The rising of the light: Burquin & Jenin

The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely.

—Lorraine Hansberry

Jenin

Burquin

Jenin

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

Photos

July 17, 2009, Friday, Jenin Creative Cultural Center:

Home again, in the Ramallah Friends School apartment, and truly it feels like home: privacy, quiet, comfortable, secure, friendly, compatible, a suitable mattress, set up for me and me alone. How I love it. A good stroke, to rent the place, and now if only I could swing it thru the end of this tour of duty and not have to struggle to find a new place and move there.

With the return to home, possibly the return of dreams, a bunch of them, and some of them significant:

I was setting up to make a large-scale photo presentation to an odd assortment of college age youth. They’d returned from a study trip to Central America and had options for attending various presentations and seminars. They were free to join me or not. The set up was elaborate: audio, video, a TV production of my show, a large room that gradually shrunk as more and more gear appeared. A few students straggled in, one told me I’d be lucky to attract more than a handful because of their many options.

I did something to the installed computer so it had to reboot, and I wasn’t sure it would open properly, the usual problem. Workers stuck partitions thru the space, shrinking it even further. The room felt stuffy so I opened windows. A young man caught my eye and engaged me in a game of catch with a small rubber ball. I excelled in being able to catch it with my left hand (tho right handed), even when my back was turned. I was a wizard. A little boy joined us.

The only photos I brought with me—and I don’t now know the topic—were 8 by 10 prints. So I wasn’t sure how well they could be viewed.

Second dream: I watched as a family fled terrible bombing (might relate to Gaza), over and over again, the bombs, and the family returning and then leaving. They used a small rowboat; they had to flee over water. Something exploded under the boat and threw the father into the air. Someone explained, that was a dum dum, not meant to hit anyone directly but to explode near and cause big troubles.

Ah, having and remembering so many rich dreams is very nourishing. And raises the question: why so few in Jenin and so many on this 1st night home?

After reading an article sent me by Sue from last year’s Friends General Conference gathering Palestine/Israel workshop, about the new dispensation in the territories, the newly relaxed mood, expanding normalcy, and reading about a shopping center in Jenin for home furnishings, I discovered from Charley where it was, and a few evenings ago set out to explore it. About 5 stories tall, with the owner’s name prominently lit in red on the roof, Herbawi, it sprawls. One floor for bedroom furnishings, one floor for kitchen, etc. I counted maybe 15 people shopping, max, but then it was after 9 pm. One woman in traditional black clothing languidly dusted the merchandise. She eyed me as I photographed, walked over to me, and seemed to nod me in the direction of a very young man sitting at a desk. I approached him, held up my camera, put a quizzical look on my face, and asked, OK? He seemed to signal OK back.

But then why did he follow me around for about 5 minutes? I glanced back at him, smiled, and continued. He went away. I found an elevator, pushed the button to the top floor, 6, door opened, lazily with a grating sound, and before me appeared a semi darkened cavern filled with packing crates and other debris. Same at floor 5. I didn’t have the gumption to exit. I was also nervous about the elevator stranding me somewhere between floors in this vast emporium.

With deep regret I realized I had only my 50 mm Nikon lens, no wide angle. This would have been a perfect setting for the wide. How can I improvise with what I have? What I lost in focal length I gained in speed because this is a f/1.8 lens, the wide is about f/3.5.

Outside I had to back way up, across the street, down a gravel road, smelling sheep, past some rough square little buildings, maybe where the sheep live, to find a proper position for my camera. Moving like this, rather than zooming, is an old experience that I’d forgotten how to do.

Trying to find my way back to the Center, temporarily lost (I make occasional useful discoveries while lost) I stumbled onto a children’s entertainment-play area, jammed with brightly colored plastic climbing and sliding devices that require air to expand and become more or less stable (what happens during power outage?). The kids screamed, romped, some cried, the little ones especially, and no one seemed to mind me photographing. I’d asked permission to enter and use my camera, the attendant brought me to the manager who told me he also was a photographer, Saif Dahlah, and worked for the French press agency (AFP), and sure, he cheerily said, no problem.

I delighted. After about 30 minutes of this, clicking furiously, marveling at the access— state-side I’d probably have to get every parent’s signed permission, and this would be granted only after a criminal background check—3 adult men carrying two way radios and one younger looking sweaty fellow stopped me. None had any English, I couldn’t understand any of their Arabic, but I understood their gesture—hands out front, passing quickly over each other, to mean we want you to finish and be out of here. You’ve been here long enough!

