets, and in the confusion picking them up I lost him. So when I joined with his mother later in her broken down truck I realized, no C.

In panic mode I told J we didn’t have C and we turned around. Night had fallen. We were lost. I was to meet ME for dinner at a place and time we’d not yet decided. I had no way to contact her, or her me. My only thought was she might try to reach me at my home phone but I wouldn’t be home. I was out of the country. Oh shit, disaster, a chance to link with ME and I’d blown it.

J seemed relatively unperturbed, whereas I was close to falling apart.

Yesterday, being Friday, was a day off. I wrote and downloaded, then edited my photos for most of the morning. The facilities are decent at the Al Rowwad Center, Ahmed installed Photoshop CS 4 so I could work with my raw files, I installed software from Nikon so I could review thumbnails of the raw files. I’m pleased with what I’ve done here so far. Contrasting with the urbanity and pleasantries of Ramallah, these photos show scenes that are gritty, confined, dusty, horrible, yet with their own beauty—the refugee camp that is, and the little I’ve photographed so far.

I read, at times having little else to do (without my personal computer and not having easy access to the Center’s computer center). So far: an excellent book about Maha Ghosananda, Supreme Buddhist Patriarch of Cambodia, which brings back much of my Cambodian experience of 1995, Jean Zaru’s powerful book, Occupied with Nonviolence, summarizing and giving spiritual context for resistance and survival, and now a book I found in my room by Edward Said, Peace and its Discontents, mostly about the Oslo period. He is a true visionary, way out in front of his peers and excoriated for it by all parties. Now Palestinians and many others revere him. I hope to emulate him.

Poster to Palestinian martyrs

How? By declaring the two state option dead, by advocating a one state option, by portraying facts on the ground honestly, by chiding all parties when needed, including my own movement at home, and by pushing for international accountability for all actors in this tragedy-comedy.

After the computer work yesterday, and reading at home, eating late lunch of yet more delicious falafel (costing about 2 NIS each, 50 cents), I rested and then set out around 5 pm for Bethlehem. I am much more confident now about finding my way thru the camp, out to the wider Bethlehem, and around parts of the small city. I discovered that the camp, northwest of the main city, is relatively near the nativity church. Stopping inside an entryway to a home to quell the noise of the street so I could phone Yusef in Jenin, 2 young men and a boy invited me to stay for tea. This is common, the traditional Arab hospitality, with the added lure of This is a foreigner, let’s find out about him and tell him about our situation. I rarely feel endangered by these overtures.

(However, yesterday afternoon, leaving the camp for Beth, 2 girls aged about 10 years grabbed my arms and led me into a house where another girl, slightly older, maybe 12, harangued me in Arabic. I thought she might have been high on drugs or insane; I felt threatened and hassled; I pulled my arm from someone’s grasp and fled.)

One young man is in the security force of the Palestinian Authority, protecting the president, Abu Mazen. He works and lives at the Muqata presidential compound in Ramallah  for about 2 weeks and then is home for 1 week. His cousin, Awad Abu  Shaereh, works for a sort of counseling agency, Connect-Middle East. Because of the language differences, my lousy, virtually nonexistent Arabic, and their limited English, nuances were lost. I understand that they told me that Hamas is definitely bad, wishes to kill Palestinians, and works with Israel because Israel also wishes to kill Palestinians. Trying to learn what they felt about the Gaza invasion, I could only elicit more of this attitude.

The young men live in separate flats in a large building housing their extended family. Their parents are related in different ways—brothers, sisters, cousins. I understand that there might be a great deal of close family relations leading to in grown marriages. (Although this might be a faulty conclusion.)

Walking further I bumped into a handsome boy who pointed out to me a kitten near a pylon base, to photograph it. Then him. For some reason I never thought of photographing the cousins. Is this failure on my part, or just responding to my muses?

This morning early I decided to walk around the camp, hoping I could find my way home. No problem: up past the Center, and out to the Apartheid Wall and back. I like this time of day for photographing—cool air, soft light, no one out other than a boy and his father moving a bed frame. And a few wandering sauntering women covered head to foot in the Muslim costume.

I discovered a huge Italian Franciscan church and convent, heavily walled in, a sort palace in the midst of poverty. Not a good showing for the Catholic Church. Not exactly one with the people. But perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps they are very linked to camp life. Their site is opposite the wall, which I leisurely photographed this morning. The graffiti is spectacular: a supine male figure, stretching out over about 20 cement panels; a docile looking bulbous face; steps leading up and over; 2 African American boxers, one maybe Mohammed Ali; and a portrait of Mickey Mouse with the words, This is Not Disney Land; among a few.

This morning also I found an email about the Al Rowwad tour coming to Boston in mid July. I added some words about being in Bethlehem now with Al Rowwad and photographing the rehearsal yesterday and then forwarded to the list and my own Boston list.

Photographing the rehearsal I noticed the children seemed fully engaged, very expert, lively, having fun, whereas Abed, the director and possibly the author of the play, looked sorrowful, not having much fun, distracted, worried. Perhaps he’s thinking, These kids are not ready for an international tour. They’ll embarrass me and the Center. Or worried about funding for the Center. He confided to me that space is an issue—not enough.

