Excerpts from my journal while touring the southern United States with new photographs and stories (itinerary). The main shows are Gaza Steadfast, Bethlehem the Holy, Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel, and Quakers in Palestine/Israel.

PHOTOS

VIDEO: South Miami Settlement

November 2, 2009, Monday, Miami Florida, guesthouse of R and RL

In one dream I was tending a child about 4 years old who seemed a conglomerate of Cid and Ella. The child, androgynous, was difficult, aggressive, and most noticeably feigned vomiting each time I tried to guide or discipline it. The suggestion was it hated me and would resist any order or suggestion from me. Its mother was present, resembling Katy, and she just seemed to sigh and express resignation.

During the night, in real life, as I moved the second pillow that elevated my head too high, I knocked over my night drinking glass filled with cold tea. It shattered, making further sleep a problem.

The nights are very warm and sticky, reminding me of Gaza.

Dinner with the family, my hosts with the guest house, revealed to me several attributes of their life: they have abundant goods and space, far from the principle of simple living espoused by Quaker testimony. For instance, when R1 told me to enter the open back door for dinner I had a choice of about 5 back doors. Their home is littered with furniture, electronics, paintings (she restores and a daughter paints), trailers, boats, wood working tools (he frames his own photos), kitchen appliances, food—and I’ve seen only one portion of their sprawling house. I shouldn’t complain: because of their largess and abundance I have use of the small cottage behind the house, plus the pool which I swam in yesterday afternoon.

R2 is a photographer, receiving some training at Rhode Island School of Design when he attended Brown University. He and I know many of the same people, such as Minor White who he took one workshop with, Henry Horenstein, Carl Chiranza, and many others. He published a book with a text by the raconteur who committed suicide, Spaulding Gray. It is in the vein of Diana Arbus, published in the early 1980s, and a strong indicator of R2’s direction: subcultures. He does large format photography, moving from film as large as 8 by 10 to a Hasselblad shooting 60 MB files. I said, I realize the ethic of bigger is best prevails in galleries and museums, but I’m still a down and dirty little guy, preferring simple means, simple results. I doubt he was happy to hear this.

He does all his own printing and framing, which is laudable but seems extraordinarily time consuming, especially the framing. Yesterday he worked hard with a young man who said he was interning.

Curiously we did not engage more deeply than this, about photography, digital, exhibiting, and the like. No connection here, opportunity missed.

Their vehicles are all monsters. They bought for a daughter a huge SUV, R1 drives a large one, I believe I counted 3 in the driveway. Maybe for their work, so much big stuff to lug around. They also seem to own much land, extending out behind the house. I might explore that today, along with the park near by and Biscayne Bay.

He has a soft raspy high voice, and seems uninterested in what I do. She is more engaging, a conservator with her own business bringing her around the country. She concentrates on small museums and private collections. She was trained at Harvard. They lived in Cambridge awhile, and for a long while in NYC. She maintains one of her studios in Manhattan where some of their family lives. She is active with the Miami Friends Meeting.

Two of their children may have split off in other directions. One son, C (odd name) graduated from Harvard Divinity School, attended Friends Meeting at Cambridge Sunday afternoon meeting, and now attends Beacon Hill Meeting, and is preparing to become a chaplain. Either a daughter or daughter in law is studying at Harvard Divinity School.

Providentially I made my Quakers in Palestine/Israel presentation on the day beginning the 50th anniversary of the building used by Miami Friends Meeting. Mine was during the meeting for learning, in which I learned that Mustafa Bourghoti’s daughter graduated from the Ramallah Friends School and may have influenced her parents toward non-violence. I’m told a relatively large group attended my session, probably because of the anniversary celebration, and I believe the show went very well. I’m learning that show intimately. Makes all the difference.

Meeting itself drew about 35 (maybe 25 attended my show), which also was said to be a large number, and most importantly it was lively and hearty with strong messages. One ended in a robust sung solo. Andrew’s girl friend/partner gave an odd message that ended in what I thought was the statement, afraid to be happy. I was prepared to add to it about people in Gaza afraid to be happy. I didn’t. And later asked her what she meant. She corrected my hearing by declaring, I said “dare to be happy.” I might have crafted a message around that assertion. Other messages were about loss, a husband, a sister, the sister endlessly suffering, as do many I’m afraid. No way out other than dying.

Meeting for worship was followed by meeting for eating and schmoozing, always fun. I was confirmed in observing that this meeting is highly politically active, compared with some. They recently opened a Quaker peace center across the street, essentially one room. From its budget they gave me a very generous honorarium, more than I’d expected (expectation = zero). Warren told me as he handed over the check, you may not receive anything from the other Miami venues (2 university shows sponsored by student groups). Before meeting several discussed the case of a woman who might be deported back to Central America, how they might help. This reminds us of the sanctuary movement in the early 1980s, protecting Central and South Americans from deportation.

Miami is ethnically diverse: not only Cubans, but many from the other Americas make this their home. And some have become affluent. For a photographer concerned about subcultures, this is Mecca. It also sprawls, and has lousy public transportation. But at least one good school which is what brought my host here initially.

I passed a milestone: last blog and subsite entries from the Palestine/Israel summer trip posted. Now what? Photos and writing from this trip?

Kate and Joey both wrote about Halloween with the weenie ones, Cid as a pirate with a red headpiece (was it?) and Ella as a pink pig. Rex took a pass for this year. There is now discussion about a family Thanksgiving in NYC, maybe renting an apartment for the 3 families, Kate and family, Lynn and Chuck, me. Elaine also wrote with a brief update. And I’ve been in touch by phone with my cousin Bob Schiel who now is a prisoners’ advocate in an institution, reporting that he loves his job. Y leaves for her cross-country drive on Wednesday, I must write her today.

November 3, 2009, Tuesday, Miami Florida, guesthouse of R and RL

Nearly a nightmare situation last night finding the venue at the Florida Atlantic University, and finding my home site later. The ride there, coordinating with Andrew and Mohammed, took about 3 hours, passing at least 3 accidents, and returning required a cool 3.5 hrs. Admittedly the first journey was during rush hour, 3:45 to 7, but the 2nd began at 10 pm.

Partly this is my fault for assuming Mohammed who’d set up the gig knew where I’m residing (he and R had had a phone discussion), and partly his seemingly native ignorance of travel and directions. He couldn’t find his car, twice, aimed at the wrong Old Cutler Road, but luckily he and I remained calm, trying our best to laugh this ballooning debacle away. Net result was we arrived at the last minute for the show and I crawled into bed at 1:30 AM.

I resist writing details of this painful journey so I can move to the veggies of the evening: a family of 7 Palestinian women and girls attended, learning about it on Facebook at the last minute (I must remember to learn how to use Facebook for announcements more effectively.) Some had rich backgrounds, others seemed less knowledgeable but equally eager to learn. The family has roots in Bethlehem’s Aida refugee camp, knows Al Rowwad Cultural Center, knows Abed, the director, but the children had attended another summer camp in Aida, which I promised to research to see if I might volunteer someday.

Otherwise the audience was miniscule, some 5 others, in a hard to find conference room, which Susan Koppelman recently used to make a presentation about Lifesource.

A highlight of the day was biking. Upsetting my growing opinion that my host R is an introverted, self centered, uncaring guy, intent only on preparing his photo shows and being seen, as I mentioned to him yesterday that I was going for a walk in the nearby park, he responded: why don’t you borrow one of our bikes.

Great idea. I landed what he calls a “Comfort Bike,” large, high seat, high handlebars, effective shock absorbers, many gears, and wide tires. The machine hums along. It brought me for a ride thru a golf course, something I’ve never done before, up and down rolling hills on a path used by the carts. No one shooed me away. Other than the maintenance personnel, I was alone—no golfers. Periodically I spotted white signs stuck in to the green announcing a certain synagogue along with what I presume are supporters of the golf course or an event that happened on it recently. Also a marina, apartment or condo complexes, waterways, a myriad of Florida-specific landforms that present the traditional Florida face. They challenged me to show it in some slightly or dramatically different way. Have I succeeded?

I later tried 2 other branching roads. One led me to a horticultural research station exploring sub tropical plants. Told to leave. Another to a park past a recycling center and ball field into a construction site. Told to leave. But I’d managed to choose the right path first, the golf course.

Taking advantage of the phone rate structure which does not differentiate between local and long distance calls, I phoned Y on a lark to wish her goodbye (she leaves tomorrow to drive cross country.) and Katy to just drop in. Ella said a robust hello grandpa, lighting my day considerably. At this moment Ella is really the only person intimate physically with me, an irony—and intimate only in the sense of holding hands, sitting on my lap, the sort of intimacy that is a major part of what I miss while single.

Returning from the bike ride I swam, another highlight of this 3-day drop in to South Miami. I don’t recall being in any city with more highways, more private vehicles, a more convoluted and spread out landscape. We drove endlessly yesterday and nearly always on 8 lane highways past malls. What could be uglier? Mohammed who can’t be more than 35 years old told me he remembers when the roads we drove on, Rt 1, the main road south, going to the Florida Keys, was mostly farms. (Is this the road Jack Kerouac took when traveling south, later to write about it in On the Road?)

A bright spot in all the driving is conversation. And since relationships are one of my favorite topics, I turned to A to ask him more about his relationship with S who sat next to him at meeting, the two of them caressing each other during the silence. Knowing each other for 10 years, sort of partners for 7, he initially suggested marriage, she demurred, saying where would we live, how would we share? She is reasonably content where she is, he where he is, not only the physical arrangements but the life styles. Which is what Y and I faced when considering living together and marrying: too different, too set. So A and S co-exist, share overnights, have a sort of commitment (again like Y and me) with a big difference about extra partner sex. One favors, one does not.

November 4, 2009, Wednesday, Orlando Florida, on the bus between Miami and Tallahassee

I begin this after an 80-minute layover in Orlando. It is now 6:30 AM.

Having slept most of the first leg of this 12 hour bus journey (which began at midnight in Miami), I am now poised for a journey across the first part of my Gulf Coast route to New Orleans. On the bus with me are about 20 others (about 1/4 full), mostly black, mostly young, a few with small children. Legroom is ample, service is decent, air is cold (I wear my mid weight fall jacket). Cost is $45, station facilities adequate (altho they closed the café within 15 minutes of me sitting down to drink my coffee and eat my yogurt with banana). I saw virtually nothing on the first portion, sailing thru the night under a full moon.

The Gaza show last evening to a class in the sociology of the Middle East (Florida International University in Miami) went exceptionally well, judging by the length and intensity of the discussion. It continued for more than one hour, with many questions, none of them hostile, most thoughtful and well articulated. Besides the usual issues raised, I learned of 2 other countries that are now united after decades of division, or once were —Germany and Yugoslavia. Another vexing question that recurs is what explains the pattern of oppressed people turning into oppressors? One answer given by the prof is that while individuals may possess historical memory, societies don’t—there is no societal memory. Evidence for this is how as nations we usually learn little from history. Otherwise humanity would have evolved much further than it has. So he claims.

This was a mixed crowd of about 40, standing room only (small room), mostly the class’s students, but some from outside, including about 5 young Muslim women. At the last minute (one of the virtues of slide shows) I’d inserted a photo of the local federal representative, Ileana somebody, a Cuban exile with right wings tendencies (common among that class) who’d H Resolution 867 opposing the Goldstone report on Gaza. It had been voted on yesterday, the day of the show. I’ve not yet heard the results.

I’m learning the show intimately; I’ve tailored what I say. I have nearly memorized some of the narration, and I can anticipate much better the slide sequence. A problem remains: how vividly do the visuals alone, sans words, show the politics of the issue? I’d referred to this problem while introducing the show and a young man, the only Jew present, asked me specifically about how can photograph better express politics. Which launched me into a discussion about the relationship between words and pix. I believe I fail to brilliantly utilize visuals; here I need to learn technique, maybe by closer observation of the work of masters such as Smith, Lange, Selgado, and younger photographers.

To try to answer that young man I mentioned my use of portraits, photos of things only, not people, and sequence. I used the portrait of Raghda as an example, stating, some (thinking of X’s heartening response to the photo) might find this evocative of Raghda’s true nature, her suffering and struggle, while others might see merely a beautiful woman, or an exotic woman, or a Palestinian, or nothing at all. (Not stated was do you see my love for her?) Later at dinner (delicious Japanese, a treat from Mohammed to Carlos and me) I admitted my love for her. She is among the most important ties I have with Gazans, one of my dearest connections.

One way to improve my Gaza show is to deepen the portraits, concentrate on key people: Raghda, Ibrahem, Amal, Yusef, Belal, Reem, Adham, and if only I had better photos of Mohammed, how he suffers.

Who is Carlos, mentioned earlier? A young man with Venezuelan roots who we drove to the show, friend of Mohammed’s, and part of the organizing team for a group of immigrant rights workers who plan to walk from Miami to DC between January 1 and May 1. We discussed this extraordinary effort in the car driving to the university—and I invited him to outline the walk during the discussion. The group of 3 key organizers has contacts in national organizations, seem very knowledgeable, are all students who are going on leave for one semester. They have some financial backing, Mohammed promised to help with resources from his organization, the Islamic Council, and they risk arrest and deportation. This walk is more daring than any I’ve undertaken. I hope to stay connected, having offered Carlos the Atlanta dojo Nipponzan Myohoji contact.

Carlos seems astute, articulate, committed, and brave, I hope I’m fair to consider him a fellow traveler. Once again, a side benefit, an important benefit of this tour, unpredictable but expected, is meeting such as Mohammed and Carlos.

I had my second bike ride, on that special bike, the Comfort bike, generously lent me by the gruff R. This time to an upscale housing development where I made videos while biking, one of my favorite modes of making visuals. I was stimulated while observing the construction of a mammoth house. Then I headed back to the Deering complex and biked along the cart trail in the gulf course making video. Humming and talking to myself, I spontaneously narrated the video, much fun. This time I was warned that biking is not allowed—warned by a woman with skinny legs—in a golf course. The paradox of bikes forbidden, carts ok, once again speaks to the ethics of this country, our priorities.

No sign of my hosts all-day which persuaded me to leave the minimal gift of the small portrait of the young Gazan man who’d lost his arm. As much as I appreciated and enjoyed the guest cottage, relishing my privacy, I missed the warmth that most those offering me hospitality exudes. I wonder about the deep happiness of R and R, just how far it reaches. I wonder also about their perception of their wealth and life style, especially her views, she who presumably follows a Quaker practice. Simple living? With so much?

Following the bike ride, a swim, following the swim, lunch, following lunch, a nap, following my nap, cottage cleanup and packing, following that, more computer work.

I struggle to recalibrate my system, one aspect of my essential being: less dependent on attention from women (or anyone), and more independent while working and traveling. In a practical sense this means less disappointment when no one corresponds with me, or the correspondence is fragmentary, sporadic, pithy to the point of being formulaic, and more appreciation for my solitary state of being. Why moan about loneliness and miss the pleasure and privilege of roaming the earth out of eyesight of others? Why not revel in my isolated existence? Why not more fully engage the mystery of being alone? Why not cultivate being incognito? How about becoming a present day Ambrose Bierce, who vanished from the earth and in vanishing became more visible?

It is now 7:08 AM, and I am northwest of Orlando, heading to Gainesville and then Tallahassee. This route revisits some of my earlier sites on this tour.

I inquire: am I the sort of grandpa that my father was to me, always traveling, not fulfilling family duties, missing the growing up phase of my youngers?

LINKS:

“Culture and language: for more than half a century cultural diversity has been a hallmark of Greater Miami. Today its population mix is a mirror of the Americas”

Deering Bay Yacht and Country Club

Excerpts from my journal while touring the southern United States with new photographs and stories (itinerary). The main shows are Gaza Steadfast, Bethlehem the Holy, Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel, and Quakers in Palestine/Israel.

PHOTOS

October 30, 2009, Friday, Tampa Florida, home of MU, side room by kitchen

Dream: I was in Palestine with a group of western supporters of Palestinians. We were riding in a car up a steep hill, going to some sort of event. Our host told us very few visitors ever stood on this hill. Entering a tall apartment building we rode an elevator that not only rose but tilted sideways. Many others rode with us, much excitement in the air, anticipation.

And then we were marching outside, night fell, we stopped, gathered for a rally, and I might have begun photographing. Nothing much seemed to be happening so I departed, and ran into Stan. When we met I was digging out leftovers for dinner and then felt, reluctantly, I had to share them with him.