I argued, but the manager gave me permission. They weren’t convinced. Maybe the word boss would work. Ah ha, it did.

Come with me, the sweaty boy gestured, and he brought me to the boss. Oh, the boss explained, you didn’t understand, we want you to drink a coffee and then you can get back to photographing.

Which I did. Another 10 minutes and I ran out of camera memory, not bringing my bag with extra memory, thinking, it’s evening, dark, I won’t do much photographing. Wrong. This should teach me: bring the camera bag, bring the extra memory, bring the extra battery, and lug that heavy wide-angle lens.

My last day in Jenin included the last of the 4 photo sessions. As usual, I showed up at noon, the start time, Abdullah was there, no one else, I asked him to find the others. He disappeared. About 15 minutes later we found Mays and Touleen but they begged for a delay of 1/2 hr so they could go to lunch with Sophie.

OK, but what about the others? No answer. We finally began at around 1, providentially. Shortly before noon the power went off. All my plans depended on the computer. Now what? I asked Ala what she would suggest. Well, she said, you’ve been to the roof, you’ve been to the tunnel, how about photographing around the Center for the website and displays?

Not a bad idea, but what is happening around the Center that might be photographable? This silenced us. Nothing. Ah well, we’ll find something. Luckily the power returned. But the idea had been planted: photograph around the Center.

And then just a few minutes before we began I noticed Sophie teaching a drawing workshop. We could begin there. And we did. The 3 of us (2 absent) with Yusef’s brother Mohammed, aka Ahmed, taking the turns on the various cameras.

Returning to our chaotic room (the German language class was still running, and boys had entered the computer space and were loudly chatting) we inched our way thru their photos, constantly beset with computer problems, but surmountable, and then we barely approached what I’d hoped would be the main topic, editing, and with that beginning work on the exhibit Yousef requested. Mays had brought previously made portraits, and she didn’t want us edit them. I thought this would have been a good exercise—to make selections and talk about why we were doing that. Not to be. We viewed Abdullah’s video that I’d helped him put up on YouTube. That was a hit. Others gathered around to watch and congratulate.

Sophie Furse, photo by Mays

So the workshop ended reasonably successfully. As did my entire 2 week journey there, or so I thought. Yousef gave me a bar of olive oil soap in thanks, he posed me with others in the obligatory group photo, and best of all, Abdullah walked me to the taxi station carrying my black shoulder bag. He is a dear, I gave him one of the hospital photos, and wished him good luck and much success. I hope to see him again. Mays also wished me goodbye, as did Yousef’s nephew Mohammed and brother Ahmed. I did not see or seek out the Gang, happy to be away from them.

I leave with them a partially completed website, hoping Yousef will continue the design and assure the maintenance. I’m done.

Jenin Creative Cultural Center

The trip back to Ramallah was relatively pleasant, thru winding valleys, many of them cultivated tho brown, not much traffic, a reasonably caution driver, plenty of leg room despite my pack on the floor in front of me. 2 hours, 1 major checkpoint that caused only minimal delay, I should find out if we passed thru the old Huwarra. Soldiers checked a few taxis perfunctorily. Some soldiers wore heavy battle gear, others were more casually dressed. When one peered into our taxi I peered back, trying to efface any hint of smile, and just slightly nod in recognition of him and his humanity. This is a delicate manner: how to treat the soldiers?

Checkpoint south of Nablus, temporarily unstaffed

While attempting to nap—I’d also been photographing, mostly the fields—I remembered to make a few important calls. Fareed about the water person today (not available). Jerusalem Studies for the Nablus tour (signed up, but it costs 140 NIS and I learned later I can join another one led by Jan’s friend, Adel, on Monday, which will probably be cheaper and more oriented to history and archeology than the Saturday tour which is about shopping, tho that also could be photographable). And most important the permit people. I reached a few officers directly, lost connections, and tried again. With the result:

I wrote Tom this:

tom,

the latest is slimly encouraging: the officer i spoke with in the permit office knew my case. after first saying the permit was granted, he retracted and asked me to call back. i phoned several times and finally heard him say, can’t seem to find a definitive answer in the computer, the answer is probably on my co’s desk, call back sunday.