And finally a very personal note: yesterday morning trying to fit the pot lid into the pot I accidentally pushed it thru and spilled boiling water on my left hand, scalding myself. Luckily this is not serious. I don’t even show a scar. Moreover, I’ve had migraines on both mornings here, this morning as I prepared to leave the house, that vibrating pattern that sometimes occurs, and yesterday, a fuzzy center of my vision. In both cases, I found a place to rest, closed my eyes, meditated, and within 15 minutes all that remained was a headache.

The coach for this session

The rising of the light: Beautiful Resistance in the Aida refugee camp of Bethlehem, Occupied Territories, Palestine

Apartheid Wall

AbdelFattah Abu-Srour, director of the Center and the theater

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

June 26, 2009, Friday, Al Rowwad, Aida refuge camp, Bethlehem:

Writing from the Al Rowwad Cultural and Theater Center, not with my usual ease and fluency because of the unfamiliar computers here, and the slow Internet connection, but I try.

Getting to Bethlehem from Ramallah is not easy: the death defying service (pronounced serveece) shared taxi one hour plus ride is terrifying. Up and down monster hills, around convoluting corners, passing trucks and other slow moving vehicles, overheated smelly brakes, screeching tires as we ascend around curves, no leg room, stuffed taxi, driver using his mobile phone while driving one handed…I’d rather walk.

Watch a video: A Saturday afternoon drive thru the occupied Palestinian territories

But I arrived, found a taxi, negotiated a fee (told it would be 10 NIS, the first driver wanted 30, second 15, but he was so kind in dropping me at the exact spot I needed I tipped him 5 possibly setting off higher expectations that might boomerang on foreigners, I also recorded his name and number for later use), and arrived to be greeted by Abed, the director of the center in the Aida refugee camp. This is the second largest of 3 camps in Bethlehem, in the northern section of the city, up against the Apartheid Wall and near Rachel’s tomb. I recall that I can distinguish a camp from its surroundings by the plethora of buildings rising up rather than spreading out. Restricted space dictates much of the architecture.

After meeting others, including Chris from Germany, a volunteer or intern who is teaching one of the 2 photo sections, we headed out with 3 of about 5 students that showed up for the 2 hour long session. I quickly discovered that I might be of more service by linking with the students and myself photographing as they wander thru the camp than by actually doing much teaching. I coached Chris, who admitted he knows little about the finer points of photography—how to produce photos that mean—and solicited my support for this task. Not that I’m an expert on this topic, but I earn a small living in part by professing to teach it—a form of sophistry.

I suggested one of my favorite introductory homework assignments: photograph one of your intimate spaces, concentrating on light. At my urging we did not end the session with the camera work only but continued by downloading and beginning the editing process. Tomorrow, inshallah, students will arrive with a folder of edited processed photos to show the group.

In looking over recent photos by one of the students, seeing one of Chris and me that resembled solarization, I asked if the maker knew how to produce this effect with Photoshop. He didn’t, which launched a brief improvised lesson in how to select and operate on the selection to produce the effect. This served not only to impart info and test their prior knowledge but to help establish my credential as a competent photographer.

I’d noticed while on the field trip that some soon tired, and seemed to have lost the incentive to do much more. I commiserated with Chris about this paucity of motivation which he feels is a common problem. I rocketed ahead, to the point of climbing a rickety wooden ladder to photograph some workers laying concrete blocks to expand a dwelling. I invited my colleagues to join me, none did. I thought I would easily surpass in quality what they were making. However, back in the lab, briefly looking at some of their photos as they downloaded, I found I was mistaken: many were very good.

Listen to a report with quotes from Pope Benedict’s speech in Aida camp

I must admit that a highlight of the day for me was finding an older message from X that I might have seen but had forgotten. She wrote on June 19, 8 days earlier,

I’ve just read all your posts since you arrived.

You write so wonderfully!  Thank you thank you thank you for sharing it all – your encounters, impressions, thoughts, wonderment, etc.  I am learning, and gaining new eyes….

X

And then ended with this quote, which I currently use as my footer:

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. - Marcel Proust

This nourished me considerably. I miss our once fairly frequent communication, and wonder how she is, whether in transit to South America, hiking thru Peru, packing hurriedly.

I responded:

x,

your proust quote is perfect for me at this very moment: working with high school age photo students in a refugee camp in Bethlehem. their assignment is to show beauty in their immediate neighborhood, and some today seemed unable to see beyond the usual. whereas for me everything is new and fresh. yet when i return home i will face what they face: the quotidian. and then the task becomes how to see beyond the obvious with new eyes.

i suspect when you are in your new region of south america you will see everything automatically with new eyes. how delicious that can be yet some sites like machu pichu have been photographed by many travelers and many of the photos look the same. why?

good luck with your new phase of life (you might be leaving this weekend?), may you see with the freshest of eyes, as if an infant,

fondly,

—Skip (in Bethlehem, West Bank, Occupied Palestine)

Rehearsing “Blame the Wolf, a play-dance that tours the United States in summer 2009

There is much to write about this first day. I’ve written notes in my notebook and may save fuller writing for later.

Today: download my photos from yesterday, and edit. Later walk to main Bethlehem for a fuller exploration. Hope to weather the heat.

Links:

The Beautiful Resistance—Al Rowwad Cultural & Theater Training Center

The rising of the light: Morning to Night: “Happy Land”—Israel & Palestine

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

June 21, 2009, Sunday, Ramallah Friends School apartment—summer solstice:

Yes, how could I ignore this: summer solstice, the first time I can recall celebrating it out of country. How to celebrate here? An extra cup of coffee? Stroke my magic wand? Bed early, sleep late? Write something? Photograph something?