The Gaza show last night at the University of Southern Florida in Tamp had a special quality: the university is where Sami Al-Arian, the computer prof who’s suffered for his alleged funding of some Hamas organization. He is a cause celeb and I forgot to say in my intro how honored I felt by the invitation to present there. This was the site of the request for a preview of the show. The local organizations, reps of the Arab Muslim student association, thought there’d be over 400 attending, many from the local Muslim community outside the campus. They didn’t show up, so the number stood at about 80, mostly students.

The show went OK, not as exciting as on other occasions, with a very good large bright image (once we’d adjusted the resolution), and decent timing. The discussion was tough because people were spread out. The sponsoring organizations seemed pleased with the show and asked if I might return in March and present again during a 3 day long conference they plan to title, Demystifying Israel-Palestine. Of course, especially if they pay and I have the time.

MU and L brought me to a local park with boardwalks thru a swamp along a river. We spotted an alligator slowly gliding thru the still waters. A foggy morning, not the best for photography, but I tried. I finally had a chance to show L in a portrait. Later I photographed him drawing for his USS Liberty commission.

I’d like to finish this soon and speed off a letter to Y who wrote a long letter to me about her end game in Cambridge, preparing for the big move west.

October 31, 2009, Saturday, Orlando Florida, home of AC and AB, in the main room

For some reason on this tour with few exceptions I notice myself dreaming but I’m usually unable to recall much more than fragments, nothing sustained or vivid. As if thru a fogged mirror.

Orlando, with Muslim Arab students at the University of Central Florida, residing overnight with 2 young men, one the vibrant humorous gregarious AC, the other the shy quiet cute AB, and overseen by the 21 year old married soft voiced heavily black bearded YA. He and I chatted in the car yesterday after MU had delivered me to him halfway between Tampa and Orlando. I detect in YA a tendency to rightness, realness, trueness. As in the one true Muslim path. I called him on this, he said this is exactly what I’m talking about, what I’m critical of, meaning others declaring themselves the bearers of the one true way. No, YA, what I mean is that you sometimes sound like that, declaring you know the one true proper way.

He’d been discussing how the first 3 generations of Islam were somehow the most true, pure, right, and there had been an incident recently when young Muslims learned about a book written 100 or so years ago that professed to be the true Muslim path. They followed it, and were wrong in doing this. He feels many new to Islam fall into this trap, as do the fundamentalists like Osama bin Laden, acclaimed but with little knowledge of Islam.

The phrase, that is not the true path, strikes me as fundamentalist, one side professing to have special knowledge that renders their interpretation correct, all others wrong.

The Bethlehem show last night played before about 25 students, all Muslim, and 4 older folks who admitted to being parents of the youngsters. YA had chosen Bethlehem partly to appeal to Christian students. He invited various Christian groups and then was surprised that no one attended. We discussed the age-old practice of beginning planning with the disparate groups so all are invested, rather than inviting them after the planning is done.

Discussion was fairly rich with the inimitable AC, tall and handsome, quick and funny, giving me a witty intro (now let’s hear it for the hip Skip Schiel!), and later in discussion observing that one reason Christians (and others) might not wish to know what is happening to Christians in Bethlehem (and others) is because they realize they should do something about it—they are complicit.

I winced showing Bethlehem last night, because I now see many ways to simplify and shorten it, beginning with the transitions. So many of them insert black between images. Why did I do this?

YA walked me around the neighboring research park, a relatively open, untrafficed country site with winding paths. Otherwise I reside in a huge apartment condo complex near the university, near a highway endlessly streaming with traffic. Florida is marked by its heavy use of vehicles and its corresponding lack of good public transport.

Belal wrote a very short note this morning that he’d escaped Gaza. I replied and then he was off line. This is the first writing from him since he left Gaza for Turkey and advanced education, his dream of many years.

My fantasies of someone joining me for part of this tour produce some laughable scenes. Suppose Y were to join me for a few days in Orlando, to see how the tour is going. She’d probably have to sleep on the floor beside me on the bed of this bachelor pad. Or suppose X had dropped by in Tampa on her way to her assignment—the bed, together perhaps, sealing a relationship (or ruining it)?

Endless possibilities, all in my aging head. I ache in the places where I used to play, so sang the gracefully aging Leonard Cohen.

Tonight? Where will I be tonight? Miami is about all I know, riding the train there for 6 hours, spanning the width of the state.

I learned more about a recent hosting family: the mystery man and she were once married and now choose to share the house partly for economic reasons and partly out of friendship. They seem very close. They have not divorced even tho they behave as a divorced couple. This is primarily for economic reasons and to avoid deciding how to split the property like their jointly owned house. What if P and I had made a similar decision, living together in the Center Street house? I’m not sure this would have worked. And then what happens when one of us meets another intimate? As I did Y.

MU graciously toured me thru the old Cuban-Italian district of Tampa, with its cigar stores, cafes (we drank iced tea at the Columbia), bars, and perhaps a few galleries. It is called Ybor and has a light rail system connecting it with downtown. (Altho we saw no trains actually running)

Today is Halloween, I might celebrate it in a solitary secret manner. While I think about Ella, Cid, and Rex enjoying the event as kids usually do.

November 1, 2009, Sunday, Miami Florida, guesthouse of R and RL

Ensconced for several days in a guest house consisting of bedroom, toilet, small narrow kitchen, living-dining room, and entry room. Behind the main house, not yet meeting my hosts since I came in last night around 10:30 pm, Halloween, I have ultimate privacy. The neighborhood rang with singing, shouting, music. Cars littered the roadway. Children called out. It is Halloween, and I celebrate in my own manner: with delightful erotic fantasies.

The train carrying me here from Orlando was 3.5 hours late. Either it was once again stuck behind freights, explanation no. 1 from Amtrak personnel, or the train collided with something near DC, requiring replacement of the engine, explanation no. 2. No further details. Expecting a train crew in costume and masked, I was disappointed to discover no apparent celebration aboard the Silver Meteor (a laggardly meteor), train no. 97, limping south to its final destination, Miami. I can now proudly claim: I’ve ridden Amtrak between its 2 main north-south destinations on the east coast, Boston and Miami (ignoring Portland ME).

On board for some 5 hours (for a distance of about 160 miles, drive time might be 3-4 hours) I accomplished much: adding to yesterday’s journal, refining the Special Sources application, revising Gaza, Bethlehem, and Quakers (the latter I show this morning at the Miami meeting), examining the new blog entry before posting, and reading Scott’s report of his 1990 Palestine/Israel trip. Plus limited photography of the sunset spreading over a sandy plain. Florida is flat, sandy, and of course, where I am now, hot.

I know I dreamt regularly thru the night but I have no shred of memory of any dreams. I’m fairly convinced that this is because my new environment is so novel. There is much to explore, much to imagine, much to understand. Who are my hosts, what is their house like, what neighborhood am I in, who are my neighbors, can I drink the water, what exactly does my host do in the adjoining room filled with mat cutting tools, etc.

Presently the water question is a serious focus. When I arrived last night I saw no signs about water—DO NOT DRINK THE WATER!— or alternate water, so I filled my cup with tap water, drank from it during the night. This morning showering, I noticed a putrid odor to the water, then thought, oh shit, not again, am I going to get sick from the water? This morning I discovered a large opened bottle of water which I used for my coffee and I will soon meet my host and ask her, hoping she replies, no problem, it’s safe, drink away.

Since the train was delayed I mostly stayed in the Orlando house shared with AC and AB, joking mostly with the former. I worked, preparing another subsite, the last of the summer Israel-Palestine trip, along with a blog entry which I’ve yet to upload. I resisted certain temptations borne to me via the Internet—does the devil now visit us from cyberspace when we open the computer? The connection was among the fastest of this trip.

A few more details about AC: he’s from Hawarra, but he did not know his geography. This was telling: he thought he grew up in Israel. Reason? The occupation was so pervasive, soldiers everywhere, that he assumed this. His father had and has businesses, laundromat for one, gas station another, and AC worked in some of them. He lived in Palestine from the age of 4 to 14 or so, leaving in 2000 just before 2nd intifada. He studies civil engineering, thinking it will assure him a job, but he also expects not to feel satisfied by this job and seemed interested in how I’ve organized my life for supreme personal satisfaction (with some big gaps).

We debated individualism, relying only on oneself. He argued that this way no one would cheat or disappoint him. I spoke of my experience changing from much that same perspective and life mode to one that acknowledges the value of community, striving to participate fully in various communities, relying on others, and realizing they will rely on me.

He showed me a YouTube video of his brother’s summer wedding in Brooklyn, featuring dabka. I had to confess: I’m sick of dabka. And he confessed that he is a clumsy dabka dancer.

Islamic morality came up, especially concerning college “girls.” I’d inquired about a note on the fridge that said in essence, your bike is sweet, it’s like mine, we should get together and make sweet love. With name and phone number. Someone left it on AC’s big balloon tire bike. The college girls here are very loose, he claimed, always flirting. I flirt back but stop before anything further happens except for …

And here I wondered if he referred to masturbation. I muse: do devout Muslims masturbate? Is this considered against the moral code? Certainly coitus before marriage is prohibited and my sense from discussion with AC is that many observe this. But jerking off? Watching porn? I’m not sure and I’m hesitant to ask because he might then ask me, do you masturbate, do you use porn? I might equivocate, dodge the question, say something like, this is too personal for me to answer.

So I kept my big mouth shut and live without an answer.

YA brought me to the train station, we had about 30 minutes for walk and talk. (I recognized the station, remembered that I’ve arrived-departed here at least once before, once boarding a bus.) He proved himself very knowledgeable about Islam. Here’s what I learned concerning 2 big questions I’ve had: about the night journey of the prophet to Jerusalem and then lifting off to visit deities, and the connection between Ishmael and Islam. In note form:

Most believe the journey was not a death scene, nor a dream, but an actual event. Evidence? In speaking about his journey Mohamed describes in detail the environment of that day—which then correlates with historical facts.

Ishmael to Islam by way of Abraham leads Hagar (she is royalty, a gift of the pharaoh, but served as a maid) west to desert, stopped when ordered by god. She ran back and forth between hilltops looking for people. Ishmael the baby crying, kicking, uncovers water source, laughs. This is where the kaaba was built. The local people are Arabized (original Arabs were from Yemen).

Abraham almost sacrificed Ishmael in Arabia, at Arafat, not Mt Moriah in Jerusalem, tempted by devils who wished Abraham would sacrifice, which is parallel to Christ tempted by devils 3 times.

Oh, I don’t know. How much of this is historically true? How much is mythically true? How much contains stories about how to live? How much is true true, ultimately true, pointing to a truth of the universe?

LINKS:

Sami Al-Arian

Miami Friends Meeting

Quaker Center for Peace, Education and Social Justice

Ybor City (Tampa)

Islam and masturbation

Excerpts from my journal while touring the southern United States with new photographs and stories (itinerary). The main shows are Gaza Steadfast, Bethlehem the Holy, Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel, and Quakers in Palestine/Israel.

On Veteran’s Day, November 11, 2009

PHOTOS: Florida—2

VIDEO: mcdonalds florida

October 27, 2009, Tuesday, Gainesville, Florida, home of SC and S, front room:

Finally, a dream or two that seems substantial, at least I recalled major sections of one. Too often the dreams have felt piecemeal, fragmentary, chunked up, as if watching a movie while going for refreshments, the toilet, the lobby to chat with friends, and so missing much of the film.

I was with family at some special location, like a bed and breakfast. P and I avoided each other. She was telling about Bertie and Alan’s daughter Jennifer, age 16, who’d become a single mother. Alan and Bertie adopted the child to raise it. As she told this I didn’t hear properly and had to ask, who, how old, what, why? This irked her and I finally walked out.

I then sat by myself during a meal while the rest of the family ate together. I pouted, I was miserable, with a sense that I was generating a large share of my own misery. This made my misery even greater.

My hosts in Gainesville are Z and his wife of 15 years, a second marriage, C. Both are Jewish, she has family in Israel; Z has been there several times. He is perhaps best known from a movie about a group of  Vietnam War veterans who spoke out about what they were doing. He is fully disabled and I assume receives compensation. He seems not to have a job. C is a teacher, working with disabled children.

He drives fast, using 2 radar detectors. He sleeps into the late morning, staying up as late as 6 AM, thus requiring about 4 hours of sleep. He carries a licensed concealed revolver and declares that he is not a pacifist. He is 8 years my junior, joined the Marines just out of high school, the same year I became a conscientious objector. I mentioned to him as he unrolled his story that had I entered the military he and I might have met in Vietnam.

He has 2 confirmed kills from hand to hand combat, and many others not confirmed. He has 3 Purple Hearts, and was part of a squad ambushed by North Vietnamese soldiers not far from Hue. Not only wounded in Vietnam twice, but seriously wounded in the USA by a hit squad of federal agents for his political activity. He works with Veterans for Peace, and a new group founded during the Gaza assault, among other projects. His wife C seems to work much with him.

As with all my hosts and organizers I could devote my journal entirely to their stories, each fascinating in a unique way. This surveying of lives is a major part of my tour.

The Gaza show last night was held at the Civic Media Center, the CMC, which when I heard the term imagined a huge centrally located auditorium, drawing 1000s. Instead: a storefront library and meeting space, newly established, with a serviceable video set up and many many books and videos. Two groups were meeting, one a committee about outreach for the Center; most of the attendees were college age, and a few stayed for my show. Total audience count—about 20. And not a very exciting show.

One question that I must add to my show is who profits from sustaining the violence? In short, the interlocking military industries. Also raised was how to broaden the audience, a common question. Talking with Yazan about this earlier I answered, the elderly residential centers and universities and colleges broadens the audience. I could add high schools, an overlooked audience.

Z and C live in a rambling house in the country, sitting alongside 3000 acres of forest. We saw a bobcat stroll thus the woods yesterday. They have dogs, 2 of them old. Z expanded the house by adding wings and enclosing a porch and garage so that now its 10 or so rooms seem to absorb people. Fish inhabit the house, mostly from Africa, in a series of about 10 large tanks. They are in many rooms, forming a veritable many-celled aquarium. The computer room houses about 4 Macs, so many, Z explained, so that they have enough for backups and for others who use the house as an office. He promised me free software and an operating system upgrade. Z is in the enviable position of being retired and working fulltime. He is 61, seems healthy, active, energetic, committed, living a dream life of any activist. He is fully an activist.

Hearing his various dramatic stories I had the impression that he’s told these many times, often to large audiences, some in high schools and colleges. He is an able raconteur and gave me a lifting introduction last night (which did not seem to warm the small crowd).

For both this is their 2nd marriage. They’ve merged families, bringing their children from previous marriages together. However, many of the children when they married were grown. They seem to be active as grandparents. The dynamic here must be complicated.

This is a layover day because another opportunity at Gainesville evaporated when the local organizer failed to secure a room. The possibility of a mosque also fell thru so I have a day of respite in Gainesville, my first day off since beginning the tour about 10 days ago. I intend to revise the Gaza show, caption my photos, attend to the tour organizing, and possibly see what I can do at a distance about my New England tour. No wireless internet here, so I have to use his computers for my Internet access, a minor impediment.

With this relaxed day I might be able to expand my limited photography. Z promised to show me a church which is displaying hate signs against Arabs and Muslims, equating Arabs with the devil.

Leaving New Smyrna yesterday D showed me the beach. Astonishing—the tiny particles of dark gray sand, tightly packed. She explained that this is also the quality of Daytona Beach nearby and why it makes an ideal speedway. The water was cool, she says it’s clean; a few people were in the water, none swimming. Undertows are a concern, drowning some people, and New Smyrna is known as the shark capital of the world. Many bites, few serious injuries. Why? Fishers dump their trash into the ocean, attracting the sharks.

A long drive across the width of the state. I was impressed with how people-empty much of Florida is—the human population concentrates near the water. Mostly trees, many pines. 2 lane highways, nothing alongside them but the forest and sand. Very flat.

October 28, 2009, Wednesday, Gainesville, Florida home of SC and S, front room:

Dreaming: that Y and I attended a dance with many people eventually dancing together in one large circle. All held hands, and then someone declared that we would each turn right, bend over, tuck in our head, connect with the next person to make a chain, and prepare to be leaped over. A man was in front of me, I had to pack my neck against his butt, not an easy task.