when i told amal about this she sounded furious. they say that every time, or something like it, she exclaimed. call them tomorrow (fri).

so i’ll do that. the officer, polite and civil with very good english—the face of oppression can be very gracious—, told me also there was confusion about the different applicants thru the afsc. which might be partly true. but here also amal dissented, saying, i applied for each one separately, there should be no confusion.

so at least you and i are not yet declared forbidden…

i have no idea whether senator john kerry’s office is intervening. they don’t reply to me or my quaker friends back home. so annoying.

but let’s keep trying.

good luck and let’s hope to be together over here soon,

Having the mobile is a great convenience. In this case, while finishing the long taxi ride, 2 hours, I had my office with me. And despite using the Israeli Orange network, I usually have coverage.

Arriving in Ramallah, I bought 2 falafels, 2 beers, showered, and relaxed. Then I napped, then I ate, and then I did my email, now having a connection, not a reliable one but enough to bring me a letter from Y…

In N, she is pursuing finding housing, talking with realtors, finally reifying her long quest to live on the West Coast. Good for her—a fear of mine since we met now finally is no longer a fear, not such a big one. I’ll miss her when she moves permanently there, but know, somehow or other, or so I wish, we will stay in touch. However, she does get busy, as she admitted in her letter, and lacunae might grow, resulting in a total detachment. As with Kathleen.

Ah well, impermanence, why worry about it? It’s part of the teaching, part of the practice. The hardest part: detachment.

Last night I felt a corresponding closeness with X, wondering where and how she is. I listened to the music she gave me, finding it fresh and inspiring reminiscence and reverie, and I searched for info about volunteering medical services in Guatemala which is what she’s doing.

So run the ramblings of a lost and lonely soul, on the road in the Land of Troubles, the land of light, the land of romance.

In the evening I felt mellow, and turned to one of my favorite pursuits, web surfing. I just meandered about, aimlessly, or serendipitously, depending on one’s attitude. The weather in various parts of the world, organizing my browser’s bookmarks, viewing photos of others, this and that. A sheer joy. One of the best aspects of 21st century experience. How can anyone feel lonely with all this potential interaction? Easily. Look at me.

Gaza is the main question: will Israel grant me a permit? If yes, I’m heading there next week; if no, I make other plans, including appealing to the Israelis (if such an appeal process exists, which I doubt) and writing my Congress people for assistance. I’m mixed about going to Gaza. Amal tells me, everyone’s waiting for you. Which is attractive. And I long to see friends and offer services and make new photos. Yet, it will be hot, at times dangerous, I may lose my privacy if they insist on having an accompanier with me at all times. So, 2 months from now, September 13, back in Boston, or earlier, I’ll know the answer to this question: Gaza yes or no?

The question itself adds drama to my story. Some, those few who might ponder my fate, might ask, where is Skip now, did he ever get into Gaza?

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The rising of the light: Old & New

800 year old mosque in the center of Jenin

Office of The Freedom Theater in Jenin refugee camp

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

Photos

Shop (Jenin), a video

July 14, 2009, Tuesday, Jenin Creative Cultural Center:

No dreams—dreadful. But a spectacular lilting cloud filled morning sky, and I was in just the right situation to photograph it: on my back, fuzzy, merging into wakefulness.

Why no dreams? Always a question, a mystery. How I miss them. As if the night were wasted, might have been effectively skipped without significant loss.

To Khirbet Belameh, a ruins near the northwestern entrance to the city, suggested by either Yousef or Ala’a, I forget which, as a photo field trip site. Very good choice. Partly because it generated a lot of interest from a wide assortment of people, including Mohammed, Yousef’s nephew, the entire class of 5, a few of their friends, Husam who was our informal leader, and the Gang. The ruins feature a large tunnel, at its height some 5 meters, equally wide, extending far back past the current and temporary gate and allegedly up the hill. This is thought to be for people to carry water from the spring or pool at the lower end up to their city on the heights. Pockmarks of about 1 m wide and high decorate one section of the tunnel, said by the guide (who was on only his 2nd day of the job and seemed untrained) to hold food for horses. Needless to say, this archeological attraction requires much research.