More and more dreams, with one recurring theme: babies and infants. For the 2nd or 3rd time I dreamt I had some responsibility for an infant. It was a girl again, about Eleanor’s age but clearly not her, I was responsible, and this time I left her alone in a large house as a group I shared the house with—a sort of commune—assembled for a party. I didn’t know the folks well, but trusted them. Does this little girl stand for the young women I find myself mentoring? Or is the girl some aspect of me, my feminine side as M might suggest?

In a series of dreams I attended a South African film fest, with a dismal turnout of audience, talking with the organizers, mentioning what I liked and didn’t like, deciding to leave early. I had a big story to tell the organizers and then couldn’t quite recall it. I knew it was dramatic but I forgot key pieces.

With a small family, again no one I recognized but they were family, we parked in a forest and were preparing to hike when a motorcycle cop pulled in front of us and began writing a ticket. We realized we couldn’t park there.

Ah, the dreaming is picking up. Is this because I’m feeling more at home? The night was blissful: quiet, cool, peaceful and by stuffing a large pillow between my legs I’ve found a way to sleep on both sides without pain. But I continue to wonder: the pain I’m feeling in my lower right back and adjoining leg, the stiffness, especially when I get up from a chair, is this related to my mattress? The pain began yesterday morning after a back pain free cluster of days. Just began suddenly as if I’d injured my back.

Luckily once I’ve walked for a few minutes the pain is less—I loosen up, but I am not sure how I’ll carry a large load on my back. Thank god this time I thought to bring a rolling suitcase, rather than rely on backpacks.

I bumped into Salim, the IT man at the school, yesterday in the office and he explained that the Internet problem is probably about the wiring. The phone company is due here to check and repair. So at the moment I have zero Internet at home, must rely on Pronto which is not entirely a problem—I meet people there and feel more part of the Ramallah flow.

A brief walk about Ramallah yesterday, toting my large camera with its wide-angle lens. What to see, what to photograph? The peace park? Closed. The upper school campus, including the new football field? Sure, and the construction at the school, a new classroom building. The market or souk, find my old friend the young vendor? Give it a try, a few snaps, can’t find my friend, where is he? Who to ask? How to ask? I don’t even know his name. Manarah Square? Not much new here. My home? Could be, for the blog. Maybe this morning before I go out. The school grounds? Another possibility. Me at the computer? Could be fun. With or without clothes?

Yesterday was mostly devoted to editing the Freedom and Justice Crier. Yes, I’ve brought my work with me, encouraged to do this by JVB, Rachel and others so I could finish it with due concentration. I’ve also prepared 2 more blog entries for eventual uploading. I hesitate about disclosing too much about my signing the Trader Joe’s deshelving of Israeli products and …

The shit hit the fan first with DD, the Israeli, who wrote a scalding scathing message to my Facebook page. And then comes DA. Someone in Friends Meeting-Cambridge informed him of my signature, I wonder who and how. He rightly criticized me for adding Friends Meeting Cambridge after my name, even tho I thought this was for identification purposes only, not connoting FMC participation or support. I plan to change this on the petition if possible. But the informant raised a vital question, what is FMC’s position regarding Israel-Palestine? I’ve prepared a letter to DA, I let it mellow awhile, and then when I was about to mail it from home (the Internet was working for a short period yesterday), I discovered no Internet connection.

Before the great disconnect I managed to upld my 2nd photo set, of the water tanker and intifada movie.

M wrote a copious letter, mostly about her health which continues to be a problem and a writing project. This latter is part of a workshop she had been taking upgrading her counseling skills. She also wrote to my blog. Odd how she drops in and out of my life, nothing consistent or reliable, but eventually present, and often powerfully so.

X at this moment might be facing her last week in Boston, or she might be leaving this weekend, I’m not sure about her precise schedule: her big South American summer journey, Peru hiking the Incan trail and then doctoring with NGOs in Mayan regions of Guatemala. Quite exciting, to be linked even tho tenuously, with such a daring and attractive adventurer. I continue to feel her presence thru the L. Cohen music she gave me.

I also reached the Bethlehem contact who promised to call right back with info about when and where to appear. No call back. Maybe today. I hope to join the cultural center in Aida camp either tomorrow Monday or the next day.

A few catch up notes: Frank the Frenchman I met in E. Jerusalem confided to me he is afraid going alone to the West Bank. This recalls SE’s admission that he feared a Palestinian might recognize him as a Jew and threaten him. A reasonable fear, but also perhaps that old victim mentality resurfacing. How can I convince Frank that he is probably as safe as I am wandering thru the West Bank, depending on where he is in the West Bank and what front he presents? Ramallah, no problem. Jenin, maybe another story.

As I wrote in my updated blog about B, or think I did, because B has Israeli citizenship, derived from living in E. Jerusalem and, in his words, having it forced on him, he is free to enter not only Jerusalem but all of Israel. He also can move between different parts of the West Bank, but not Gaza. He is not the typical Palestinian, not even the typical Israeli Palestinian, since most Israeli Palestinians do not have the extra ID that allows entry into the West Bank. Very complicated, reminiscent of apartheid South Africa. How long before the authorities realize this is a stupid, self destructive, costly, and unsustainable approach to living with one’s neighbors—and cousins in the Abrahamic lineage?