Y seems to be appearing regularly in my dreams now, and as herself, not a stand in for her that is not a look-alike. In one we might have even have decided to reunite.

If this dream is indeed now recurring, it might be prompted by the couples I’ve been staying with and observing. D and D a few days ago in New Smyrna Beach, and now Z and C. As Z and I sat together at the dinner table he asked, are you still married? (one of his few questions to me, he does not seem to interested in my experiences.) I explained my situation and then thru my questions and his spontaneous disclosures he outlined his situation: informal and multifarious, admirable but not quite for me.

Z and C are married; he professes a life-long commitment between them, tho not fully monogamous. Not a bad arrangement. However, given my poor record with that form of relationship I’m not sure I would do well with this. It is most decidedly not what I’m looking for now.

They work together closely, on boards together, planning events, sending out mailings, and last night setting up and cleaning up from the peace event their organization cosponsored.

I’d say what I most miss, admire, and desire is a working partnership.

At my request, Z took me for a walk around the grounds. He and C own about 10 acres, and nearby is a plot of some 3000 acres. We discovered new fences, shocking him. No animals, but signs of armadillos—turned up ground, they’re looking for insects. Some scat, no tracks, nothing definitive, no sign of the bobcat we’d spotted the day before. Leaving the house C said, I’m going to pack a piece, you never know what we’ll find. He carried a revolver strapped to his waist, ammo pockets, GI style, on the belt. The belt or the leather holster creaked as he walked. I photographed. He told me, I can hit a man’s head at 100 yards, this is a high power 22-caliber target pistol.

He is also a wild driver, speeding down a slick (just rained) highway at night, 80 mph, two radar detectors operating. And Z and C were both stoned.

The event last night brought together a Jewish-Muslim-Christian panel for interfaith dialog about how to make peace. Absent from the discussion was the notion of justice. I mentioned this several times to different people. C explained that they wished to be non confrontative in their first session, not risk driving people out—or not attending at all. A large group showed up, around 100, and when asked to identify their orientation by standing when that worship form was announced—Christian, Muslim, Jew—I noticed about an equal division, thirds. Next to me sat a woman in her 40s that didn’t stand until the designation other faith community was called. Thinking she might be Buddhist, I learned when we broke into small groups that she was Unitarian Universalist, not thinking of herself as a Christian.

At times the questions seemed rather complex: what is your community’s notion of peace, what does your community do to foster peace, what blocks peace, does your community have people who believe their way is the only way, etc. In our groups of 3 we were to discuss the questions, appearing on a screen to remind us.

Much energy and good feeling pervaded the gathering and many expressed wishes to continue. This reminded me of the meeting in the Cambridge mosque shortly after 911—much energy, little follow-up. This group however might be different, a mix of faith communities and peace groups. Z is a key person and he doesn’t seem likely to let the event drift into some archive, never to stimulate a second program.

On the way there we stopped at a church that has put out signs demeaning Islam, claiming it is of the devil. A gallows showing a Muslim hanging a Christian main is the feature. Needless to state, this has been controversial. Someone called Z telling him about the signs, he rallied his various groups, Eve McMasters, the local Mennonite minister who I’d met last December while on tour, organized a prayer vigil at the signs that drew over 100 people. I photographed the complex of signs and gallows while a few people stood in front of the church, about 300 yards from me.

The day off allowed me finally to return to revising Gaza. I find waiting is vital for this process to work well. Waiting till after a requisite number of showings demonstrate to me what is lacking, what is repetitive, what is unclear, what is dramatic? Which slide should precede, which succeed another. Absent is any mention of Israeli Palestinians protesting the Gaza assault. Wrongly placed is the social landscape of Beit Hanoun—should come before not after the first aid class and soccer field. I’ve added 2 pix of pre-conflict Gaza, addressing the suggestion David made at Y’s about not showing enough of that period, in fact, barely mentioning it. Slowly the show grows. Will it ever become a major entity in the world of media?

Z gave me a few important computer applications—OS 10.5, Techtools, and Macripper for copying DVDs. He offered me others. He’s also given me copies of some reports and photos he’s made, one about his trip to Israel-Palestine in the 90s. In his manner, a very generous and supportive person.

October 29, 2009, Thursday, Tampa Florida, home of MU, side room by kitchen:

Shifting from Gainesville, I am now further south and west, in Tampa, on the western coast of Florida, with MU, her son L, and T. Exactly who T is and what relationship he has with the others isn’t yet clear.

Grandparents of M are from Norway, she and L look very Norwegian, and she’s visited there with the film she brings around the country and world about Sami Alerian, the computer science prof from the University of Southern Florida suffering years in prison and now under house arrest because of alleged ties with Hamas. I will make my Gaza presentation tonight at that same university, with security provided in case of protests.

L seems a remarkable character, how he looks and what he does. A recent graduate of Luther College in Iowa, he paints. Someone from the USS Liberty commissioned him to make a painting about that tragedy. He showed it to me, working in his studio converted from the garage. Working from photos of the ship, he is drawing in suffering figures with a motif that vaguely suggests Christian iconography. He explained it to me, a triangle representing the trinity, but I failed to register the subtleties. The commissioner is a Christian and at first requested more overt symbolism.

L also has a theory about the CIA influence on modernism, another theory or observation I didn’t fully follow but would like to investigate. His contention is that certain political powers in this country, notably the intelligence agencies, wished to remove political content from art and thus supported abstractionism—Jackson Pollack chief among them, and others in that school. This was effective, resulting in the creation of the Museum of Modern Art in NYC, a testament to modern art. Result: the removal of political art.

I doubt I have the theory accurately noted here, simply a notion to explore later. L’s art is clearly political and on that level we resonate.

He is handsome in an odd sort of way. High wide forehead, curvaceous mouth, and very strong muscled arms. His mother tells me as a youth he was teeny, now he works out.

T is the mystery figure. A statistician, he uses data and statistics to answer questions. He is diabetic and in the kitchen last night after my show at the United Church of Christ church near the house we chatted about how late onset diabetes can be mitigated, if not cured, by simply eating vegetarian and exercising more. He’s published a book. This method does not work for him because his diabetes is early onset. He also claims the mind can cure much of the body’s illnesses, a contention I support.

My Gaza show at the church last night drew a group of about 30 seemingly appreciative souls, many of them Muslim, most of them women. More Muslims are attending than on any of my earlier 3 tours. David Goodman and his wife Mary Jane (whose laugh is distinctive and infectious) greeted me. I’d met them last December when they hosted me. I believe they toured me around Tampa. (I could probably check in my journal, one of the many blessings of keeping my journal so religiously.) I also met Samar who’d interviewed me by phone last week for her radio station. She’s from Lyd, a destroyed Palestinian village now in Israel and told me that she recently visited her house, met the resident, and learned that one or more Palestine families continue to live in Lyd. And that the area is now infested with the drug trade.

The show went well. Quotes from Nomika Zion and Eric Yellin in Sderot are a major enhancement, adding content to the otherwise relatively straightforward images. I’ve whittled the show down to some 65 minutes which this audience at least tolerated. No one fled, all stayed for the discussion, which itself was rich. One complaint about the sound however—that it boomed or buzzed and was more distracting than beneficial. I’d noticed a strange tone to the music, thought it was the audio setting, but now have to reconsider this choice of sound.

I am coming to like the show more, to experience some pride in it, to look forward to sharing it with others. Whereas previously I was embarrassed by it, stung by earlier shows that drove people from the theater or church. Nothing is more upsetting to me than people leaving.

Rob at the local public radio station interviewed me in the studio. M thought it was a very good interview. I was impressed with his background info and how he challenged me. The interview generated 2 call-in’s, both supportive, one rambly. I felt collected and sharp. This is a chore—same chore during post show discussions—to stay focused on the remark someone offers. At times to listen beneath the surface and speak directly to the heart of the other. Especially challenging would be a hostile remark.

The drive with S to meet M was once again terrifying. He speeds. Nearing 90 mph, I questioned silently whether we’d survive. He is, in his manner, a mad man, driven mad perhaps by his war experience.

But he and his wife C are gracious. He explained further to me his attitudes and practices concerning women. A brazen fellow with much to admire, I have to wonder how that would suit me. Too complicated, too time consuming, too distracting. Rather my impulse is toward one loyal woman, a partner in multiple facets.

A brief Google chat with Katy who reports finding writing work. 2 jobs, both of them I assume high paid. Good for her.

My latest blog about Jerusalem and Ramallah has generated nearly 100 visits, almost a record. Good sign. Someone is at least sampling my writing. No comments yet.

A few more gigs are coming thru, some in southern Florida, one possibly in Memphis. We scratched the Oxford Mississippi one because of transport problems.

LINKS:

Global Actions to End Israel’s Occupation

USS Liberty

Veterans’ for Peace, Gainesville, Florida

Excerpts from my journal while touring the southern United States with new photographs and stories (itinerary). The main shows are Gaza Steadfast, Bethlehem the Holy, Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel, and Quakers in Palestine/Israel.

PHOTOS

VIDEO, Deering Golf Course, Miami Florida

October 24, 2009, Saturday, Savannah GA, Amtrak station:

Stuck here in the Savannah train station for more than 2 hours, train delayed because of the usual problems (behind freights) plus an accident, due in at 6:45 this morning, now expected at 9. So: write in my journal for the first time since Tuesday, perhaps the longest hiatus in recent memory, a severe departure from my usual every other day routine while at home and my every day pattern when in Israel-Palestine.

Since Tuesday and Raleigh NC: Hydro for a class at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, Gaza at the Church of the Reconciliation in Chapel Hill, Gaza in Charlotte NC at the University of North Carolina, Gaza in Columbia SC at a university, yesterday Hydro to a class at Armstrong Atlantic State University and last night Gaza in Savannah at the university hosted by the exemplary JT and AS for what may have been my best showing of Gaza yet.

Gaza’s been too long and too wordy so I’ve been savagely cutting the length and the verbiage. While driving from Columbia to Savannah yesterday morning with Dave I edited in the car, one of the many blessings of digital technology. I’m also learning the show, what follows what, and how to speak to and from the images, how better to insert my personal emotions. Unfortunately I’ve had to jump over major sections like Rafah and Beit Hanoun to get to the final scene, Sderot. I think this is a more suitable ending than student workshop photos.

I tried that several times and because the photos do not sufficiently show the reality of siege and post assault trauma they are not an effective ending. I’m also beginning to question just how good they are and how worthy of wider distribution. They look too much like the reasonably competent photos seen around the world from most any location.

A few profiles: JT, at Armstrong Atlantic in Savannah, young, vibrant, vivacious, with a beard, living 2 years in Israel while studying at a small Jerusalem college. He knew about Gamla, knew that Jews had been long in the Golan, raised Christian by a minister father and wife, married possibly to a Jew (he said his step father had brought back a satellite map of the region), completing studies in ancient and recent history, with a specialty of 2nd temple Israel, he gave one of my best intros so far. What a difference this makes to a performance— warming up the audience, establishing the tone. He is also gracious and loving, a dear, in short, and recommended by some of his students for the award of advisor of the year.

He told me and then later, at my urging, the story of his editing a book about the Mid East, which included what he regards to be a fair minded chapter about Palestine/Israel. The publisher said no. No negotiation, no revision, a solid no, no to anything referring to Israel-Palestine.

His student counterpart at Armstrong, AS, short, slightly pudgy, jolly, energetic, committed, is the chair of the local chapter of a humanitarian organization. With JT they’ve been able to inspire students toward activism. She concurred with his observation that campus activism is on the rise. Her wish is for a career in rehabilitation. She has never traveled much further than her home in Savannah.

ZK, living in Charlotte, runs a check cashing business. His family is from Gaza, originally from Al Majdal near Ashkelon. After I’d given him teeksa’s site address I observed him downloading images from my site. We discussed where he was from, how his family had been displaced, and his current economic situation which is not sanguine. His business is housed in a relatively small space in a strip mall shared with two other businesses, mobile phone and travel. While I hung out in his tiny office no customers appeared. Likewise many of the malls are now empty, a result of the deteriorating national and international economy.

Hank, at Carol Woods retirement community, as I’ve mentioned, is irrepressible, a voluble, happy, fit fellow, who is a joy to work with. Unerringly attentive to my needs, he is also becoming a soul mate. We talked about love, eternal devotion, growing old together, etc, all my favorite topics. Man to man. He is 72, 5 years my senior, moving into Carol Woods when 68 with his wife Nancy. He retired from a career in family planning; her career had been as a guidance counselor in the lower Bronx. He now aims at prison ministry, the Alternatives to Violence Program in particular, and she toward local politics.

As I sat or wandered around Carol Woods, often in the common room with my computer work, I noticed the various forms of mobility impairment. People glided by in electric chairs, or hobbled awkwardly with walkers and canes. Who might I become, what will I look like as I continue to deteriorate? Hank is robust, walks fast and straight, as I can—for now.

Hank works with Elders for Peace. He reads for my shows, an inimitable, distinctive, loud, oddly paced locution.

MLS, activist and organizer with the Israel Committee Against Home Demolitions North America and the Coalition for Peace with Justice. A very able host, she arranged many of the presentations, and in her soft voice gave a low key and engaging intro to me. With numerous connections, and a sharp awareness of the situation in Palestine/Israel, she is a valuable asset to the struggle for Palestine rights.

She said of me, after I’d asked her to say something personal in her intro, that I am an engaged person and a good listener. This was a result of the classroom appearance when I and my Hydro show were at our best. At that show, Sarah Shields, the instructor confided to me later, the students asked the appropriate questions, beginning with who am I and how do I know?

October 25, 2009, Sunday, Jacksonville Florida, Y and D’s home, front room off the kitchen:

The train delay turned out to be about 5 hours, from an expected departure time from Savannah of 7 AM to an actual departure around noon. Reason as far as I could learn was that the northbound train had hit an empty car parked on the tracks. Delayed as the tracks were cleared. Then the southbound train, mine, encountered another car parked on the tracks, also empty (one attendant speculated this is done for insurance money), requiring a tow truck, requiring time. Then the system of signal lights delayed further, because the train was off schedule. I plan to write a letter to Amtrak asking for a refund. Or not—$23 and it is not exactly Amtrak’s fault.

Sitting in the relatively comfortable Amtrak Savannah station I now had time to catch up on my journal writing, website management, and even to prepare a new blog entry. I miss this work. On the tour I have no time for it, but this gap in my schedule benefited me unexpectedly. Thank you Amtrak. (The station man offered us all free coffee, a gracious gift, easing the problem considerably. How important hospitality is at moments like this.)

One of my hosts in Jacksonville, Y, explained how he’s affected by the economic situation: as a cardiologist performing a standard stint (I remember) procedure, expecting that some 10% of is patients will be unable to pay, the uninsured, that number has risen to about 20%. His overhead is heavy and consistent, for assistants, supplies, equipment, rent or lease, and malpractice insurance. So, altho he says, we have a cushion, he is affected. How this influences his largess is a question, especially concerning the video project.

We discussed this last evening after my show of Gaza Steadfast at the University of North Florida to a relatively small crowd, about 60 people. He has some good suggestions about revising the show which I’ve recorded in my notes about the show. For the DVD we are tending to a composite show that incorporates Steadfast and Eyewitness Gaza; it might also include elements of my first Gaza show, Gaza Scorched and Squeezed.

Last night’s show went well enough, not quite as exciting as the evening before in Savannah. One criticism was that they already knew what I was showing them, that most of the audience, being Muslim, Arab and even Palestinian (from Jaffa, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem) was the choir. A frequent question—how to broaden the audience? I suspect some had seen the Eyewitness show which I brought here in February 2009 and might have felt Steadfast was too much a repeat of that show. Despite this criticism, many lauded the show, and thanked me for it and my mission. So I felt well appreciated and heard and seen.

Many children were in the audience. At first noticing them I thought this might be a problem because of the violence I include. It wasn’t. Most apparently are very familiar with such scenes. One of the last remarks came from a girl about 7 years old: I loved seeing the children with hijabs [Muslim head coverings] and wearing long gowns and worshipping Allah. Which led to my remark—I hope I was fair and balanced and respectful—that radical Islam, much in evidence in Gaza, might be part of the problem. I told the story of the extremist group that tried to declare a separate zone in Gaza, attacked by Hamas, 25 killed.