Archeologists date it to the Bronze Age with proof of habitation extending from the Bronze thru the Iron, Roman, and Byzantine and into the Islamic eras. Ruins are on top of a high hill, we didn’t visit them. From another document: … one of the major Bronze Age sites of the West Bank. It sits in a commanding position over the pass of the Wadi Belameh, which leads to the Jezreel Plain. The site is identified with the city of Ibleam, which is mentioned in the Egyptian Royal Archive in the 15th century BC. This site was occupied through the Medieval period.

Not only is this site being developed for its intrinsic intellectual interest but for its touristic potential. It would be one of the few such sites in Jenin.

Photographically it offered odd lighting, curvaceous forms, mystery—and the bodies of other humans, ourselves, as we explored. Students tended to be much more interested in photographing each other than the site itself. We emerged outside on a high platform looking over the complex. As we leaned over the railing I noticed our shadows on the ruins, and added them to my designs. I might mention this to my students as an object of awareness: who else noticed and made use of the shadows?

The stones are memory, mute for the most part. They lay there, containing stories, and we wonder: how to decipher them? Stones fascinate me.

Sadly—and a mark of the occupation—the interpretive panels stand empty. The bright metal reflects light but little else. For how long have they remained in this dormant condition? When will they contain information?

I asked the affable dark skinned guide how many visitors had he on his first day, the day before? None. And today, before us? One.

The saga of getting to this site warrants a few words. The plan kept shifting, as happens regularly here—Tuesday, no today, Monday, noon, no 1 pm, and finally we left at 2. Then the Gang straggled off for food. Our nominal guide Husam said we’ll wait. I exploded. Wait!? We’ve been waiting for 2 hours and now they go off for food and we’re to wait longer? Not a minute longer! I relented, we agreed to 5 minutes, the Gang dutifully reported back within the time frame. Meanwhile, Husam and I discussed the conflict between eastern and western concepts of time, loose and tight, agreeing that both have their virtues, both their problems.

I was excited going with this group of enthusiastic souls. While waiting with Touleen and Mays, my only 2 female students, I improvised a portrait lesson, since their homework had been to make portraits. We shared the computer room with Lucas who was teaching German. After showing Touleen how I was able to fix her camera’s over exposure problem (with the assistance of Mustafa at the Freedom Theater) and download (using my Canon) I gave them my Canon camera and asked them to photograph each other. I took a turn. We downloaded the photos and examined them, deciding what worked, what didn’t, and why. A sterling lesson, one of my best. I used Mustafa’s technique of drawing directly on the computer screen to demonstrate the effect of cropping. I noticed that when Touleen set up a view of Mays she initially posed her at the window, then saw the backlight problem and moved her. We’d discussed backlighting earlier.

Two of my photo students at the Jenin Creative Cultural Center watching a video of refugee camp children in a photographic workshop at the Freedom Theater

In the evening Yousef invited us to his home in Burquin, a small village west of Jenin, about 8 km. It is in the hills, and he and his brother, Ahmed (aka Mohammed) and his nephew Mohammed guided us up the hill behind his home to a plateau. We overlooked much of the surrounding terrain, including Jenin with its lights on, Nazareth, the Jordan River valley and Jordan beyond, and toward the coast, not so far away. This reminded me again how small Israel-Palestine is. He pointed out where the Israeli army had constructed a base during the Battle of Jenin in 2002, firing artillery and cannon into the refugee camp. We waded thru thick olive groves, including some “Roman” trees, gnarled and shriveled, full of lacunae, indicating their great age. He brought us to his “castle” where he’d like to build some sort of international center for transformation of the political scene. Seemed a bit vague to me, but then dreams often are.

Photographically this was a gold mine, if only I set my camera properly and chose the position and moment astutely. Shall see today.

He had stories. About a tank sited across from him, firing his way in 2002. Snipers killing innocents. A checkpoint between Burquin and Jenin blocking access. This contrasted with what he had told some of us earlier, that the Jenin valley had long been a breadbasket of sorts, rich in produce, and with it water. After the Israelis built settlements nearby and dug deep wells, deeper than allowed the Palestinians, the water dried up. It is now a water-starved region.

And weaving into this some history of the region: Jenin comes from the Arabic word for paradise or garden (from some promotional literature he lent me: Jenin and its environs have been inhabited almost as long as Jericho, making it one of the most ancient areas in Palestine, and the world. Its history dates to 2450 BC, when it was built by the Canaanites and named “Ein  Ganeem,” meaning Garden Spring.)