C wrote that she admires me in the way I live life fully. I wonder how she feels about her sister who also lives life fully. And about herself, who might feel stuck in a dead end job?

Mornings over breakfast I sit on the veranda; evenings during supper or later to read or use the computer I sit on the veranda. At both times it is twilight and the birds twitter madly. Ravens or crows, sparrows, and others cavort and feed among the pines. They are my friends, my companions, in this lonely setting without children.

Music at the Ramallah Cultural Palace: Shibat treats Ramallah to a Christmas concert (2007)

The rising of the light: Home & into the streets

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

June 20, 2009, Saturday, Ramallah Friends School flat:

Dreaming last night about a set of babies that I was somehow responsible for. Wrestling with one of them she fell over me and banged her mouth, knocking out a front tooth. She cried. She bled. I picked up the tooth, said, Not to worry, this is a temporary one. Another will grow back later.

Contrasting with the night before, it was quiet. Some singing until about midnight, and then blissfully silent. Cool, safe, secure, Ramallah at its best—Ramallah, the best of the worst (quoting Walid, the stationary shop owner who feeds me vital leads).

Leaving the grounds yesterday morning I ran into George, the school custodian. George, I said, What was all that noise from last night, a graduation?

Oh no, my friend, it was a wedding. They’d blocked off all the streets in the old city. And by the way, they’re shooting a movie about the Intifada in Manarah today. You  may want to take a look.

So, what I thought might have been gunshots were in reality fireworks. George indicated and B later confirmed that shooting guns into the air is now prohibited. As is carrying firearms. I’d noticed only a few police now carry those intimidating and relatively useless Kalashnikovs.

So George told me about the “movie set.” They’d staged a demonstration, with small girls, young adult men, banners, kaffiyas, and burning tires. Opposing this array were Israeli soldiers, played by Palestinians, complete with helmets, M16 rifles, khaki uniforms, boots, and vehicles. Departing from what I’d seen real soldiers wearing were the black helmets some toy soldiers wore, altho maybe this is new gear Israel issues for potential riot situations. The sound bombs did not explode, no shots were fired: in fact the sound was decidedly fake. Maybe all that is to be dubbed in.

I wondered what this evoked for the Palestinians watching the spectacle. Whether, if they’d had actual experience with Israeli soldiers, they’d find themselves sweating, trembling, hating, fearing?

I sought a good camera position, impeded by the requirements of the set—I can’t be part of the movie. Follow the light. The light is harsh, creates burning highlights and deep shadows. How to best work with this light? Trying first for the conventional view, I quickly saw this was fruitless and chose a position behind the crowd to show them watching and some using mobile phones to make photos. A photo of making a photo of making a movie.

Is this what the 2nd intifada has boiled down to: a movie of the Intifada rather than the real act?

The day before I’d shot my own movie at this same location, using my Canon still camera with video capability. A simple pan, lasting one minute, from behind the pedestrian railing, slowly panning from one end to another, showing at both ends men standing languidly, themselves watching as I was now watching. A movie watching men watching.

Had I not bumped into George at that particular moment I might still think the previous night’s noise was from a graduation and I might have missed the movie. Thank George and thank my muses.

Similarly, had I not been sitting at the Pronto Café doing my email and webwork yesterday late morning I might not have met Mark, a theology prof from Nebraska, and been invited for a sumptuous lunch at B’s home—B, who was also at the Pronto, who I’ve met on other visits, introduced us. I think I was coat tailing on Mark’s long friendship with B.

B lives in an elegant flat in a relatively new building and neighborhood with his wife and 2 high school age daughters and 2 sons. This is their summerhouse, they also own a home in East Jerusalem, Beit Hanina, and the children attend school at an American style secondary school in E. Jerusalem. One boy has ADD, Attention Deficit Disorder, takes medication. The boy, G, and his 2 older sisters all seemed fairly shy around us, talking very little, not interacting much. Is this common in Palestine, or specific to this set of kids?

B is a relatively free Palestinian. By living in E. Jerusalem he has Israeli citizenship (by being born in Jerusalem), drives a car with Israeli yellow plates, can go anywhere in Israel and usually in Palestine. He is not the usual Palestinian.

B explained, when I asked about the water tanker, that Mekerot sells water once per week thru pipes, but if someone needs more they must buy from a tanker. The cost is 500 NIS (New Israeli Shekels, common to both Israel and Palestine, roughly 4 shekels to the US dollar) for the equivalent of 4 large roof tanks, and the water comes free from a source owned by a Christian church, not sure where and what. The 500 NIS fee is to pay for the transport, not the water itself. Ah, there is much beneath the surface here, and each explanation needs testing against other explanations, an endless process.

Campus of Ramallah Friends (lower) School

Much simpler in some aspects is love. At times, low times, I find myself realizing: Skip, you are nearly 70, with not many more years left. You’ve led a decent life, been married the equivalent of twice (when asked here, Married? I usually answer, Not currently, single, married twice, not wishing to explain my relationship with Y), raised 2 exemplary daughters, fostered 3 grand kids, found a path that seems suitable for you, and a home and community. Why would so and so, in X’s case nearly 40 years your junior, give even a shred of thought to hooking up with you? What drives this insanity of yours, to for one moment think she might be interested in more than a casual student-teacher interest?