The projected image looked soft and pale to me, despite the venue being the art center with a massive projector. I noted this to the center’s director who was helping with the setup but we decided not to try adjustments. At the Savannah venue I’d also noticed a deficient image and we were able to decrease the projector’s intensity. This dramatically improved the image. I find this attention to detail crucial for a good show, as important as the manner of the introducer. Last night Y, good-natured and well meaning as he is, does not yet have a strong stage presence. Makes a huge difference in how people receive the show.

Rather than try to catch up on my days of not writing, I’m simply going to add notes below for possible later expansion.

I’m trying to also catch up on my website and blog maintenance, putting up a new site about the last days of my Israel-Palestine summer trip, and about ready to upload a new blog related to it. The topic is the Kalandia closure on Ramadan that I was caught in. Reviewing and expressing my experiences from the summer creates a time warp. This might actually add power to my editing because it allows germination, gestation, digestion, that might be missing if I edit too soon after the experience.

Of my many correspondents, C proves to be one of the most reliable. He wrote me a few hours ago from Armenia, announcing that P had arrived, met his friends, site saw, and he included some photos. 20 years ago I might have been viciously jealous and hurt of this man with my former wife. Now? Not a wisp of that feeling that I’m aware of. Rather: a good feeling that she is happy, content, becoming well traveled thanks to her good husband and my good friend, C. With a tad of envy that C has P while I, for the moment, have no one—other than whatever audience might be vicariously sharing my adventures.

So be it. This might change. This might not change. Is it a major factor in my life? How much suffering does it cause me? Am I more effective as a solo worker?

I’ve not heard from X since last Thursday when she wrote with gratitude and admiration. M has once again dropped from view, nothing substantial since about mid summer.

October 26, 2009, Monday, New Smyrna Florida, D and D’s home, open back porch:

“In the cool cool cool of the morning, tell her I’ll be there…” On the back porch in the quiet darkness at 7 AM, a slight brightening of the sky as we lurch toward winter solstice, I write. Y and D’s older daughter stood next to me yesterday morning as I wrote my journal, prepared my blog, asked what I was doing. I explained, then asked her, do you like to write? I love to write. Ever considered writing a blog? What’s a blog? I explained. On my next visit, perhaps next fall, she might tell me she now has a blog.

Another decent show last evening, Gaza again, in New Smyrna, to a crowd of about 60, including many Muslims. The imam, WA, originally from Jerusalem, had spread the word thru his mosque and Islamic center of Daytona Beach. And I think most of the audience was pleased with the show. Donations were down but enthusiasm was high, including from that of a man with his two sons who spoke with me after the show. One son had presented a report to his high school class about Gaza, saying, they told me we never knew.

One common theme of the discussion was just this, we never knew. That is,  resembling the holocaust in some ways: an ignorant or denying world, egregious violations of human rights, impunity of the perpetrator of the injustice, who used methods at times resembling those of the Nazis. I’m pleased I chose to include ports of the Israeli leaders responsible for Cast Lead [the vicious and probably criminal assault on Gaza last December and January]. Reading the once again I believe prescient Uri Avnery, he outlines possible responses Israel might make to the Goldstone report’s recommendation that Israel and Hamas conduct credible investigations into their acts during Cast (avnery calls it Molten) Lead, and failing that bring the case to the International Criminal Court in the Hague. In doing this he fingers some of the same people as responsible parties that I do. How prescient am I?

Since the United Church of Christ church had quoted Martin’s favorite song, “Precious Lord,” I began my performance bysinging a short rendition of the song, explaining that this indicated how fearful he was at times, thus how human, and that it tied to the theme of my show, hope and hopelessness. This prelude may have significantly aided the audience reaction. I might use it more often.

I’m not only finally reaching a fairly good edit of this show but as important I’m learning it. I can better anticipate timing, where to linger, where to gallop thru, I can anticipate slides, I repeat myself less but just enough for emphasis, I believe I’ve found a reasonable way to end early, including Beit Hanoun, but the ending still seems weak.

I’m not sure about ending with Sderot. Y raised the possibility of not ending with Sderot because he feels an audience remembers best what it sees last, but with Rachel Corrie. Currently Rachel is a postscript, a coda; perhaps she should once again be the main culminating scene, as in the previous version. A question to struggle with.

About my writing, I found a perfect lesson from Rilke about how to write, it bears directly on my approach in my blog, namely,

Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes a great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty. Describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember.

I miss not be sharing daily or near daily reflections about writing, photographing, and love with someone—at this point, X. No word yet from her since more than one week ago. I also miss the intense dialog M and I had for a few months about one year ago. And the daily arrows of love, passion and disgust between LL and me 2 years ago. As much as I might long for a partner, a lover, I believe I also long for a consistent correspondent. Anne R at times is this. Dan at times is this but never with more than short notes. Y might have been at one time but not recently. Daughters aren’t, one is known for her pithiness. MVB periodically offers deep reflections, as she did recently in her blog about her father.

So be it. I carry on, soldier on, virtually alone.

DH, my host, is a whirlwind, a firebrand, and I think an effective activist. Like me and Anne R she is a one-issue person, Israel-Palestine, and works thru a small local peace organization. She picked me up yesterday in Jacksonville, driving 1.5 hours each way, chatting with me almost the entire way to New Smyrna. She’s been twice to Palestine/Israel, most recently during Cast Lead when she was in Bethlehem and noticed how little noticed the assault seemed to be by the Bethlehemites. She is short, about 46 years old, with D her husband and suffers from an illness that depletes her energy—watching her you’d never guess.

Since I had nearly 2 hours before the show last night and we were all set up (her husband engaging with her passion, helping her, so laudable)I went for one of my rare walks. And discovered: a historic site, where a so-called palace had been attempted by one of the leaders of the earliest manifestation of whites in the area. They built on a shell mound, a midden, perhaps more than rubbish heap, possibly a sacred site to the native people. Apparently dislodged by the local Indians in about 1777, the colony did not last long enough for the palace to be finished, so the site, now sporting a massive foundation that I thought at first might be that of a church, became a fortification and a home. American Indians burned a structure here, and eventually it was abandoned as a living site and now is a tourist site. (Y would be interested, because of her concern for American Indians and shell mounds.)

Walking further, the water, not the beach but a river or estuary system. I plan to examine the area thru Google Earth later. And during this walk I made the first photos of the trip, vegetation mostly, a boat, the historic site, nothing of much importance, just a warm-up.

As before, the K family, Y, his sister Lin, his wife D, were extraordinarily hospitable and generous to me. Like my brother in law, Y gave me a batch of clothing, one blue striped short sleeved shirt in particular which I wore last night for the first time publicly. He also donated generously, and his friend D who attended both the Gaza show and the private Bethlehem show in the K home was also generous. This assures me that I’ll have enough money until I begin earning more in January thru teaching.

About 6 friends of the K’s attended the private show of Bethlehem. All were Palestinian. The lawyer, E, apparently known for his ability to sue, questioned me loudly during the show, objecting for instance to my inclusion thru a quote that some Muslims hate some Christians in Bethlehem. Y and I asked him to hold his remarks till the end. And then during the discussion his point seemed lost or forgotten. Y had said earlier that E might be a major contributor to the DVD project. Perhaps because of my reproval of him during the show, he gave no indication of willingness to support the project. Did I speak too harshly, too soon? Have I driven away a potential contributor?

LINKS:

“UN sanctions Goldstone report on Gaza war”

“Focusing on Ft. Hood Killer’s Beliefs Is an Easy Out to Avoid the Deeper Reasons for the Massacre”
By Mark Ames
Nov 6, 2009

Train delays

Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet

Excerpts from my journal while touring the southern United States with new photographs and stories (itinerary). The main shows are Gaza Steadfast, Bethlehem the Holy, Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel, and Quaker in Palestine/Israel.

Photos

October 14, 2009, Wednesday, Cambridge MA, back computer room:

In my Google mail spam, 2 messages from The Great Mystery:

Please reveal yourself

Please keep this as a top secrete (sic)

Summing up precisely what I’m about.

K said she is willing to review my Gaza slide show, maybe on Saturday. This would set a new precedent: collaboration between father and daughter. I suspect she has the skills needed to help me see the overall structure of my show. As Y had. She also reported that P might be getting more work.

I remain in touch with folks in Gaza about the student exhibition there. And I’ve made a preliminary version from their photo files, aiming at a version that can go on website and by email. Not quite small enough files yet. Much work to accomplish this: finding and transferring the various emails between me, Amal, Sherif, and Ban, sorting them chronologically, and then speckling them thru the photos, after organizing the photos into something coherent.

I awoke this morning at 5 AM, ready to work. I knew if I peed, drank water, and tried to resume sleeping I’d lie awake troubled by all I had to accomplish before Saturday evening when I board the train for North Carolina. Last night hitting my mattress, the other end of a not fully satisfying night of sleep, I remained awake in my the glow of X. She is mysterious, my attraction to her inexplicable, the force connecting us perhaps powerful, if only it is a shared force. Is it?  A key question.

October 16, 2009, Friday, Cambridge MA, back computer room:

A hefty dream last night about residing with a group in a country house while observing others at some distance on mountaintops. I saw a young man ride a horse for the first time, I saw an older woman try to gather others for a walk, I saw all this as I sat high on a peak looking down. The dr may have been motivated by viewing X’s photos yesterday—more about this later.

Editing of the new Gaza show, Gaza Steadfast, proceeds, but with all the social attention I am willing to give I am not totally focused on the process. I’ve begun whittling it down, thinking now I have at least 2 new Gaza shows, and might have to leave out entirely Bureij and Raghda (did I mention she wrote, thanking me for the gallery exhibit invite?), Qattan center and Reem, summer games, etc. Which might be OK since I do not know how I’d link all these either with each other or into the main theme of hope. Ramzy wrote that he and Belal successfully left Gaza, entered Cyprus, and now are Turkey engaged in their grad studies. He’s not sure about returning, inclined to remain out of country for at least a few years.

I managed to run thru my other shows, Hydro, Bethlehem, and Quakers, finding lots I could do with these when I have time (the quotidian factor blocking me?). A revision, not a major overhaul or new show.

So much I could be doing photographically—and so much I wish to do socially. How to most wisely blend the 2?

Edward Weston may have been preoccupied with Tina (and numerous others, he was a gallant) but he managed to continue his photography. How did his social life affect his photographic life? And the reverse? If a woman is interested in me, as some might be, how much of that interest is generated by my photographic life and identity?

Now it is raining, it is cold, snow is falling west of Boston. Winter about to smack us. As I was hot for 3 months this summer, unremittingly, now I enter the cold phase—except for 5 glorious weeks in the south beginning soon.

October 18, 2009, Sunday, Washington DC, au bon pain, waiting for the train to Durham:

I’m in DC sitting in an early morning Au Bon Pain on Sunday, after riding the train from Boston overnight, 10 pm to 7 am, delivered to the Boston station by a loving and warm Y. Maintaining our tradition of giving each other send off messages when one is departing, she gave me a card (which I’ve yet to open, maybe on the train further south) and I one to her for her long car ride west. She is a dear, long lasting friend, “till death to us part.”

Just before leaving, having packed all my computer gear, feeling lost and naked, I finally examined the folder of materials she returned to me. In it, numerous promo pieces about the Israel-Palestine project, bw photos made with film of Buddhist walks, my end game or will statements, but no personal notes, thank god. She’s told me going thru that would require more time, and the emotions might overwhelm her, so she’s bringing that folder to calif where she can more serenely examine it.

The train was relatively empty, I slept OK, without dreams that I can now recall, but with visions of X. Which reminds me that probably on each of my various excursions I have one central female focus. One succeeds another. And now, fall 2009, X. In an imagined dialog with her I challenge myself to reveal this penchant of mine: numerous women. How would I explain it to her? How much would she like to know, need to know? How much could I wisely disclose? Why would she want to hear it and what would she do with it?  Similarly when I open my computer for the day’s work, longing for a message from a beloved, who I hope will write varies with the times: now it is X. I do not look for messages from the others. Whereas during other periods I would focus on one of them, crushed to find nothing, elated to find something. Like some others, X has a way of disappearing. I’m getting used to it.  This weekend ME is returning to France from Yemen, and KA is coming home from Israel-Palestine. While X is considering where to live and what to do.

Then this morning, using the train station toilet: DC, the nation’s capital, the nation one of the richest on the globe and in history, the toilets were filled with aging black men, all poor, some of them temporarily residing on a toilet seat. I waited for the handicap access stall to open. It didn’t. I peeked and think I observed a large black man slumped over, leaning against the wall, sitting on the toilet, probably asleep. He is warm, he is safe, and he is close to a toilet. I have to wait for a smaller stall to open.  And then find a way to safeguard my 4 pieces of luggage—not much of a problem compared to those of the men I shared the men’s room with.

How ready am I for this tour? Y asked, others asked, a common question. Answer: as ready as I need to be, not nearly as ready as I should be. As John told Stan and me at dinner the other night, sometimes the less I prepare the more spontaneous and engaging is my presentation. And I recall the words of JVB when I asked him how he preps for a talk—an outline and then give it over to the Holy Spirit.

I might also say, I’m not ready now but I will be by the end of the tour.

Which is how I feel, especially with the new Gaza show. I’m confident the plot will work—the photo workshop—and that the theme will be of interest—hope and hopelessness—and that the photos are compelling. I’m certain I need to shorten it, reorganize it, work better with the sound. All this takes not only time but audience feedback. Y encourages me to alert the audience and invite them into the creative process by confessing, this is the first of many shows, I need your feedback. And forbearance and patience.

The last day home was jammed and somewhat frantic. How can I possibly do all that is needed in preparation? I’m becoming more relaxed about this phase, from experience. Also much more efficient (paying bills, scanning mail). So I know better what might wait till I return (I’m looking forward to the month of December with no teaching, no or only a few gigs, enough money to survive, and plenty of time to edit shows, finish digesting the summer experience, visit family and friends, pursue a possible relationship, read, enjoy the winter holidays, plan a spring New England tour, and do lots of spontaneous photography and writing), what can wait till I have time on the road (like catching up with blogs and sites from the summer, applying for grants, organizing this tour, editing the shows), what might never get done (mounds of readings and videos, fixing certain things), and what is crucial for this trip (verifying train reservations, packing all the right gear, choosing reading material, and calling Lynn to wish her well on her international jaunt with Chuck).

Now to catch up: from Gaza Amal’s good news. The exhibit happened, it appears to be a success, more than 100 people showed up, the excitement was great. Ban wrote later that Amal gave a fine touching speech. I’m promised visuals from the event. I’ve added Amal’s words to my show. When I read them I yelled ecstatically, yes, great, holy mother @#^&*! They did it!

October 19, 2009, Monday, Durham NC, Carol Woods retirement community, MD’s home:

Lots of dreams as I pull into one of my favorite retirement communities, Carol Woods, in what I think is Durham NC (I’m often not sure where exactly I am).

The main dream was one of the first that I recall about X, a dream forecasting good times together. Y and I had greeted each other, X was in on the greeting, Y and I kissed on the lips and then she suggested X and I could as well. We did, not with huge passion, but on my part with recognition that there is some frisson here.

And Jim H, sick and lying nearly comatose, near death, on his bed in a small neatly kept apartment above me in my same building. I was with Y and she struggled to wake him up, give him some hope. But to my eyes he was clearly in his last earthly phase.

The train ride [Boston to DC] went well, but as usual we were caught behind a freight, losing about one hour. Apparently this is typical going south, not so typical going north. Train was about 2/3s full until maybe in Raleigh when the train attendant announced, get ready, 300 people will be coming thru this car. I’d noticed them outside as we pulled in, all ages, all white, or mostly, and to this moment I have no idea who they were.

In DC an elderly black man, probably around my age, sat next to me. His breath smelled heavily of mouth wash, he spoke on the phone with someone owning a tavern in a district where beer could not be sold between 2 am and 7 the next morning but who’d been selling it. I suspected my seatmate might have a drinking problem, his affability a result of the alcohol. He’d mentioned to his phone mate something about having a bender and now needing to get sober. He moved as soon as a single seat opened up. So I sat alone for most of the trip from DC to Durham, 11 AM to about 6:30 PM.

For much of that time I edited Gaza, tightening, loosening, adjusting, sorting, trying get it in shape for showing today, its premiere.