Mustafa, photography instructor at The FreedomTheater

Two of his students

The Romans called it Jinae, Jesus is thought to have passed thru here going between Nazareth and Jerusalem, healing a group of lepers in this village at a site now marked by a Greek Orthodox church (I visited it in 2006 when Yousef and I met).

Walking thru briars in the dark, over mounds of ancient limestone, not sure about snakes or poisonous plants, in my Tiva sandals, was unsettling. I didn’t trip, I didn’t slip, I didn’t catch myself on thorns, and as far as I know I wasn’t bitten or infected in any way. For such small wonders, I am grateful.

Hearing A’s story the day before, and noticing her rare beauty and how well she wears her suffering, I’ve been drawn to photograph her. To avoid possibly embarrassing her if  I directly asked her for permission to make her portrait (she’d asked me to delete another I’d made in demonstrating to the class) I waited for an unguarded moment. It occurred. A group of us were sitting about, as we often do, waiting, waiting, waiting, when I thought, this is the moment. Not to sneak it but to appear to be making portraits of the group, one at a time. So I began with Sophie, moved left and finally alighted on A sitting nearly beside me. First a profile, then a more full-face view. She smiled, did not demur, I might have achieved some limited success.

Ala Khalf

Will this portrait reveal what I’ve written about her—a long-suffering young woman, hoping to break free from her restricted life as a woman living thru occupation?

Yousef seemed excited by my progress on the Center’s website. We sat together, me at the end of my working day, hot and tired, wishing only to shower and nap. I began a training for him because he will be the manager once I’ve exited. I showed him how to add and edit pages, add images, and we struggled with changing the language to Arabic. He brought a folder of images and texts that I can use for the site.

Yousef Shalabi, co-founder and director of the Jenin Creative Cultural Center

So far I take some limited pride in this site, despite the apparent bugs in the template and my clumsiness with managing it. It is not nearly as simple and sweet as is my blog template.

Sara wrote that American Friends Service Committee is closing Peacework. This is big, ominous, disturbing. The closure is a response to the demand by management for a 50% reduction in budget. Y wrote in with condolences and as is her way with brilliant suggestions about how to close it out: a form of party with a display of previous issues and those who guest edited or made contributions standing by their issue.

I wrote and phoned various people yesterday including Amal and Erez about my Gaza permit, which is yet to be approved. No word from Chris at Kerry’s office or from anyone else, other than Amal who seems to be putting the follow-up in my lap.

The night seemed cooler than previous nights, the morning less heated. Maybe the clouds had some effect.

Yousef clinched the windmill story, I think and for now: it is left over from an era of many windmills, during Jenin’s more productive period. It has nothing to do with the refugee camp, contrary to what Abdullah told me. A rich family probably owns it with the house at its base. The play gear I discovered there probablly is for the family’s children.

He also told us the army had made an incursion into Jenin the night before. I heard or saw nothing of it. The Israelis can be swift and silent in their night prowling. Who did they snare, for what reasons, and where is that person now, and for how long?

The night before, that same night—coincidence?—the entire city experienced a power outage. Charley thought this might have been associated with our own lack of electricity, but later we discovered that indeed it was due to not paying the account.

Making my life with the Gang somewhat harder are their accents, all different, and except for Lucas, barely resembling the English I’m familiar with. Scottish (speaking in a rapid clipped manner) and two forms of British.

Researching the archeological site I discovered my own site, and realize now I was here in April 2006, just a little over 3 years ago. (Photos here)

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The rising of the light: In and around Jenin

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

Photos

July 11, 2009, Friday, Jenin Creative Cultural Center:

Plans yesterday shifted moment to moment, as happened on the Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage when it disturbed me so much, but now, aging, mellowing, I seem not to mind as much as I did 10 years ago. At one point Sophie said Yusef might drive us to the country for a rural walk. Or that we, the Gang, would go out together in the evening for a rural stroll. Neither materialized. So I followed my muses and waited till the sun began setting, the air cooling, and went sauntering not knowing where or for how long. Knowing why however—to discover. That seems to be a main quest of my life, to discover, and with that to photograph. To be surprised. And then to surprise others. (I am simply a story machine, engaging in activities that generate stories.)