Ditto for most of the other women you find yourself irresistibly attracted to. Even M, who not only is younger—ok, in this case, by a mere 20 years—but is in effect  unavailable. You are totally bonkers, a basket case, living out the SE syndrome big time. Haven’t you learned anything from your dear eternally frustrated buddy?

Making matters worse—or better, I’m not sure—is the presence of music given me shortly before I left and now on my computer. I listen to every note, every word, and think, She is sending me secret messages. If only I could decipher them.

Downtown Ramallah, near the souq (market)

Back to reality, harsh reality: the Israeli DD wrote to my Facebook wall a scathing note accusing me of mistreating Israel by joining a group advocating removing all Israeli products from the shelves of Trader Joe’s. He argues, rightly, this is a blunt instrument, why not a selective boycott, why hurt innocents?

Not sure at first what provoked this anger, searching my Facebook page, realizing I had joined that group, I replied with the following:

I think I can understand your anger… If I were in your shoes I might feel the same way. I hesitated when joining this group because I’d prefer a selective boycott, as you suggested, one aimed at products originating in the occupied territories.

The model for this particular boycott, in my view, is the international boycott of South Africa during apartheid. I believe that such a strong boycott, rather than trying to sort out the different products, sends a more powerful message: the state of Israel is seriously misguided in many of its current policies.

So, after equivocating, thinking I might end my membership in Deshelf Israeli Products, I’ve decided to continue it for now.

You asked who I am. In the past you’ve agreed to be my friend in Israel whom I’m visiting. I asked you again for this current trip. Others I’ve asked responded favorably. I’m now in Palestine working for 3 months on my continuing photo project. For more information you can look at my website and blog listed below, should you be interested.

Thanks for your strong opinions. I’m sorry I don’t fully share this one with you. But I might change, who knows?

Fondly…

(Don’t Buy Into Apartheid-Join Us!-Take Action)

I’m not sure this is a model love letter, as taught by Thich Nhat Hanh, but I tried. And not that I’m opposed to DD, I admire him, I think he’d been a refusnik. We’ll see how and whether he responds.

This morning before eating and writing I walked, first this building and these school grounds, which is limited walking, and then the near neighborhood, away from Pronto, up and down a few hills. The only folks on the street at this early hour (about 6:30) were 2 sets of 2 women each, covered, maybe on their way to some school. Curiously resonating with the dream about a bleeding baby, I scraped my arm against a post and it bled.

The morning before I set up for meditation, this time remembering to bring incense and finding candles in the flat. I sat quietly for nearly 10 minutes, happy to be settling into this familiar routine. I used my gratitude meditation, so grateful to be here, to be present, to be alive, to be on this mission.

To conclude my session I smudged the space with my incense and walked in meditation thru the entire flat: bathroom with its tiny shower and basket for receiving tissue I’ve wiped my ass with, rather than depositing it into the easily clogged drains (constantly forgetting to do this correctly); kitchen with its hard to use washing machine and rigid noisy cold marble counters; my bedroom comfortable and cozy, eliciting many memories of an earlier visit when I would lie awake tormenting myself about how to renew my visa; main room where I write, looking out on the veranda where I have my morning meal, and where I greet the stars in the clear night sky (as I wrote to X, I kissed the clouds goodbye over France, not expecting to see any again until I leave Palestine/Israel 3 months hence); and long wide hallway, a mark of poor design. Eventually I will meditate on my flat at home in Cambridge, imagining it in exquisite detail, not longing for it, only appreciating it and hoping it is not too lonely without me ranting about).

The day before I bought my first installment of groceries—lacking any fresh produce, since I plan to leave soon for a 2-week stay in Bethlehem. I purchased boxed milk from Palestinian (I make sure I only buy Palestine products when possible, sometimes mislead myself with Hebrew labeling, which doesn’t necessary indicate made in Israel), hummus spiced with peppers, flat bread, coffee (Israeli, but what else is there, short of buying a larger than needed quantity from a grinder?), olive oil (Holy Land, made in Palestine), olives (not knowing, I chose the ones with jalapeno peppers inserted), mushroom tomato sauce (to pour over the pasta I’d make from the huge supply of pasta I found in the kitchen), among my 160 NIS worth of sustaining food (about $40). Outside from a vendor I bought my first Arabic sweets on this trip, 15 NIS for a batch of about 15 baklava type little turnovers.

N had invited me to possibly have tea with him yesterday afternoon but he never confirmed this so I felt free to linger all afternoon with Mark and B over lunch at B’s home—a form of Palestinian pizza, named something like mousaka, with lots of fried onions, a salad, and fresh fruit dessert with coffee. I showed him my Fadia memorial site on my blog, and he cruised thru a few of my photos on teeksaphoto.org, expressing little interest or commentary. The wide screen TV stayed on continually. Soap operas made in Turkey and dubbed into Arabic, featuring men angry at women for committing infidelities, or was it the other way around? We also watched portions of Al Jezeera English, which B told us is completely different from the Arabic version.

N also told me about a concert last night at the Ramallah Cultural Palace but since I returned home around 6 pm and the concert was to begin at 7 and I’d probably have to walk there, which might require nearly one hour, I decided to opt out. Trying to phone him on my mobile I got a network busy signal, which might also mean I’m out of airtime, and my home phone wouldn’t connect. The number of items that in the States I’d expect to work flawlessly, here either are dead or dying. No Internet in my flat or on any of the teachers’ computers, no phones of any kind, water could run out at any moment, etc. But my cameras all seem to be operating, as is my computer.