At dinner with my main host in this area, ML, on the board of the Israeli Committee Against Home Demolitions-USA, and also coordinating director of the local coalition for peace and justice, and her husband, a professor of music at the local university and serious amateur photographer, while she was in the kitchen, I revealed to him, just meeting him, my fascination with and concentration on love, both theoretical and practical. Along with that my penchant for younger women and how I’m slowly and painfully realizing that usually younger women if interested in me are probably only interested because of the mentorship role.

He replied, maybe so, but maybe not. A 60 year old colleague and a 23 year old woman are now a team, very happily. Surprised both. It can happen. As with gambling, that next roll of the dice could produce a winner. And yet, most won’t. Throwing the dice is usually a quick road to ruin.

I’ve met few others who are so involved with Israel-Palestine than ML. She is exemplary. Returning there every year, twice to Gaza, knowing many of the same people as me, working with ICAHD and Sabeel among others, up on AFSC activities, some of them, knowing the Ramallah Friends’ scene, conversing with her was like conversing with an old friend with whom much is shared. Like me she favors lobbying. She and B told me about their local house rep who is a member of their Baptist church and slowly learning more from her about other ways of viewing the situation than that of a strongly pro Israel perspective. B and ML seem happily entwined, each with their separate strong passions (his is photography of the Arctic and Antarctic), but sharing as much as possible.

She also told me about a recent cancellation of a presentation about Palestine/Israel at the senior center that I’d presented at in February, a last minute cancellation because the presentation was thought to be “too political.” To avoid this they booked me into the Carol Woods community room this afternoon. Apparently this venue is less subject to outside pressures.

A full day facing me: Quakers this morning, Gaza this evening, and then tomorrow, Hydropolitics in the morning to a class, and Gaza again in the evening. Three nights with Marilyn, and then a train on Wednesday to Charlotte for a Gaza show.

Unfortunately not all days are as packed. The last week is mostly open. A few days ago I received notice of a new speakers’ service thru Free Gaza, and applied. Maybe they can help Dave and me fill in the blanks.

I also began a new application to the last round of Friends Meeting at Cambridge Special Sources grants. Knowing who’s on the committee, I’m wary of applying on the basis of anything that will seem angry, inflammatory, hateful, or demonizing of Israel. So I’m applying for help with the video project, highlighting the Gaza show, and within that broad topic, concentrating on Quaker-American Friends Service Committee activities there. The last time I applied I was in Israel-Palestine, surprised when it came thru, and doubly surprised to have to meet with a critical group who questioned my receiving that grant. Will something like this happen again?

October 20, 2009, Tuesday, Durham NC, Carol Woods retirement community, MD’s home:

Last night I half dreamed while half awake, of a new structure for the Gaza slide show—4 parts, each related but different. And one would be about bamboo. Of course bamboo plays no role in Gaza that I’m aware of, but the idea of 4 parts might be useful. One might be kill, another survive, another friend, another …?

A rough show last night, Gaza Steadfast, its premiere, to an audience of about 40, mostly people already convinced that Israel was wrong on many of its policies. The problem with the show is that it is too long, twice as long as an audience can tolerate. They were at their limit: maybe 1/5 left part way thru, several called for an end wanting the discussion period to begin, one of the readers, J, lapsed into a lazy I don’t give a shit style, and several suggested paraphrasing rather than reading all the texts. Why I put so much text into this show baffles me.

Having had some success quoting Yusef and Belal in an earlier show about Gaza, I extended the idea to a few others, like Mohammed with his photos of home destruction, and then, wishing to give a fuller flavor of the Goldstone report, quoted from it extensively. My thought now is to viciously carve up the show, shorten it by half, while thinking of a new plan to organize it.

I’m not sure the idea of ending the show with the student photos is wise. They are good but not superior photos and they do not show much suffering. Someone asked about this absence and I replied, I’m not sure why. I noticed the same lack in the work of artists at Windows from Gaza. The artists replied that they have paintings showing the suffering but not in the set exhibited, and they’d like a break from their daily experiences. OK, makes sense, but not a good show. Now what?

I yearn to get back to this editing, and shall devote what remains of the morning to it. I call on my muses—Please dear friends, I need you now. Stay with me and guide my eyes and hands. I know I can count on you. Much gratitude.

Luckily I believe my photos are high quality.

Otherwise the day went superbly: morning visit with local Quakers, some 20 of them, all but one women, showing all of Quakers, which over the years I’ve pared down to a manageable 45 or so minutes. Then in the afternoon at the retirement community, hosted by the irrepressible H, and my new found colleague who shares so many personal connections with me, ML, Bethlehem the Holy. This also has experienced much revision in the heat of showing it to audiences. A good show. Now to make the same of the raw material I have for Gaza Steadfast.

A few bright spots from last night’s show: meeting JS, with family ties to Gaza. He’d never lived there, but has family there. And he seemed deeply impressed with the show, encouraging me to continue with it. And a few others came up afterwards with praise. So I feel there is much potential to this show but I’m not sure how to edit, and how to remain true to my mission of honoring my students.

LINKS:

Carol Woods Retirement Community

“Shades of Checkpoint Charlie at Rafah Crossing”
Haidar Eid writing from the occupied Gaza Strip, Live from Palestine, July 2008

“Israel’s Crimes, America’s Silence”
John Dugard, June 2009

“Israel’s surprising best seller contradicts founding ideology”
Jonathan Cook, The Electronic Intifada, October 2008

Excerpts from my journal during a three month summer journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles—written while in Palestine & Israel, posted while in the United States touring the south with new photographs and stories (itinerary)

PHOTOS

Pyrenees, Spain-France

September 13, 2009, Sunday, Tel Aviv airport, sitting on the floor at the Air France gate:

As a Jewish man dons his robe, tassels, and headpiece, brings out his prayer book, and prays in an inconspicuous location for about ten minutes, I start my last journal entry from Israel-Palestine.

Israel

Main event [on September 12, 2009] was meeting the family in the East Jerusalem neighborhood of Sheik Jarrah.  I’d read about this family for months, and wished to meet and perhaps interview and photograph them. Finally, yesterday, when I was considering what to concentrate on for my last hours in Jerusalem, I realized, why of course, walk over to East Jerusalem and look for them.

Photos

They now sleep, eat, visit, discuss with interested parties like me, and generally exist under a tent opposite their home. Why outside and not inside? Israelis evicted them, thru a legal maneuver that has been some 35 years in process. The main theme is Judization of East Jerusalem, moving out “Arabs,” moving in Jews. This has started with some housing and most dramatically with the plethora of huge hotels catering to tourists and all owned by Jews. As Mr. Gawi explained to me, the municipality is attempting to surround East Jerusalem with Jewish settlements and call them neighborhoods.

Israel justifies this particular eviction thru a claim that Jews have owned this land for at least 150 years. Gawi claims that a Muslim holy man is buried near by and that Jews renamed and described him as a Jewish holy man. The neighborhood, Sheik Jarrah, gets its name from this venerated person. He claims further that Jews were granted the right to rent the land around the shrine some 130 years ago for a short period, something like 7 years. After the war of 1948 the UN acquired possession of this land and built a refugee camp here, with the same name, Sheik Jarrah. (It is located a short distance north of the American Hotel.) His father arrived in this area as a refugee, and eventually entered an agreement  with the UN that in exchange for giving up his refugee rights he could either own or rent (I’m not sure which) the land and build a house.

The house is beside an olive grove, and is home to about 7 families. 3 young male settlers live in the house now, occupying it. I dropped in on them, offering a friendly shalom with a question, how is life in this house for you? I’d hoped to open a dialog. Didn’t happen. They claimed to not speak English and would not permit me to photograph them. Gawi told me one is a recent immigrant from Russia, that they can be violent and beat his brother who was then arrested by the Israeli police.

All he wants is housing, his house back if possible. He told me that the Palestinian Authority does nothing, they don’t care, I have a good lawyer, I’m not worried about the court case, I don’t have legal fees, I just need money to buy a house. He mentioned something like $200,000. Our food is take away and costs 300 shekels per meal to feed the family. When I offered him 100 shekels he refused it, reiterating their need for housing. Is anyone raising money for you? Someone said they would but we’ve seen nothing yet.

He appeared calm and tired. It is Ramadan, it is late afternoon, the day is hot. He reclined on a pile of mattresses while his wife sat demurely watching their 5 children who played on bikes, the youngest with a toy gun. A neighbor, living behind the tent, offering her toilet, visited. The man’s father sat alone. All were willing to be photographed, even seeming happily so. I’m sure they’re now used to this. I said, I’ll try not to let people misinterpret your son’s gun.

I’d called Sasha at the International Solidarity Movement earlier to learn if any political event was scheduled for the day. She thought there was, a march starting at the Damascus gate at 8:30 pm, not a good time for me since I’d be preparing for lift off the next morning early from the airport and hoping to bed myself early (I failed.)

ISM can’t do much, he said, can’t raise much money.

He also told me he has money for daily expenses but I was confused about his source of money when he explained that he has a shop and earns money thru it. He also said, I can’t work there with my kids loose like this. They don’t want to go to school, they can’t concentrate on their studies.

I need to do some fact checking on this case. I don’t doubt his version of the story, especially the larger picture of Judization. As I walked over to meet him the thought occurred to me again: this is ultimately a stupid and suicidal policy of Israel. They are playing into all the vicious stereotypes of Jews: sneaky, conniving, corrupt, manipulating. As if all these traits had coalesced into one big nation, the nation and its citizenry now embodying all the reasons people have hated and persecuted Jews for millennia. God forbid, but national implosion would not surprise me, a consequence of national moral deterioration.

France

Then there is the issue of what I didn’t do: didn’t visit the Harem al Sharif or Temple Mount because it was closed, even tho the guidebook claim s it is open on Saturdays during certain hours. Hours not posted as far as I could see, even at the main entrance. Didn’t walk the wet part of the Hezekiah tunnel system because there’d be nothing to photograph without special preparation. I couldn’t carry my gear and it would be dark, best if someone were to meet me at the Siloam pool after I’d entered at the Gihon spring. For another time perhaps. Didn’t go to bed early to get at least 6 hours sleep, talking with dorm mates and finishing web and download work.

But I did reach the Sheik Jarrah neighborhood, I did have a last supper take away at my favorite East Jerusalem restaurant, realizing I could order kibeh at 4:30 pm and eat it secluded from fasting Muslims— in the garden of the Austrian Hospice. I did say goodbye to some residents of the Hospice. I did talk with Neta about providing photos for her report of settlement activity. I did photograph more of the new light rail line as I walked to Sheik Jarrah. And more.

So now, sitting in the airport waiting for my flight, relatively speaking my troubles are over. I’ve passed thru airport security with 3 people asking the same set of questions 3 separate times, I am waiting for boarding, I assume the plane won’t crash and that Katy will be awaiting me, hopefully with Ella. Life is indeed good.

France

September 14, 2009, Monday, Cambridge MA

Home again, after 3 months in Israel-Palestine. To resume much of what I was trying to avoid: earning a living, maintaining the house, being bored. Yet, I enjoy how I earn a living, enjoy living in this house and city, enjoy the routine—up to a point. The same piles of bills, unopened mail, solicitations, and requests stare at me. The same tasks demand completion such as signing up for an internet service (no internet last night, I’m blinded and made mute), dusting the many surfaces continually covered with dust (especially my altar), visiting family, and so forth. All part of my quotidian existence. To pull free from this, while honoring it, to maintain my focus on Israel-Palestine, while not being dominated by it are among the central tasks of my life.

I must not forget to write about the new set of photos I’m making, a variant of hip pocket photography that I’ve long practiced, but this time with the fast DX 50 mm  lens, the equivalent of an 85 mm lens. It frames close, it cuts off portions of faces and bodies, it accentuates certain features of clothing and the background, all new to me. It seems to be its own eye, with its own point of view, distinct from me but related. I am excited by what I’ve done so far and believe I might be onto a new style of photography, for me at least.

Photos

Whether to only minimally alter the photos—light and dark changes— or more massively alter—framing, focus, etc—I’m not sure. Whether to adhere to a strict discipline of this is how the lens saw it, or flex a little and inject myself more thru post production is a question.

K (without grand daughter E, which may have been wise, but I miss the little one) met me at the airport. A joy to see her, she is so exquisitely loving, as is Jo, as is Lynn, as are most of my family. She missed me, probably worried about me, and dutifully listened as I recounted a few tales to her, mostly about the Galilee and the Golan and the kibbutz movement as establishing facts on the ground, 3 of the most eye opening sections of the last 2 weeks of my trip. She also confided her nascent interest in meditation. I need something like that, dad, I am anxious. What do you suggest?

So I outlined some of my practice: 5-15 minutes daily, incorporating prayer and visualization, using the altar, a little each day goes a long way. I suggested she consult Y who is an expert in this, teaches it as well. I promised to find her a book and send her the article about effects of meditation.

And if I were to jump out of my flesh and look candidly at Skip Schiel, what would I find? A self satisfied fellow, aging gracefully, missing an active sex and love life, happy in his photographic pursuits, more and more the world traveler. Coming up with some interesting photos and writing (occasionally, but he could be more consistent), tho he should be more parsimonious in what he shares with others. He drives some crazy with his voluminous output.

And leaving Israel, how was that, did any of my worries about leaving manifest in actuality?

Worried I’d sleep thru the 3 AM alarm, I slept for 3 hours, 10 – 1, then awoke and lay abed worried about going back to sleep. So 1 hour later, pondering my worries, 2 AM, I rose, dressed, packed, and left the Austrian Hospice to enter the dark of the Old City. It was surprisingly active. A group of young people entering the Hospice who looked like they’d been aroamin all night, men setting up their shops, cleaning crews, taxi drivers—no dearth of people even at 3 AM on Sunday morning.

Having staged my baggage at the Jerusalem Hotel in East Jerusalem, I simply walked there, now worried about getting in. Sure enough, no one answered the bell for about 15 minutes. Resigned to waiting outside, not sure what to do if the taxi pulled up with my main luggage still inside the hotel, not sure what I’d do if I had to excrete my pent up food wastes, someone finally appeared at the gate, looking puzzled.

Ben Gurion airport, Tel Aviv, Israel

Who are you, why are you here? he said, with a note of perturbation in his voice. Didn’t the woman at the desk during the day leave you a note? I said. No note. Can I come in for my luggage? Yes. Can I wait inside for the taxi? No.

Retrieving my luggage, the man intent on some paper behind the desk, I asked if I could leave something for Pauline on the hotel staff from a friend. I conspicuously mentioned, and it’s from the Quakers. People seem to know that term, rather than the AFSC or its longer version, American Friends Service Committee. Oh, Quakers, yes, I know them, you connected with them?

And he warmed, finally allowed me to wait by the restaurant indoors so I could more conveniently repack.

Taxi arrived, gradually filled with mostly Jews (I could tell—they spoke Hebrew or resided in West Jerusalem or wore orthodox clothing), maybe all Jews, I the only gentile, and then the 1 hour fast drive to the airport thru the night. Now only one more hurtle: security.

3 different men asked me the same set of questions, apparently curious or piqued by my presence in Gaza. What did you do in Gaza, why were you in Israel, where did you go, where did you stay, etc. I thought this might lead to more serious questioning but it didn’t. Finding some suspicious objects in my luggage during x-ray they insisted —politely, always politely and professionally, I’m impressed—I opened my luggage.

Are you carrying a scissors in your carry on? Oh yes, I forgot about that. And I moved it to checked luggage. And this lens, let’s have a look. She removed the telephoto lens and brought it somewhere for further scrutiny. Earlier I’d been asked I were carrying weapons. Who’d packed my luggage? Had I left it anywhere out of my sight? (I said nothing about the many days of storage of my ailing black hard plastic rolly luggage in the Palm, “a hot bed of terrorism,” and the Jerusalem Hotel, also suspicious since it’s in East Jerusalem.) And twice I heard them say to others and me, someone might have planted a bomb in your luggage. Which I suppose could be true.

That successfully completed, I had little to do in the 2.5 hours remaining but find a comfy chair, recline, sleep, nibble on my breakfast food, watch fellow travelers, and wait. Worries are over. I do not worry about plane crashes. Not much I can do about those (other than pray and chant).