Last evening as I reached the end of one of the main streets, crossing to look for shuwarma or falafel, I noticed the video crew from German TV. Hello, fancy this, meeting each other.

They recognized me. We sat down for tea outside the noisy coffee house. And here’s part of what I discovered:

They, V and B, work for one of the 2 independent German channels, with broadcast of their show about the Freedom Theater scheduled for late August. This is their first time in the region. They seem to have been together for at least 3 years, telling me stories of other projects, including one in Cuba which landed them in some hot water after they’d been noticed videoing in a jail. They claim Israel can not confiscate tapes or any other materials, they can only look at them. They sent out their tapes with their soundman, straight thru the airport, no problems. She also said there is little coverage of news from Israel-Palestine in Germany, which surprised me, since I’d thought Europe to be more enlightened. In fact, V said, the commercial channels carry very little news of any sort, let alone investigative reporting.

They’d not heard of Edward R Murrow, but they had seen the film, Good Night and Good Luck, about him. So I guess they are somewhat tuned to their counterparts’ experiences in the USA.

He incessantly videos, breaking from the conversation to leap up and tape: across the street, the coffee house, playing cards; a horse on a trailer; etc. He left without bidding me goodbye, his friend apologized.

I learned that the light on my first day of photographing at the theater was unusual: the main lights had gone out, they only had the natural light passing thru the single open side door. He said this was far better lighting than on other days with the stage lights on. For me, the photos assume a special quality because of this natural light.

They’ve not been able to tape an interview with the man who allegedly Juliano hired as theater director. They explained, he is more a protector to intervene with Hamas and other radical groups who oppose the theater and Juliano, who is threatened partly because of his mixed Arab-Jewish background. A report I found on the web reminded me that the theater had been firebombed in April, apparently a result of resistance by elements of the resistance. Life is not easy for the political artist anywhere, but especially in Israel-Palestine if your politics do not come up to certain heavily enforced standards. What a pity.

Freedom Theater

Apparently the article I linked to, about the new director, has errors. The publication corrected them, but only in Arabic. She pushed him on his statements about using a gun. He did not retract them, but went somewhat further by saying, if a settler appeared within shooting distance and someone decided to shoot, I would not get in the way.

B and V told me Juliano is flamboyant, especially at checkpoints, and especially when the camera is running. He taunts the soldiers, yells at them. I asked, let’s assume he’s acting, he is an actor, was there consonance between his true feeling and his appearance? They gave mixed responses to this question. They don’t know. They felt he was reacting to the camera, which led to a discussion about gaining permission to photograph and tape and what to do when people seem to be playing roles other than themselves.

Juliano is a person of fierce opinions. I told them about Peter Schumann, the director of Break and Puppet Theater, his strong opinions, and about Gertrude Stein’s remark to Picasso after he’d shown her some of his poems. Pablo, you are an extraordinary person, and you are extraordinarily  limited.

Their main camera broke down, just quit working. They thought maybe a crucial component had melted in the sun and heat. Juliano confirmed that the same exact thing happened to one of their cameras. This warns me to keep my cameras shielded form the sun and as cool as possible.

They also told me about the photography instructor, Mustafa, his recent experience in Bil’in during a non violent demonstration against the Apartheid Fence: doused with a chemical the odor of shit. Hard to see coming, hard to wash off, maybe mixed with tear gas, the more potent and dangerous kind. And I want to visit Bil’in and photograph? I should wear a wet suit, or at least send for my bicycle rain gear, or carry an extra set of clothing sealed in a plastic bag, or remain far from the action—the latter not an option.

On a very personal level I was curious about how the couple works together, collaborates, and how this seams into their personal lives. But I didn’t ask, I didn’t pry, I only observed. And also imagined what I’d be like with such a partner, whether in truth I wish this for myself. I fantasize about it; am I capable and willing?

We were together 2 hours, the evening flew by, we were like local people just sitting around sipping tea.

We noted the noise. They told me their soundman who had to listen to everything thru headphones was deeply disturbed by the ambient noise here. As we sat outside, hoping to find a quiet spot, sirens wailed, people yelled, cars roared, kids shouted. It was cacophony. And rarely stops. One of my reasons for loving walking in the morning is that most people are sleeping, thus quiet reigns, wondrous silence.