Football field at the Ramallah Friends (upper) School

About next week I’m unsure, whether Al Rowwad Cultural Center in Aida refugee camp in Bethlehem will respond to my email yesterday and confirm that I’m on for a 2 week gig there, or not, meaning I find an alternative activity, is still an unknown. I hope for confirmation today so I can plan.

I’m in good touch with dearly beloved Y who responds thoughtfully to all my messages and I to hers, I hope. For the moment, she is my most reliable correspondent.

Today: sort thru my papers, begin review of Arabic, plan my schedule in more detail, over to Pronto for webwork and email, upload a new subsite and blog entry, hope for some response from yesterday’s postings, mainly the Manarah video, hope also for love notes from at least one of my many fruitless tries at a distant relationship (laughable), wander the streets looking for more photos, plow into finishing the editing of the Freedom and Justice Crier for our Quaker network, and discover what happens that I can’t possibly now predict.

One of the great joys of this travel is that even more than when I’m home I can’t anticipate all that will occur in one day—where I’ll find myself, how the muses will direct my life. Today I might enter nirvana, or hell. I might meet my mate for life, or not. I might unlock the secret of the occupation and end it in a flash, or plant seeds that will end it. I may die, or I may find new life. All unknown.

Israeli illegal settlement/colony/”neighborhood”

Learn this word:

captious
adjective formal
(of a person) tending to find fault or raise petty objections.
DERIVATIVES
captiously adverb
captiousness noun

ORIGIN late Middle English (also in the sense [intended to deceive someone]): from Old French captieux or Latin captiosus, from captio(n-) ‘seizing,’ (figuratively) ‘deceiving’ (see caption ).

Some might find me in my work concerning Israel-Palestine a captious person.

The rising of the light: Water & “War”

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

June 19, 2009, Friday, Ramallah Friends School apartment:

An introduction to dreaming in Palestine: nothing specific to the region last night that I could detect. Running barefoot with others over sand, flying rapidly. Crossing a bridge. A young woman, maybe even a girl, in the lead. Problems with leadership. Problems with caring for my grand daughter Eleanor who seemed along for the ride.

And back to reality, a listing of my troubles, the minor ones: Internet at home doesn’t work, partially worked awhile yesterday after Achmed, the school’s maintenance man, tried helping me in consultation with Salim, the intelligence technology expert. And the teachers’ computers, maybe because Achmed moved the wireless router into my apt, when I checked late last night, also do not connect with the Internet.

My mobile phone, hard to set up from when I unlocked so I could use a new local SIM card to the recent purchase of a card, now mysteriously, after only few short calls, has a zero balance. So theoretically I can’t call out and no one can call in. Yesterday, I asked a local mobile phone dealer to set up the phone for English. And I still have no voice mail.

The day before departing I banged my left foot into the hard shell luggage I was packing, injuring my middle toe. Not seriously, but the toe is ugly and moderately sore—red and swollen.

What else to list here, any more woes? Only one light bulb for the entire flat, so I am in the dark at night, except for that one bulb. I’ve asked Achmed for replacements, will buy them myself if needed. Walking up and down the hundreds of hills here tires me out; I’m not sure how many more times, at my age, a ripe 68, I can manage.

Fig tree

So I wrote at the Pronto Café last night, for the internet access, and learned how noisy the café can become after about 8 pm. Jammed with people, many of them westerners, many smoking, music loud. Basem, the owner, the man who’d introduced me to Fadia, the now deceased Fadia Daibes Murad, the politically astute Palestinian hydrologist that has been so helpful to me greeted me solidly with the Arab hug and cheek kissing. We commiserated over the loss of Fadia, he showed me her portrait behind the counter, and reminded me that the best mourning we can do is to continue her work.

Thinking of AM’s sister who is a hydrologist, I decided impulsively to write her about my immediate experience with Basem, and point her toward my mourning site for Fadia on my blog.

Strolling thru town, saying hello to the barber (whose son is suffering again from leukemia, in the Hadassah hospital in Israel—I hope to visit him) and Walid the stationary shop owner (he told me that most of Ramallah’s water is supplied by Israel via Mekerot, only once per week, and can be shut off at any moment and sometimes is as retaliation against violence or resistance, also about a spring or cistern near Ramallah, one of the few local sources of water, I may contact the Palestinian Water Authority, PWA, which I’ve worked for before, and try to locate it), I happened upon (thanks to the muses, those usually trustable muses of mine, operating in the background, most active when I sleep, revealing themselves to me in dreams, fantasies and reveries, leading me usually beneficially, but sometimes astray—I am frequently lost, but am I ever truly lost?) I noticed a water tanker setting up to deliver water to a roof top tank. So I stopped, observed, noted the light, and photographed. While doing this a police officer stopped two cab drivers to check papers. I observed, noted the light, and photographed.

Before doing that I’d lingered at Al Manarah (the title means light house or beacon in Arabic), the town center , noticing that the railings did not fully prevent pedestrians from daring the traffic to walk directly across the street. I videographed that, after first observing the scene, noting the light, choosing my position, and only then making the short video. I followed the video with a panoramic still image.