The Tel Aviv airport is a model of efficiency and civility, oddly enough. Internet is free (a rarity these days in airports), water is a design theme (I ruined the photos because I’d forgotten to change from manual to auto focus), security personnel are all serious but not too, friendly to a point, suspicious but not overly so. (Had I been or appeared Muslim, or even had I been younger, my experience might have been radically different.) The eased security might reflect conditions there generally: the occupation is working and largely invisible.

Now about all I had to endure was the 5 hour flight to Paris, the 1 hour layover in Paris, the 7 hour flight across the Atlantic, having managed my 5 hour transit from fitful truncated sleep in the Hospice to boarding the plane. Total time: door to door was 19 hours.

On Air France the food was excellent, service magnificent, fellow passengers distant, flight relatively smooth, a few decent photos, mostly over the Pyrenees with some snow and then south of Paris, the rural area (wondering if I’d flown over ME’s home), and then capping all the photos, my own neighborhood, Boston harbor, Gloucester in the distance. Once again, as happens on each return, I am grateful for where I live, appreciate its natural beauty, its history, its karma. Grateful that I live here and nowhere else, that I am finally home.

Gloucester and Eastern Point, Massachusetts

September 15, 2009, Tuesday, Cambridge MA, back computer room

Dreaming has returned. Is this primarily because I’m reengaging the quotidian?

Here’s a sample of last night’s plentitudinous dreams:

With a group of about 10 young men we were dancing nude in front of an audience which included numerous women. I felt slightly embarrassed by my paunch but did my best to illustrate how an aging body can move gracefully. We were all oily, whether coated with oil or sweat isn’t now clear to me. I concocted a move of sliding along the wall.

I attended a large Jewish ceremony, arriving late, not sure what it was about. As I sat on one side, bowing with the Buddhist posture, not sure this was appropriate, a woman began leading the group in singing, one side at a time. I noted to someone I was standing with the side first to sing a section of the song, and we seemed weak compared with later subsections of the audience.

Paris

With a friend we were on our way to hear a lecture by Norbert Wiener [the inventer of cybernetics.] My friend told me that he’d died 2 years previously. The fact of his death did not seem to contradict his giving a lecture. To reach the hall we had to slide or leap down a steep muddy hill. Many college men were doing this as if it was easy and normal. I demurred, afraid I’d hurt myself and get my clothes muddy. Man after man plunged, I thought heedlessly, into this abyss. Not me. My partner did, I tried to find another way around to reach the hall, failing.

As I stood at the peak of the hill, puzzling what to do, a young man showed us how he prepared a fish for eating. He used a device that squeezed and cooked the fish simultaneously, he then ate the fish. I asked him, what kind of fish is that? Rather than, how does that device work?

Less than 24 hours after I’d returned home I decided to show last night [September 1, 2009] at the photography collective, White Light, parts of my new hip pocket portrait series using the 50/85 mm. It cuts off the scenes at surprising points, highlighting aspects of face, garment, background and lighting, in ways I’d never think of doing. It is wild mind photography, not using the viewfinder, while imagining what the lens might see. A combination of play and discipline.

This seemed to go over very well last night at White Light. To avoid the pitfalls of printing—and the inherent problems of showing prints on the small magnetic board with the single bright light that we use—I chose to project the images thru Light Room. And, thanks to the good system Freddie provides, they looked splendid—bright, sharp (when actually sharp, since I include some blurry ones as well), lively, colorful, distinctive.

I begin the series with more usual photos of the Old City skyline and the Garden Tomb and one suggestion of Golgotha, and conclude with the series of the family in the Sheik Jarrah neighborhood, evicted from their home by a dubious court decision and backed up by settler violence. About showing the toy gun there were multiple opinions, from don’t, it will be misleading and hard to explain, to don’t worry about it, people will understand it is a toy. Eric suggested painting the barrel tip red because, in the States at least, this is a sign of a toy.

France

A bonus of attending White Light was visiting with M, the short, intense, compassionate physician who works in an emergency room. I’ve always liked him, felt a special affinity between us. At the conclusion of the evening we sat together, he praising my photos, me inquiring about his photography (none recently), medical work and views about the medical industry. He was angry with another photographer at our session who’d “pushed buttons” by claiming those suffering in ER have brought it on themselves. M’s view is that we’re all in this together, that society plays a major role in determining who suffers and how. He also expressed upset at the industry, dominated by the entrepreneurial instinct. He told me, this all changed in the last 20 years while I was in medical school. I’d anticipated general practice, like the country doctor in Smith’s photo series, but when I graduated this was not economically feasible. Now medicine is specialty and production line.

I suggested that he and I both might suffer the consequences of witnessing the suffering of others, secondary trauma. He nodded agreement. How do you meet this? I inquired. I don’t really, except by attending groups like this. I spared him my outline of what I do, including the yoga and meditation I did this morning. And not confiding to him what may be my excessive concern with love.

My home is a mess, hopefully a creative mess. Little by little—and especially because Jan H is due here tomorrow for dinner and I wish to make a profound impression—I’m cleaning up and out. This morning I wash dishes.

The days have been warm in the sun, cool in the evening and morning. Pristine and classic autumnal New England, my favorite time of year. To celebrate I bought a bag of Macintosh apples, my first of the season, fried pancakes this morning using the last of my natural maple syrup, cooked beans and rice yesterday too late to eat so that will be tonight’s special treat.

I’ve finally visited the Garden Tomb—on one of my last days in Jerusalem. This was a significant find. I’d known about it for years, as an alternative burial site for Jesus, as postulated by some Protestant groups (Church of the Holy Sepulcher is dominated by Latin and Eastern Christianity). Contrasting sharply with the burliness of the big church, this is in a garden setting with fewer people, some guides, a tranquility and peacefulness pervading the atmosphere. Feels more tomb and Christ like.

A Brit, a believer, was guiding a group that I attached myself to, and when the tour ended, telling him how excellent I thought his presentation was, I asked some specific questions that he answered by bringing me to different sites. Including the supposed Golgotha hill, place of the skull. Indeed, the two small caves look like eyes, the mouth is now buried by city debris. The site is at the back of the bus station, littered with mounds of human poop. I peed here once when I couldn’t find a toilet. I include photos from this site in the opening of my new slide show about the Old City.

Along the Maine Coast

LINKS:

Israeli forces evict the Hanoun and al-Gawi families from their Sheikh Jarrah homes

Police dismantle Sheikh Jarrah protest tent in east Jerusalem

Airport Security Travelers Rights

Garden Tomb

On the way to Ramallah

New light rail system between West & East Jerusalem, built thru Palestinian regions without permission

Near Kalandia checkpoint between Ramallah & Jerusalem

Kalandia closed

Excerpts from my journal during a three month summer journey of photographic discovery in the Land of Troubles—written while in Palestine & Israel, posted while in the United States touring the south with new photographs and stories (itinerary)

Photos

Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes a great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty. Describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember.

— Rainer Maria Rilke

September 10, 2009, Thursday, ISM office, outside on the patio:

No surprise that I’d eventually dream about blogging and journaling. I was giving a lecture to a group of about 20 young adults. The topic was writing generally, mine in particular, and more specifically how I journaled and blogged from the journal. I was laying out all the issues I face, such as not harming or embarrassing others or myself, how honest to be and when. I was animated, I was lucid, I was at the top of my form and my audience was attentive.

Lion’s Square, Ramallah

I am presently [September 10, 2009] residing in Ramallah at the International Solidarity Movement media office, sleeping on a couch in the mid room, alone at first. So I enjoyed the privacy of the space until: about 1:20 am. Someone rang the bell, someone banged on the door, Was this the Israeli army about to arrest all residents of the ISM media office? I called out, who is it? Snuffing my impulse to say, who the fuck do you think you are coming around here at this hour?

It’s Sasha, sorry, I didn’t realize I’d be coming back tonight. She’d called earlier to ask who was staying overnight, said nothing about returning. She came in, loudly, 2 others I think came with her. They banged around, turned on and off lights, luckily I’d chosen a sleep place away from where they were setting up in the computer room and the other sleeping room. Oddly enough, I was not tremendously disturbed by this racket, just ignored it and fell back to sleep…

From East Jerusalem to Ramallah via the usual no. 18 bus, meeting a very beautiful in many ways young woman who chose to sit next to me. Misa, pronounced mi-sa with a long I and soft a, as if mice-a, is from Jerusalem, studying English literature at Birzeit University. I’d noticed the book she was reading, Hamlet in English. Commented and that began our conversation. She excitedly told me about a research paper she’d written analyzing western media’s accounts of Israel-Palestine, shocked to learn of the discrepancy in attention to the several points of view, i.e., dominated by Israeli positions. She sent the paper to her many western friends who in turn circulated it. I was never too interested in politics until I wrote that paper, she confided to me, but now I’m very attentive.

I encouraged her to continue her studies, remain in Palestine, and stay tuned to the issues. Assuming my now customary role as mentor I validated her intelligence and commitment. I find this easier and easier to do now, knowing the words, knowing the timing. This is a role I gladly assume. So many have done it for me.

Leaving the bus she waited for me with all my gear, offering, can I bring you anywhere?

She’d also told me that until she entered the university she’d never been in Ramallah. When I first came here it was a different world to me, I had no idea of life in Ramallah even tho I’m Palestinian and grew up less than 15 miles away.

She also told me that during the Gaza assault in December and January she wanted to go there, knew this was impossible, then decided to give blood. But the attendants wouldn’t accept her after they tested her blood. You’re not healthy enough. And indeed, physically she is a slight person, so tiny and thin, a wisp.

… a brief hello to Diana [principal of the lower Ramallah Friends School] who, like Salim and a few others, asked about Gaza.

Ramallah Friends School, elementary school campus

I usually respond with despair is deep, fear also. The feeling that one cannot be truly happy, and the fear that either the Israelis will attack again or Hamas will fight other groups within Gaza. Plus the generally tough conditions due to the siege, especially the effect on Ramadan—little money to buy gifts and food that are usually part of the celebrating.

Once again, each time someone mentions Gaza I am brought sharply up against the vast contrast between Gaza and most of the rest of the world. Even here in Ramallah, known as the best of the worst, there is a form of normality. Shops open and seemingly thriving, people looking relatively happy and content in the streets, building construction, a semblance of order at the intersections and elsewhere (Escander the barber complained to me that the city is requiring a fee to exhibit jewelry outside his shop), and some increased mobility around the West Bank. However, Palestinians are still occupied. They are a people without a state. They have limited freedom. The threat now is that they will ignore that fundamental fact and continue simply existing under occupation, without resistance…

September 11, 2009, Friday, ISM office, outside on the patio:

Last day in the occupied territories, unless we count East Jerusalem as part of that sad region. Most all end game details completed, now the shift to Jerusalem and the Austrian Hospice for the final 2 days.

I dreamt that I was making a movie-still photo presentation. I had some family members posing for me (as usual in my dreams, people are often characters in my life but not resembling the real people, only their social form). I set up a camera and explained, this will begin as a still photo (or movie, I forget the sequence) and then become a movie (or a still photo set). I had to carefully frame the shot so movie and still would match. The camera was on a cheap rickety tripod, making focusing and framing hard. As I explained the transition between still and moving I realized to myself I had no idea where the rest of the sequence would go, what the point was, an all too often dilemma for me in my days of film. And even now: shooting in the dark.

AR wrote warm words to my blog about my last sequence of photos which I’ll include:

How do you DO it, Skip.  Your photos are full of surprises.  Like little gift packages with unexpected, unexpectable little presents,

– like the row of blue-garbed watchers in the Druze village, the wire fence there, the three silhouetted characters interacting.  A moment in time.

And what a waterfall shot — slender blue ribbon, golden and gray cliffs.

The deserted Arab house, doorway opening into doorway into light beyond.

Great splashing river shot — the Banias rapids.

The mysterious cliff carvings and cave of Pan.

And that deserted room with the oval image of light on the graffiti covered wall with the round void above crisscrossed by wire mesh.

The distant windmills, the rusty tank, the warning signs by the dangerous mines.

Such gifts are these.

Always, always, words like these implying deep viewing and thinking hearten me greatly. They counterbalance the fact that not too many on my list of 100 or so actually look at the photos or read the blogs. A few like M will be honest about not reading or viewing. The big blow comes when someone writes to be removed from the list. I never know the reason—blogs too long or photos too many, too rambly, too much about my shits and dreams, too worrisome and troubling, badly written, poorly seen, too shallow…who knows? As with attrition in my teaching, I have to understand this is part of the process and doesn’t necessarily indicate I’m a failure.

Last night as I was settling in to some more computer work, finishing most of what I’d set out to do—another subsite, Galilee to the Golan, with accompanying blog—the office phone rang, Neta. She was inviting anyone here in the office to join her and kids at Baladna ice cream shop for treats. Gladly since we’d not met yet on this trip.

There I met Iyad Bornat, one of the key organizers of the Bil’in popular committee orchestrating non-violent demos for some 4 years against the wall’s incursion into their lands. I’ve been reading his weekly email reports and now to be with him and others, mostly Palestinians, was a delight and honor, way more than I’d expected when Neta invited me. He stressed the importance of media, of designing new themes each week to keep the media attentive. When I asked him why stopping the youth from throwing rocks was so difficult, he answered, we try, but when a boy is shot at by a soldier the boy is angry and responds in the only way he knows, with violence.

They are planning a major event at the end of Ramadan, a secret, he told us. We only say to the media, come on this day, something very important will happen. We are tired now during Ramadan, and so our energies are not fully active. (Which reminds me that when in Gaza hearing some residents speculate that Israel would attack during Ramadan, this gains credence when realizing the Gazan defenders would not be fully functioning during Ramadan, and thus, the region might be more susceptible to attack.)…

I wrote a letter to Wafa’a [who I’d met in Gaza at Popeye’s internet café, the only woman I ever saw there, and who invited me to visit her in her home in Khan Yunis, and later phoned me crestfallen that I’d not visited], attaching 3 photos. I’m still not sure what motivates her interest in me. I wrote:

i owe you a big apology. you were so kind to invite me to visit your home and i never came. i will try to explain. first i had no idea who you were and wanted to check with amal and ibrahem. they said you are great. then i was busy, and then the fighting broke out between hamas and that radical group. amal thought i should not travel very far alone. i tried to find someone from the office to go with me to your home, maybe mosab who i think you know, but we never could arrange it.

so i did not come. and i know i missed a terrific opportunity to get to know you better.

if you like writing in english i am happy to be your pen pal. i write all the time and enjoy all sorts of correspondence. unfortunately i can not write or speak much arabic.

i am attaching 3 of my photos from Gaza. i hope they please you. i hope they might persuade you to forgive me.

you are a good and strong person and deserve a better life. i believe you will make a good journalist. let us pray for that. i promise that the next time i visit Gaza i will visit you, if you wish.

fondly and happy ramadan, your american friend,

I strolled thru the jammed streets of Ramallah last night to join with revelers. This season, Ramadan, might be compared with the western world’s Christmas. Lots of gifts, lots of joy, especially after Iftar [the daily meal that breaks the daily fast].

The slow pace allowed me the repose needed to compose the latest subsite and blog. I find this an excellent way to digest my recent experience, make sure it’s stored and not stealable, and that others can experience it if they wish. Perhaps I’ll have time to make one more entry before leaving for the states…

September 12, 2009, Saturday, Jerusalem’s Old City, Austrian Hospice, outside in a garden:

The last full day of this trip [September 12, 2009], and what more appropriate place for it than Jerusalem, the city of love, the city of strife. As the sounds of early morning old city emerge—tractors, quiet talking, fans and other machines humming, earlier the muezzin—I write, wondering what I’ve done and why.

Two dreams I can recall: I was caring for an infant, like the young Ella. She’d sleep, wake, cry, sleep, wake, cry, etc. I was in charge while consulting with her mother—who must have been my wife but resembled no wife or partner I’ve had. We were to go fishing, eat fish, and this seemed to settle her somewhat.

In the 2nd, clearer, I was walking with Y, a clearly personified Y, when we noticed Jim Harney walking in the distance alone. He was returning from a teaching job. He wore no shoes, and might have wished to walk alone. We knew he was in the end stages of his cancer and thought this solo walking might have been part of his way to deal with that tragedy. He looked to be suffering. Hesitantly we came up to him, greeted him, and asked if he’d like us to accompany him the rest of the way home. He joked, must be munching time, meaning lunching time. He’d been fasting.

Confused, I asked Y what she thought we should do. She said firmly; let’s walk with him.