This morning for my ritual walk I headed south, on a main road out of town. Past the fire station; past the “cliff houses” amidst limestone outcroppings; past the billboards with their ubiquitous image of a woman folding laundry, smiling contentedly; past two boys riding donkeys; past men sitting together or alone doing nothing, the endless doing of nothing, the doing of endless nothing; past people waiting for service taxis to fill up; past a cemetery with hundreds of stones, all facing east, Mecca; past trash; past closed shops, some of them slowly opening for the day; and past history that I can not easily access.

Some of this I photographed.

Nearing home—I can barely get the word home out, it is so unhomey—I stopped for hummus in the local shop, met the shop owner, a portly gentleman wearing a dress shirt, tie, and suspenders, very regal, especially for a shop owner. He spoke English. We chatted. Friends of his from the US visited a few years ago and all wept when they departed. They are part of an international Palestinian support group, I wasn’t familiar with the name. He concurred with the general observation that life on the ground has improved considerably. Security is better, that is, the security provided by the Palestinians themselves, the Palestinian Authority trained and armed by the US. As we spoke a contingent jogged by, chanting.

The day I’m sad to say was mostly putting up another subsite, my 2^nd from Jenin, and the accompanying blog, mostly about the theater. All day on this, which helps me escape the sun and heat, but diminishes my experience among Palestinians. What to do about this dilemma?

I asked Katy how to convert a WordPress blog into a website, so I can make some tangible progress at the Center on their site. She responded instantaneously, thanks to Google Chat, pointing me to a template that worked for her. (I’d seen she was on line, so I barged in, 6:30 AM her time.)

I also renewed my experimentation with noise reduction, since this has been such a big problem for me and generally for digital photography. Downloading and installing Noise Ninja, one of the more highly recommended programs, I made a test on 2 images. Neither showed much improvement. I intend to try 2 other programs recommended by Tim Gray and decide, yes or no on any program, and if yes, which one.

I talked with Rob with the group of young people sharing the Center with me, the Gang, tall and slender Rob from the UK, yesterday. For a career path he hopes to work with the British Council, maybe teach. I complemented him on his teaching of French. After this gig he will intern with the Irish Council to see if this might be his true calling. Like Sophie and like Charley, also I presume Lucas, all are budding internationalists. A good sign. I offered to put him in touch with Robin Twite, formerly of the British Council, now with IPCRI and helping me with my water theme.

This morning, unable as usual to resist the temptation to open email before journaling, hoping for a love letter, at minimum a note, or a grant confirmation, I’m not sure which I desire more, I found this hefty remark to an earlier blog:

I would love to comment about several things you have noted but would first like to ask: How many times have you been to the region? How much time did you spend amongst people with a different viewpoint?

Your initial labeling of a “Settlement” as “illegal” betrays your inherent bias. There has never, ever been a nation called “Palestine,” nor has ANY Arab Nation ever existed on one iota of land there. Ergo, labeling a Jewish Community sitting atop land that has only ever held Jewish Nations as an “Illegal settlement” is fantasy at best, ignorance or malice more probablly.

My name is Rachamim Ralanan Ben Ami and my ancestral home is in Hebron. My family lived there from the Biblical Era until 1929 when my grandfather, Rabbi Slonim Dwek was butchered on the front steps of our home. My eldest uncle, in his arms at age 3, was but into pieces and discarded as rubbish.

The British expelled my father (several months old) and the rest of my family for “our safety” and from 1929 until 1967 noone in my family could even eneter the city.

Today Jews LIKE ME living there are called, by people LIKE YOU, “illegal settlers.” This despite Arabs now having 22 nations of their own to call home. This despite Arabs being native only to al Hajaz, a tiny reagion in what is today Saudi Arabia.

Settlers DO live on the land but they are NOT Jews. You like taking pocitures? Next time you take a vacation to my country let me know, I will make sure you get to take photos of the doorstep where my grandfather and uncle were butchered…

All you foreigners do is make things worse, you have np understanding of even the most basic facts, associating with hard-leftist groups like Machshon (beautiful thing they did with the “Violin Scandal” among aothers) and do not stop for a second to realise that were Israel even 10% as oppressive as these groups claim, they could not be taking you around on tours!

THINK.

Nasty, I’d claim, but inviting. I will respond at some length later, I enjoy such dialog, even if painful.