Last night the noise lasting until about 3 am was nearly unbearable. Despite the heat I closed my window. I considered inserting earplugs as I had the night before at the Palm Hostel to quell the loud ricocheting snoring of my dorm room partner, John from New Zealand. Leaving the Pronto last night around 9:30 pm I noticed the park opposite was jammed with people, many eating at the outdoor restaurant, with many children playing on the apparatus. This is the first time in all my visits that I’ve seen the site in use. No doubt it’s because this is now the summer season. Did the reveling sounds come from here or elsewhere? I might explore tonight.

A further thought about the night noise source—and by noise I mean singing, musical instruments, loud talking, shouting: it is end of the school year, perhaps these are graduation parties. I shall inquire. And last night was the eve of today’s weekly Islamic holiday. If the night sounds continued, I could imagine Y, should she have been here with me, disturbed by the noise. And insisting we find other housing.

She wrote me a new idea for a slide show: about those from Palestine and Israel we mourn since the beginning of my project. A short slide show, Skip, not one of your usual monumental, never-ending, efforts. This would include Fadia for sure, perhaps the lost Yusef from Gaza, Ibrahem injured and near death, Smadar killed in a suicide attack, the 1,400 killed during the Gaza massacre, Hilda Silverman, etc. A brilliant idea, one more reason I love Y and find her my soul mate, karmic friend, and in some strange way, life long partner. I can’t shake her, nor her me (maybe). We resonate on the deepest levels, yet, paradoxically, cannot remain together.

Filming the 2nd Intifada in Al Manarah, Ramallah, Occupied Palestine

Today is Friday, until a few moments ago I thought it was Thursday and I had an extra day before either attending Women in Black in West Jerusalem or the nonviolent vigil against the separation fence in the Palestinian village of Bil’in. But no, it is Friday, no one will be at the school, I will have free reign of the downstairs facilities, and perhaps no one to help me with my internet problem. So today, what do I do besides possibly meet with Nitin this afternoon and attend the concert tonight? Write, review photos and videos from yesterday, contact the Bethlehem folks to find out when I should arrive, and how and what to expect. Recharge my phone with airtime. Expect some shops to be closed for most or all of the day.

At times this is an easy life, much less frantic and scattered, more concentrated, deliberate, reflective than when at home. Full time photography and a form of vacation—that’s my life here. So when people ask, Oh, you’re going to  the Mid East, work or play? I could answer, Both. Not only can this traveling and living in other regions be restful, it is a time for intense concentration on my photography. writing and The Land of Troubles.

But, my friend inquires earnestly, What about the danger? Aren’t you just a little worried about being arrested, detained, injured, or killed? Getting sick, losing your equipment, running out of money at least?

I will save my reply for another time.

Palywood?

The rising of the light: Entering Israel & Palestine

Sunrise over France

Excerpts from my journal during a three month journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles

Photos

June 17, 2009, Wednesday, Orly airport, Paris France:

In the Orly airport near Paris, waiting for the 2nd and last leg of this journey, about to land in Tel Aviv and worry my way thru the expected questions of security—why are you here, where are you staying, who are you visiting, are you going to the West Bank? I am flying on wings of love from many.

The airport is huge, and maybe because of the early hour (landing at 6 am, departing at 10:30) it seems relatively empty, as if a shell of a new self, one expecting to be full. What if air traffic diminishes because of fuel prices? What shall we convert unused airport space into? Giant spas? Emporia of art? Brothels to service those of us who know we’re on a dying planet and wish for the last intense pleasure—even enlightenment? Chris S, bidding me bye after Quaker meeting last Sunday, mentioned that Thomas More claimed the orgasm is ultimate enlightenment. May we all suffer in this way!

At the airport—a mix of nations represented so this can’t be conclusive—I noticed young women wear their hair long, older women short, as in the States, but the footwear seems different: a preponderance of thongs, the simple form of sandal. One variation on the long hair theme is pulling the hair back into a tight bun. What will be the hairstyle in Palestine, assuming I can see women’s hair, since it is sometimes covered with a hijab.

Israel, near Tel Aviv

July 17, 2009, Wednesday, East Jerusalem, The New Palm Hostel, opposite the Damascus Gate:

Eureka! I am in! I am here! I am present!

No problems entering, despite my various blunders, like answering the wrong question with my well-rehearsed answer, banging my head against the glass of the passport control officer’s booth as I strained to hear her voice, and smudging the glass with my greasy face. I had a brainstorm shortly before landing (maybe a result of my ever diligent muses) to say, in addition to my usual story of photographing holy sites and visiting Israeli friends, that I am requesting a 3-month visa (they often give shorter term ones) because I’m volunteering with an Israeli environmental organization. She reminded me that if I wished to continue working with this organization past the 3-month limit they could help me extend the visa. No further questions, not even about whom I’m visiting and working with followed by phoning them.

Except for one: what were you doing for one hour since your plane landed?

Answer: the toilet. When in reality I was opening my computer to find the email from my main contact at the environmental organization, Friends of the Earth Middle East, that I am indeed volunteering photography for. In case. In case she asked for verification. She didn’t.

One other factor that may have helped: R gave me the Travelers’ Prayer, in Hebrew and English, a traditional Jewish prayer for travelers like me. I wanted it close to me so I folded it into my wallet, then considering the impact it might have if it fell from my passport during the security check, I put it in the page after my passport photo page. Perhaps this helped.

I passed swiftly, others were not so fortunate. I saw a security agent lead off 3 young men who might have fit the profile of suspected terrorists. They were probably headed for further interrogation.