Kalandia checkpoint

… I packed up in Ramallah, set out for what I thought would be an uneventful trip into the big city. Not to be. It was Friday, I expected little activity along the road. Riding in a shared taxi with 6 others, me with my heavy backpack loaded with the computer and some camera equipment, my shoulder bag with its heavy Nikon and wide angle lens, plus two plastic bags of food and gear that wouldn’t fit in the first two bags (I don’t think the regular no. 18 bus was running because of holy day) as we neared Kalandia checkpoint the traffic grew thicker: buses, serveeces, taxis, private cars, all parked along the road. Then I saw: a huge crowd of people slowly congregating in front of the checkpoint. Now what?

Closed. As usual on Fridays the Israelis were prohibiting worshippers from entering Jerusalem to pray at the Al Aqsa mosque. Like many, perhaps without the religious investment, I grew despondent. How long would we be stuck here? Should I return to Ramallah and wait it out, till after prayer time around noon? Or find a quiet shady place to read? Well, I could photograph, start there. So I wandered around with my 4 pieces of luggage trying to make decent photos while considering how I might get thru. Two tracks of thinking simultaneously: my craft and sullen art of photography, practice it well, now’s the opportunity; and my own survival and agenda. I had no schedule so I was not overly worried.

A young woman asked me, can you speak English? Thinking she might expect me to explain what was going on. Yes. Well, you shouldn’t be here with all the women, men stand over there. And she pointed out where I’d just been standing, where the soldier had told me that if I went to the other side, where the women happened to be standing, I’d find a way in.

I noticed security personnel without the usual military or border patrol uniforms were speaking with the crowd, and occasionally lifting someone over the barricade, children, elderlies. Maybe they’d do this for me if I could somehow reach them. But how, the crowd was thick?

The crowd was also unusually patient. No shouting, little visible anger, mostly deep frustration.

Could this become a riot? What if someone threw a chair at a soldier, how would the military respond? There were hundreds of security people, some perched on concrete barricades, others grouped ominously. Some spoke civilly with people, even when one woman tried to breach the barrier and was pushed back.

Lots of photos, for this I’m grateful but I still don’t know if I can pass or must wait. And what is the Israeli rationale for preventing passage? What about others coming from other regions of the West Bank? Are they also blocked?

Different information: the officer that told me the gate was on the women’s side, the right. Those going thru on the left, the men’s side, were humanitarian cases, he explained. Media seemed to have some flexibility, inside and outside the perimeters. Someone told me if I just walked along the road to the left I’d find a way thru. And finally, speaking with a friendly Palestinian traffic officer—with a nearly impossible job since people and vehicles mixed freely—I learned that the vehicles we saw slowly inching forward could get thru, not thru Kalandia but on some other route. Maybe, I suggested to him, I could ride with someone. Not a bad idea, he responded. The first driver, in a car with white diplomat plates, shook his head no. Most cars were already full. Then, after about 5 tries (persistence pays off, sumud): eureka, someone with space and willingness to take me. A woman crawled in as well and off we went.

On a route I wasn’t familiar with we passed one checkpoint without being stopped, then, nearing Jerusalem, another where a soldier examined our papers, asked to see my visa, and let us thru. In. Ramallah to Jerusalem required about 3 hours.

The man, my benefactor, living near a-Ram, with a t-shirt shop in the Jewish quarter, usually needs about 20 minutes for this ride. Expressing wonderment he said, I’m not sure why they (the worshippers) do this every Friday, they know they aren’t allowed in but they come to Kalandia anyway.

He dropped the woman off at the entrance of the underground parking garage, and invited me to see his shop near the Jaffa Gate. I was headed for the Hospice but since I had time and felt I owed him as much friendliness as I could muster, I said OK. When I mentioned needing a post office he said, I know one in the Jewish quarter that is never crowded. You can wait hours in the main post office, trust me. His store has a variety of mostly silly t-shirts and baseball caps, the best were the ones with crude sex jokes, like the one about poor Mr. Dick leading a hard life: a head that can’t think, hanging out with two nuts, etc. This raw humor appeals to me. Also, inadvertent humor when I discovered an Aussie style hat in camouflage with the words, Israeli army, and thought, what if I came home with one of these?

He was instantaneously busy with numerous potential customers. He was affable, helpful, not pushy, fluent in Arabic, Hebrew and English. Too bad, I thought, that his many talents are devoted to selling such memorabilia. He preferred that I not photograph him but I made a few of the store. And then departed, with instructions to the post office.

This brought me to the Jewish quarter and sections I’d never seen before. Mailing the last of my backed up files on DVDs, feeling safer than on any previous trip, I dropped my gear at the Hospice, signed in, and set off for more exploration…

The Old City streets swarmed with people, mostly worshippers, tourists and workers. The worshippers were either Muslims on their way to or from the Al Aqsa mosque—I was caught in their traffic twice—or Jews going to Shabbat services on Friday evening. The two holy periods coincided: mosque around 1 pm, Shabbat around 7. Today is off day for Jews, on day for Muslims. Tomorrow is off day for Christians.

Old City of Jerusalem, Friday afternoon

I grew weary of the crowds, the press, the noise, the excitement, and needed refuge. Thank god the Austrian Hospice provides that. Prominent but hidden away, with 4 floors of private rooms and dorms, plus common spaces like the café and gardens, I hear much German spoken here. The age mix is fairly large, compared with the Palm, young to old, few backpackers in the crowd. At 18 euros or 35$ or 140 shekels, compared with 50 shekels for the Palm, it is roughly 3 times more expensive. But I needed it…

LINKS:

“Imagining Israel-Palestine Peace: Why International Law Matters with Professor Richard Falk”

“U.S. Rejects U.N. Proposal to Compel War Crimes Probes of Gaza Conflict”

International Solidarity Movement

“Bilin continues its battle in the courts”

Jericho

West Jerusalem

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

Photos

September 9, 2009, Tuesday, Wednesday, East Jerusalem, New Palm Hostel, common room

One dream as if behind a veil, very pleasant: a woman I didn’t know and I decided to find a place and a way to kiss. I had to stand on something like a stool to reach her. We succeeded, it was grand, I was happy. Who was she?

From Jericho to Jerusalem, a short distance geographically, an immense distance socially and culturally, also climatically and politically. I’m sure I was the only one in the Jericho hostel so it was as if I had nearly an entire house to myself. The manager slept in a small room off the main room on the ground floor. He awoke when I left. He did not look happy, I never saw him smile (I learned the day before that he lost his thumb while butchering.). It was about 9 AM, Palestine time, 10 AM Israeli time—the difference because each entity chooses a different date on which to begin wintertime. Time to explore the city by car and head for Tel Al Sultan, the oldest part of Jericho, ride the cable car, maybe eat that grand feast of a buffet promised by the owner of the tourist center next to the Tel.

Not sure where I was when driving thru Jericho, a common condition, I saw a group of Japanese tourists (they use umbrellas for the sun so they’re either Japanese, Chinese or Korean) emerging from a building, thought, this must be something worth seeing, stopped, parked, inquired when I saw gushing water in pools, is this Elijah’s Spring? It is. Want to see the spring? the attendant asked. How much? 20 shekels ($5). No thanks. And I settled for an outdoor exploration of the springs and pools—the main spring must have been inside the building. But what is a spring to photograph? Not usually of much note.

The water had been channeled into 1/2 m wide streams, winding around, with some pools, not nearly as elegant as the Banias springs compound. This was interlaced with pipes and valves and construction materials and debris, not a pretty site, but important. This is the reason the city founders chose this location: in the midst of what seems nearly a desert, less than 2 km from the Dead Sea, one of the lowest points on earth (260 meters below sea level I believe), this became a city. A city? How large? Not sure. Not a city in the contemporary sense, but a stable habitation site. Water set the stage. And now I repeated a discovery that someone had made more than 10,000 yrs ago.

Elisha’s Spring (in the building to the right)

Another lucky find (after I’d gone inside another building to photograph a maze of pipes, valves and husky sounding pumps, governing the water supply of this entire region, including the multifaceted agriculture which thrives here) was the technician measuring chlorine content of the processed spring water. I conclude that altho we call this spring water it is not pure in its original state, it needs disinfection. As the technician (in training in Ramallah, he was proud to point out) explained, too much chlorine can also be harmful. After all, it is a poison.

Then the cable car, something I’ve longed to try ever since knowing about it when here with the delegation in 2003. 55 shekels wait about 15 minutes at the base for the damned thing to move—not many riders today, Ramadan, as someone explained—and up up up, offering terrific views of the area. But thru distorting plastic so I’m not sure how good these photos will look. Not exactly the top of the Mt of Temptation (another earth feature for the story of Jesus: 40 days somewhere near here, reportedly, resisting the advances of the evil one. Was Jesus on top of a mountain, down a slope, did he fast from water and food, how were the nights, what season was this, cold, hot, rainy? More questions that the bible is not helpful for.), but near enough, maybe 2/3 the way, the Greek Orthodox monastery nearby, another steep walk, but not for me. Hot up here and a piercing unrelenting sun. I’ll show the monastery thru my heavy telephoto lens—let my lens do the walking.

Qarantal, the Greek Orthodox monastery on the Mt of Temptation

The attendant at this terminus was elderly, alone, and welcomed me with some questions in faulty English, and then he offered me a small plastic container of cold water and later a single date. He confirmed that crowds flock here during much of the year, but not during Ramadan. I feel for him, just sitting all day alone, not much to do, watching people, if there are people. Maybe thinking about the region’s history, his small role in it.

Roman aqueduct

Enough here, ride down, more photos showing the Tel, the hills, fields, houses, and way off in the hazy distance, the Jordan River and valley, barely discernable.

The way out from the lower cable car station requires transit thru a mélange of gift shops. Tricky and unfair. I’m not happy with this routing. A few idle bored shopkeepers—gatekeepers—implored me to buy their glass, their olive wood, their this and their that. But I persisted, bulling my way thru the stacks and shelves and piles, to me what is mostly junk, yet to some others, treasures, and to these mostly men their livelihood. How can I be so crass?

The ancient city is beside the cable car base, relatively small, mostly hills of sand and clay, but buried within and gradually being excavated lies the first continuously inhabited city of the world, 10,000 yrs, Jericho, The City of the Moon. Why this is called Tel Al Sultan escapes me. I love sites like these: the remains of people, loves suffered, lives lost, battles fought, children raised, ceremonies enacted, myths constructed and denied, stories lived and then forgotten, buried in the blowing sands, stones, hunks of clay. Unfortunately, as with Elijah’s Spring, there is not much to see, thus not much to show photographically.

Tel El Sultan (old Jericho)

I struggled, poised between imagination and reality, the imagined life here, what this was and is and means, and the reality of sand and clay in mounds with occasional dug out sections, and lots of explanatory panels. Even peering at the panels, trying to make sense of the layers of civilization, all colored in for quick visualization, I was lost. Early Middle Bronze, to Late Middle Bronze, over Iron Age, etc. Didn’t mean much to me without careful study—which in the heat and press of time I was not willing to do. For the photos maybe the light will help, with its dramatic shadows. I look forward to grappling with this problem in postproduction, an inherent weakness of photography: unable to show what once was.

Finally the main restaurant and tourist center where I’d been the night before. Too late to hook into their wifi system, I need to return this rented car and drop off my heavy black hard plastic ailing wheeled luggage. But I’ll stop in to refill my water bottle and brush my teeth (the night before I’d left my toiletry bag in the car, too lazy to retrieve it when I realized my loss, and not wishing to plow thru the gobs of children outside in the cool evening of Ramadan). Asking where I might refill with safe drinking water (even tho I’d seen a young man filling his bottle from a fountain in the parking lot, presumably supplying spring water, I’m suspicious of any uncertified water) a man directed me to a small kiosk inside the main center. Greeted by a smiling gent named Elias, he filled my bottle, and asked me the inevitable question, where are you from?

Telling him, he then launched into a sad and sweet story of having a sweetheart in New York City who is a lawyer and wishes to marry him if they can find a way for him to leave Jericho. They met here at this emporium. His hopes are vast, his chances of emigration probably minimal. The story remains sad and sweet.

He might have noticed how resonant I was with this tale of love. He gave me a free glass of lemonade.

I’m ready to leave Jericho, content with myself for persisting this long on my 2-week journey tracing water. Jericho might make a fitting conclusion to a new show. Altho, to be complete—this might be for my next visit—I should continue the sojourn to the Dead Sea and into the Negev, all the way to Eliat and the Red Sea. What a journey. I wonder if anyone has accomplished this.

Uphill to Jerusalem. Stopping periodically to photograph the limestone hills and then the cut olive groves. Who did this and why? Settlers, the state, the Palestinians themselves? The long winding road home. What is home? The Palm Hostel? East Jerusalem? Ramallah? Cambridge? Driving thru Jerusalem was a problem. I had to thread my way thru torturous traffic. Jerusalem is easily the most complicated city to drive in I’ve yet experienced.

Destroyed olive grove

Alongside the Jericho road to Jerusalem

Not established during the automobile craze, or anticipating ever being a large city, and affected deeply by the topography, Jerusalem is not made for autos. Entering was easy enough, well-signed, clear exits, into the central city. And then what? First the Palm in East Jerusalem, just head for Damascus Gate. And surprisingly I found a parking spot  outside the hostel so I could unload my luggage for temporary storage. And then…oh my god, oh sweet Jesus, please direct me thru these winding, unmarked, jammed, narrow streets. Back and forth. Trying to pull off the road for a few moments of relaxed map reading, I found myself in a forbidden area—the American Consulate and a staff member warning me away. Then the mis-directions, one man telling me I was almost at King David Street (my target for Avis) but turn right. I did and found myself on Agron Street, not King David. Did I mishear or was he confused?

After about 30 minutes of this nerve wrenching, confusing travel I found Avis. They thought I could escape paying my parking ticket (which I seem to have lost anyway). The government will just send a bill to your home address. In the USA? Yes, they said, winking. Which I take to mean, how can they collect? So I’ve enacted a personal sanction on Israel, denying them 100 shekels, which is not theirs rightfully since I am a dumb tourist and didn’t know the rules (explained in Hebrew).

Unload my gear and lug it back to the Palm thru the streets of downtown West Jerusalem. Not a bad route because first I passed several huge building projects, several on the remains of old Arab buildings, and then the light rail tracks running right past Jaffa Gate. I hadn’t realized this would be the route, or that I’d be so close (I also photographed driving in, trying to navigate, steer, watch for signs of the railroad, and photograph, all at once—a wonder I didn’t crash.). So all was well, all was well. As I’d prayed it would be. So far.

Light rail system thru West & East Jerusalem

Mitigating my anguish: the cool air. At last, a respite from the heat I’ve been experiencing nearly continuously since entering Gaza more than 6 weeks ago—and before that, when I entered the region nearly 3 months earlier. Cool and breezy, another full moon romantic evening. Wish you were here with me, Y, X, ME, B, KA, M, L1, R, and numerous others, one at a time.

At the Palm Hostel I met Hisham, by now an old friend and colleague, looking his usual sickly self. Poor guy, a heart attack apparently when younger, impeding his mobility and language. He’s planning to travel to Ramallah today and I might go with him to ISM. While we chatted my phone rang: a woman who announced herself as the one I’d met in a restaurant in Gaza. At first I thought this was Assa, YB’s friend, but this woman’s English was rougher than Assa’s. And then I realized, W, from Popeye, the strong divorced needy woman, about the only woman I ever saw in the male only Popeye Internet cafe. She’d invited me to visit her in her home in Khan Yunis, I’d been suspicious, checked her out thru Amal, caused a stir in the office when they heard this story not from me, and then, intending to visit her with another of my friends, the battle between Hamas and a rival happened and independent travel became difficult.

I should write her all this, and send here a photo as a gift. I feel very bad now that I’d not visited her, or even called her to say goodbye. So how can I make it up to her? When I told her where I was she sounded envious. She is trapped in Gaza, can hardly get to Egypt; Jerusalem would be, at this moment, impossible. Oh, the trauma, the heartbreak, the pain.

ME has sent me 3 articles in the past few weeks, most unusual for her, while avoiding writing much about where and how she is. An article in French about a woman giving cameras to women in poverty in the States. A set of photos unrelated to this article with her top choices. And then a few days ago, a report about the physical and psychological effects of meditation. I had the first article translated by an automatic online device and was able to understand most of it. I replied mentioning Shooting Back which is a similar project, both Shooting Back in the States and in Palestine, same name, separate, similar idea. I’d earlier written her about the photos expressing my preferences. And now the meditation article that I forwarded to meditators in my circle like Elaine and Louise.

E from Israel has commented several times about my references to my “lady friends.” And wrote yesterday that she and her husband periodically fall in love with others and usually confide this new development to their spouse. Or if they try to keep it secret, the new love feeling is apparent. Ah ha, I replied, maybe had I known this when married or partnered those relationships might have survived. In other words, building in some stretching room.

The New Palm. Now I think I realize why they’ve renamed it the New Palm: it has a new hotel adjacent to the old hostel. I will skip over the details of arriving here and the rudeness I’ve encountered, only mention meeting Hisham, and the good Internet access thru wifi they offer. Free, fast, sturdy, reliable. About the first in my last 2 weeks. Last night, once I thought Ramadan eating time had arrived—I usually listen for the muezzin but didn’t hear him last night—I found the streets and Old City thronged with merry makers, lights, food. The nearby restaurant I usually patronize had moved much of its operation outdoors. Chicken and rice with soup, no bread or salad, 30 shekels, compared with 50 at the Jericho tourist center. I ate sitting on a stoop outside, watching people, no room at tables. A walk thru the Old City, stopping at the Damascus gate to photograph the lights and crowd, and then asking at the Austrian Hospice where I have a 2 night reservation later in the dorm if I could view the dorm. No, people live there, a lame excuse. But yes, wireless.

Damascus Gate, Old City Jerusalem, during Ramadan

To bed, to bed, earlier than usual, I was tired last night. Maybe relieved of hidden worries from the car trip. In a stuffy dirty dorm room shared with, it turned out, I didn’t know at first, 2 other men. Slept well enough, and now writing and about to do email and wait for Hisham for our trip to Ramallah.

LINKS:

Elisha’s Spring (historic photos and writing)

Jericho

“Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize,” by Glenn Greenwald, October 9, 2009

“Why does Obama get a prize whilst Bush gets shoes,” by Friends of Freedom & Justice—Bil’in

“Israel won, but could have gone deeper,” by Haviv Rettig Gur, January 20, 2009, about the assault on Gaza in December and January 2009

Tsfat, Israel

Jordan River valley, West Bank, Palestine

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

Photos

September 8, 2009, Tuesday, Jericho, Sami Guest House, my room

Tsfat

Last night I met Ike, the former president, in a dream. He was elderly but virile, strong, handsome, forthright. He told me a story that occasionally was interrupted by people walking thru and making comments. Nobody but me noticed who he was. He and I were also working on something, like clearing out a garden. I wanted to tell him I’d just met or dreamt about FDR, who like him seemed to be well preserved.

In another dream I rode a train to Michigan, an unusual sort of train with doors and windows that opened simultaneously. Many passengers got off at a certain station in Michigan, maybe Ann Arbor—no sign of Ann Arbor Anne.

And in the climactic dream it was winter, I was outside photographing with others. Water was the theme. I grumbled about how difficult wearing heavy clothes made photographing. Nearby two thin plastic strands descended from high above, and on each strand men dangled. They were like window cleaners but there was no building with windows to be cleaned. While photographing I noticed that my lens, the normal, had clouded up. I couldn’t clean it. This frustrated me and I thought it would ruin any photos I’d make.

Roman ampitheater, Beit Shean

Before I left the Beit Shean guesthouse and after I’d exploited the renewed and solid internet connection thru the café—I could have sat there all day doing my web work—I re-explored the Roman ruins, going into rooms, sitting on benches, noticing how different the light was from the evening before. I drove into the second Roman ruins site, the national park, but decided I’d had enough of this topic.

From my window, Beit Shean

“Down in the valley” for sure. From Beit Shean to Jericho means tracing more of the vanishing Jordan River: wadis that might carry water in a good wet season to the Jordan but now look eternally dry, pipes and pools whose missions are a mystery to me, extensive fields heavily irrigated, rolling dry hills, and hot air, not as humid as I’d expected.

The scene reminds me of several places in the United States I’ve visited: South Dakota and especially the Bad Lands. Lands in this region, in places, are truly bad, in the sense of barren and tortured. I hope a few of my photos show this. Also California, those heaving brown hills near the San Francisco Bay area. And maybe Wyoming with the abandoned buildings, endless roads, hills and valleys. A ghost town-like appearance.

Valley

Fences. Large long winding fences, some marked “electrical fence” which means motion detecting, not electrified. Sometimes 2 sets of fences. What is inside? Probably lands confiscated from Palestinians by Israeli Jews. I tried entering the settlements in this region which are fenced and gated, but decided not even to ask. One route to a bridge (as shown on the map, maybe not in reality) was also behind a fence. So my contact with the river, if there was a river to be contacted, was zero.

Gate to former river/border crossing, Jordan River valley

I’d seen this region in 2003, from the air as I flew home from my first foray into this topic. And then a second time with the Steps of the Magi alternative tour, busing thru here to Jerusalem. But this time was as if the first time because I could stop at my leisure to explore more fully.

I’ve mentioned that this travel mode reminds me of other trips, I’ll list some: South Africa with Y and South Africa with Tom when we rented cars; New Orleans to Chicago during my off period from the Middle Passage Pilgrimage when I drove the pagoda car along the Mississippi River to explore that region in the winter of 1998; the Great Plains excursion of 1982 when I used the family car to penetrate the mid land thought to be too flat for photography and I discovered more of the history of our continent—American Indians and a new theme for my work; and several trips I made in my pickup truck, Cimarron, especially west to Colorado in the summer of 1961 or 62. That trip was probably the first of this series of car explorations to photograph. I’ve had 40 plus years to develop my methodology.

Finally arriving in Jericho, after wondering where I’d land for the day, I quickly found housing at the Sami Youth Hostel. Luckily it was heavily advertised along the entrance road, clearly marked so I could find it. When I first saw a sign I stopped to phone, making sure it existed—a “youth hostel” in Jericho?—and then the price and finally the location.

I seem to the only resident. I asked, when is your busy season? not wanting to embarrass the young man with the husky voice who seemed to be the manager. It’s Ramadan, he explained, and everyone stays at home. Which doesn’t explain why others like myself not observing Ramadan might not be here. I think summer heat is the answer. This place might be stuffed with residents in the winter when people flock to Jericho for its warm winter weather. The room is air conditioned, the electricity so far has not gone off, I avoid mid day heat outside—altho I tried a walk yesterday around 4 pm just to be outside and sample the weather, I retreated to the room after an hour’s walking—and all this for a mere 100 shekels (mere compared with the prices of some previous overnight spots).

Jericho sprawls. And entrances are often blocked by Israel. The ditches remain, those ditches that I first encountered in 2003 when our delegation attempted passages thru the 2 checkpoints, denied at both. So we parked our bus behind palm trees and scurried across the ditches to meet a representative of the PLO. On this attempt to enter Jericho the first road I tried in the north of town, clearly marked Jericho, had a roadblock. The second brought me to a checkpoint and the soldier wouldn’t allow entrance, even after I flashed my USA passport. Noticing a busload of Palestinians behind me heading for the same checkpoint I assume this is passage for residents of Jericho. He directed me, right and right and right again. And this finally brought me to an entry road, the main road, with one Palestinian waving me thru, greeting me with welcome to Jericho. Driving past the International Hotel where the Palestinian section of the Steps of the Magi walk began in 2004, I swiftly found the Sami Guesthouse.

Israeli settlement/colony, West Bank, Jordan River valley

The new reality of Palestine slowly seeped into me as I drove south. First a checkpoint just south of Beit Shean, not stopped, reminded me that I was leaving Israel for the West Bank, nominally the West Bank, nominally Palestine. However, the abundance of settlements suggests something else—more infiltration of Jewish Israelis, more land theft, and this among the most arable lands in the region. Huge groves of date palms and banana trees, other fruit and olive trees, cultivated fields with brown slash on them, pipes, valves, and ponds, all this suggests Jews are here to stay. Because of the relative inaccessibility of this part of the West Bank I believe few visitors ever see it, and thus are not aware of another manifestation of the settlement movement.

We could classify the settlements into at least 4 categories: the best known settlements of the West Bank mountain spine from Jenin to Hebron, East Jerusalem and its “neighborhoods” like French Hill that do not resemble conventional settlements, the kibbutzim in the Galilee and Golan that I’ve recently visited, and now the settlements, colonies, illegally stolen lands of the river valley. There may be other types as well, related to Bedouins and the Negev, but I have no experience with these.

My final days’ plan is finally taking clearer shape. I’ve decided not to visit Ofer and his wife who live in or near Modi’in, meeting him thru Couch Surfers, because I realized yesterday when studying the map that he is on the other side of Jerusalem, requiring a long drive. So tonight I will reside in the Palm Hostel in East Jerusalem, one of my favorite spots for sleeping. Before that I’ll drop off the car in Wes Jerusalem at Avis office (braving Jerusalem traffic and drivers). After first leaving my large heavy black plastic hard cased ailing wheeled luggage at the Palm. Then to Ramallah for 2 days at the ISM media office, backing up files, getting my hair cut, paying for the final month of rent at the school, picking up my stored stuff from the school, saying byes, etc. And finally the old city of Jerusalem, residing at the Austrian Hospice for my final 2 days, departing early for the airport on Sunday. All god willing, inshallah.

~~Good news from my gut. The first solid output in about 4 days. My stomach feels relatively normal. I’m eating freely again.~~

Jereicho checkpoint (Palestinian)

Returning to the theme of Palestinian reality, first the checkpoint, then the sharp contrast between Israeli and Palestinian areas along Rt 90, the main road thru here. I’d been wearing my white t-shirt with the Hebrew lettering, slowly growing aware that this might not be appropriate for some of these regions. At a rest stop where I ate lunch with about 30 Israeli soldiers, that t-shirt fit right in. I changed it before entering Jericho, back to my yellow Quaker Fellowship of the Arts t-shirt. Next, the issue of Ramadan, people are fasting all day, even in this hot area. When yesterday in Jericho I mistakenly opened a door to what I thought might be the Internet café, I woke a man slumbering on a couch in a barbershop. Remaining indoors and maybe sleeping are ways to grapple with the Ramadan fast.

What about my shorts? Manager said, not a problem. Maybe because of the presence of tourists in Jericho. I refrain from drinking or eating in public during the daylight hours. Also Palestine is now on winter time, one hour later than Israel summer time which changes in a month of so. And I say shukron not toda for thank you and greet people with marhaba or salaam elekum not shalom. I’m noticed more in Jericho than anywhere in Israel. The kids again, keefalek, how are you? Drag out the old mubsut and montaz, happy and excellent.

A minor adventure last evening. I was hungry, I trusted my stomach, I wished to dine at the elegant restaurant near the terminal of the cable car which runs up the Mount of Temptation. Not sure how to find it, carrying a map from the guidebook, I set off at dusk, hoping not only for food but for photos. No photos, eventually food. Lost but aiming at the mountain, circling around, I found the place, just in time as they were closing. Without rushing I wolfed down roast chicken and rice, pickles and olives, flat bread. And was served the traditional Ramadan pancake sweet as a bonus, no charge. All for 50 shekels plus tip, a bargain.

I met the owner, a jovial character speaking excellent English. He told me business is good, come back tomorrow for the open buffet, 60 shekels for all you can eat, starts at 11. I might try it. He also told me the restaurant had two wireless networks I could use, sitting in my car since they were about to close. Another man helped me access with the codes, I connected, we chatted while I sat in the car showing him and another man leaning over him my most recent blog entries, stopping at the image of Raghda, wondering how they perceived her.

The man explained that he was from Tubas in the northern West Bank, taught computer use in Jericho, also managed the computer network at the restaurant and tourist shop and did the accounting. Like many he was impressed that I’d been in Gaza, really, one month? We discussed all those who’d like to emigrate from Gaza. And you, I asked, what would you like to do? No clear answer. He explained to me that leaving Palestine required one be older than 45, married, and have children, if I understood him correctly.

The Internet connection soon faded, as it often does, so I did little. But may try again this morning.

Now one question remained: would I be able to find my way to the guesthouse in the dark?

Happily I did. Then a strange feeling came over me last night as I sat alone in this lonely hostel: eroticism. Was this temptation anything like the temptation of Christ? Is there some earth force in Jericho that affects human beings? We are at the lowest point on earth, 260 m below sea level, in an earthquake zone. I’ll check my feelings throughout my stay in Jericho.

My room, gazing

LINKS:

Itsapartheid video contest

“Israel, Colonial States and Racism” by Michel Warschawski, Alternative Information Center

FALL 2009 SOUTHEAST PHOTOGRAPHIC PRESENTATION TOUR
(Oct 19-Nov 15, emphasis on Florida & the Gulf Coast)

Skip Schiel has been documenting the Palestinian and Israeli reality through photographs and journal postings since 2003 – work with a better feel for the detailed texture of life in Gaza and the West Bank than any appearing in US media. Schiel spends time where most journalists dare not tread, amidst ordinary Palestinians, sharing in the dangers and frustrations of their lives.

His work has been invaluable for my own. As a writer for a Buddhist publication whose parents were victims of the Holocaust, I try to convey a view of the conflict that differs from the US media’s, which obfuscates the injustices and sufferings inflicted on the Palestinians by Israel. Through his portraits of Palestinian men, women, and children striving to maintain ordinary routines despite harassment and attacks by Israel’s military, Skip reveals to us the true face of Palestinians.

—Annette Herskovits, Consulting Editor, Turning Wheel, the Journal of the Buddhist Peace Fellowship

Jenin, July 2009

TENTATIVE ITINERARY: click here
(useful to look at for possible dates for your location)

MULTIMEDIA PRESENTATIONS
Featuring photos, audio & thoughtful narration by Skip Schiel, updated from his recent 3 month trip during the summer of 2009

Eyewitness Gaza (2009)

Skip Schiel, a frequent visitor to Gaza, was there in January 2008 and the summer of 2009, before and after the devastation of Operation Cast Lead, the Israeli assault on Gaza in December 2008-January 2009.   While there, he was witness to the effects of the Israeli siege on Gaza as well as the aftermath of Operation Cast Lead.   While in Gaza, Schiel worked with the American Friends Service Committee youth program, teaching and photographing, also at Al Aqsa University where he led a photographic workshop.

The Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel (2009)

Israel-Palestine has scant water resources, but now with the current strife water is a dramatic mirror of power relationships. Through an examination of water in various settings—small Palestinian villages & the Gaza strip—along with large cities shared by Israeli Jews & Arabs—Haifa & Jerusalem—Schiel portrays a very difficult to visualize topic.

Bethlehem the Holy

Bethlehem is rapidly becoming Imprisoned Bethlehem, surrounded on all sides by an 8-meter (23 foot) high concrete wall, with checkpoint access restricted. Thus, Christians (the population shrinking from some 30% 40 years ago to 2%) and Muslims within Palestine can rarely leave or enter Bethlehem. Nearby Israeli settlements confiscate Palestinian lands while the local economy, heavily reliant on tourism, languishes under ghetto-like restrictions. Schiel explored this situation from November through Christmas 2008 as well as during the summer of 2009 while he lived in the Aida refugee camp.

Quakers in Palestine & Israel (Or John Woolman in the Land of Troubles)

What do Quakers, the Religious Society of Friends, have to do with Israel-Palestine? By following some of the activities in the Ramallah Friends School & the American Friends Service Committee’s work in Gaza & the West Bank (& with references to its efforts in Israel), Schiel shows how this numerically small but often effective group has made a difference in this land of troubles.

Other Presentations Available: click here

PHOTOGRAPHY EXHIBITS
Available for Exhibition

Gaza is Home to One & One-half Million Human Beings: How Do They Live?

Photos of possibilities: how people live, suffer, stay strong and determined—sumud, in Arabic, steadfast.

The Living Waters of Israel-Palestine

A print version of the Hydropolitics slide show.

MORE ABOUT SKIP SCHIEL
website
blog

TO BRING SKIP SCHIEL TO PRESENT TO YOUR CHURCH, SCHOOL OR CIVIC GROUP/FOR MORE INFO

Contact: David Matos, Mideast Peace Coordinator, Carolina Peace Resource Center
Email: aiken_peace@yahoo.com
Phone: 803-215-3263

Gaza City, August 2009