Ben Gurion airport, Tel Aviv, Israel,
water cascading in front of the greeters

Since I arrived so late to Jerusalem I stayed overnight at my favorite hostel in East Jerusalem, just outside the famed Damascus gate, The New Palm. It teems with activists, photographers, writers, a hot bed of resistance—along with some screwy types (which some might consider me to be). I booked a dorm for 50 shekels per night which is about $15, and I was warned that one of my roomies snores loudly. I brought earplugs.

The weather on the first evening was cool and windy, a delight. This is my first summer here so there is much new just about the weather. I am excited to be here, and to return to Ramallah. I bussed there with my friend Hisham who lives at the Palm, works with the International Solidarity Movement and, and is going to the ISM office in ramallah tomorrow for a meeting. As we greeted each other he told me that on his wall he still has a photo I’d given him on my last trip here one and 1/2 years ago.

Dining on my first evening in East Jerusalem, which is mostly Palestinian (except for an enclave of orthodox Jews), I sat outside with a robust well-tanned muscular fellow who happened to be from France. How ironic. Frank (my father’s name) is Jewish, has family in Israel, but is open hearted about the situation here. He was very curious about how I am able to enter Gaza, expressing some interest in doing this on his next trip. He told me in painful detail how relations with some of his relatives, fervent Israel supporters, have been severed. Such family discussion to me is hopeful, despite the suffering. As someone said, for a conflict to be resolved it first must be provoked.

June 18, 2009, Thursday, East Jerusalem, Palm Hostel:

Morning in Jerusalem, sleeping surprisingly well given how stuffy the dorm room was, how loud my roomie’s snoring was, how I don’t like sleeping in my underpants (prefer being nude), and how excited I am to be alive and intact and in Israel-Palestine I blessed thru the short night, awakening fresh and eager to launch this mission of photographic discovery. The evening before after checking into the hostel, depositing my largest piece of luggage (in a hard shell black rolly case, said by Katy to be “traveling light,”) I found my way to the ATM opposite St George’s cathedral, and picked up 1200 shekels. Not without a slight problem: two men stood there, the one sitting on a pedestrian fence called to me, Can I have your PIN? Or so I understood him to say. My PIN?! Sorry friend you’ll have to go to a bank and get your own.

Maybe he was joking, maybe he was crazy, maybe he thought he could intimidate me. I simply smiled, answered straight, stood in line, and when they’d finished their transaction made my own. I wasn’t sure the system would disgorge money into my needy hands—I’ve had problems in the past when I suddenly discovered my account blocked, learning later someone had stolen my ATM number.

Realizing I’d walked out of my way, confused by the perpetually twisting streets and roads of this region—the city was not laid out for autos—I walked back to the hostel, stopping for a chocolate bun to eat after I’d purchased a shuwarma at the local outdoor and indoor café. There I providently met that French man, reversing the goodbye I’d said to a certain French woman in 2008, and once again …

I bought a SIM card from a local dealer, asked him to try it to make sure it functioned, he struggled with it, eventually recharging g it with another charge card because the initial SIM card for some reason did not work.

Now I have a functioning phone, making my first call to George at the Ramallah  Friends School to make sure I’d be able to enter my apartment. The phone worked, hot shit! I’d worried about this since I’d struggled monumentally to unlock the phone before leaving. This required at least 6 calls to T-Mobile workers, nearly 2 hours of phone time, and only when Heather, in the US rather than the Philippines where all of the others seemed situated, found a way did we achieve success. But would it work in Palestine/Israel? Does it have the requisite bands? Yes, at last I know.

On that first evening here I wrote, somewhat groggily since I’d missed my usual sleeping pattern while traveling. I wrote first Y thanking her for the metta (a form of Buddhist energy, she’d put out a request to a wider net), and then others like the Israelis who agreed to be my visiting friends, and the contacts in Paris that AM found for me should I be denied entry. And to a few others, like the Israel-Palestine FMC group because of the Senator John Kerry connection.

Later I will blog some of this, or write specifically to some including my Israel-Palestine  support group. I have a huge network of helpers, assistants, confidants, living muses with real flesh without whom I would be rendered mute and sterile.

In discussing with Frank last night why we both are so drawn to this region, I mentioned history—the supposed fact that people like Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, and others once walked here—and the mysterious forces of earth, call them geopsychological factors, as possible explanations of the allure. He added prayer: what effect accrues when masses of people simultaneously pray in the same general region? I added romance, how this region emanates romance, at least for me. (I could have gone into detail about ME but resisted.)

The illegal Israeli settlement/colony, Modi’in, near Bil’in

Yesterday afternoon, sharing a taxi for the trip from Ben Gurion airport to Jerusalem, we drove by the huge settlement of Modi’in. I’ve seen it from the Bil’in side, opposite the separation fence, sharing with the local Palestinians the pain of separation from their lands, but only from this side, the Israeli side, and this close, can it be seen in all its looming horror. I made a few photos.

So here I am, for the 5th time, another 3 month journey of photo discovery, hoping to broaden and deepen my work, strive beyond the obvious, not misled by wrong thoughts, flaming passions, harmful preconceptions, but allowing or encouraging good thoughts and profound passions and strong analysis to aid me in a quest for my truth—simply my truth of experience in Palestine/Israel.

Separation/Apartheid Wall, near Kalandia checkpoint
on the way to Ramallah