Today: meet with Yusef about the site, try to make some progress before that meeting, visit the theater again, this time to photograph a photo training, something I missed doing last week, and as usual, expect surprises.

Max and Jane Carter were scheduled to arrive yesterday with their work camp group from Guilford. I hope to eventually meet them.

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The rising of the light: Jenin and environs

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

Photos

July 10, 2009, Friday, Jenin Creative Cultural Center:

One dream that I can recall: I was driving a large bus, not expertly, and had to turn around in a narrow spot filled with cars. As always the outcome remains unknown. Perhaps someday I will be transported to the repository of my unfinished dreams and can restart them to learn the results.

My sleeping place on the roof of the Jenin Creative Arts Center

The night was tranquil, for a change. The Italians are gone, apparently, if Charley is to be believed, after an argument, so the 2 plus the late coming woman have disappeared and I have the roof to myself. No more chatting and smoking thru the night. I can take care of my nightly needs, groan and fart just like at home. Bliss. And Charley and I coordinated the keys so that I was not locked out of the Center, or into the building. I went for another early morning walk. I’ve yet to try sleeping in the computer room because it’s been blocked—the gang of 4, Charley from Scotland, Lucas from Germany, Sophie from Scotland, and Rob from the UK, usually commandeer it for webwork and, as Charley says, watching “stupid Arab videos.”

The walk this morning brought me to new parts of Jenin. Thru another part of the old city, up and down main roads, shops of course closed this being Friday, the holy day, a few men out, usually older, one woman sitting by herself looking downcast, roosters crowing, cats prowling, cool breezes blowing, and I made a few photos. I appreciate this time of day, free of people, so fewer stare at me.

Abdullah, the young man who’s just graduated high school and wishes to study medicine outside the country, told me his plan is to visit Ramallah where organizations can help find him placements. He is one of the more diligent students in my photo workshop, which met joyfully with full attendance plus one yesterday for the 2^nd time. Afterwards he offered to escort me to what I thought he called a castle, and I thought he said it was nearby, walking distance. The reality was somewhat different: we walked about 2 km to the taxi stand, which would have been a 1/2 km walk if not for him wanting to visit a friend in a social center. So what, more to see and show, but it was virtually the same path I’d taken that morning alone. Taxi about 5 km north, Abdullah insisting on paying—this is characteristic of Palestinians, despite their poverty, the chasm between their resources and mine, everyone treats the visitor. The taxi ride, then later, walking home from the Freedom Theater performance, another friend bought me a fruit drink and falafel, and then the entire lot of boys including Abdullah walked me around the city as I did errands. You’re a visitor, our guest, and you might get lost. I would rather walk alone, but I couldn’t tactfully convey this to them.

So, to the “castle,” which in fact, thanks to Abdullah reading the plaque above the main door, was a Jordanian prison or jail built in 1954, 13 years before the 1967 war brought the territories under Israeli occupation. Had I been on my own I would have called this structure either a crusader castle dating back 1000 years or an Ottoman period castle, once housing the very rich, maybe 500 years old. So much for my perceptive powers while lacking Arabi.

The structure, made of limestone blocks, cemented, was 2 story, had turrets and windows that resembled gun ports, a ditch around it that fighters could use, several wells inside and outside the building, the one inside now supporting a vast fig tree empire. No stairs, so the 2^nd level could be reached only by adroitly climbing up ruined walls. No thanks, not at my age and in my condition, a fact of my life which I bemoan. Abdullah had made photos here recently, mostly of him and his friends, which he showed me and the students at the workshop. I may have them on my computer since we downloaded them from his mobile phone.

The jail—it might also have served as a fort, especially during the Six-day War—was on a hill spectacularly overlooking rolling hills, all planted and some fields harvested. Most everything looked very brown; I’m not sure what grows during this dry season. Abdullah told me the fields run all the way to Haifa, maybe 30 miles away but infinitely distant because of the Apartheid Wall. The plants I photographed on one of my first romps around Jenin turn out to be tobacco, thanks to Abdullah’s local knowledge. I walked with him to the edge of the plateau the jail sits on for a decent photo vantage point. To reach there I had to walk thru briars and thistle and climb over limestone chunks—in my Tiva sandals, which might have been close to walking barefoot. Robert Capa famously and dangerously said if the photo isn’t good enough, the photographer wasn’t close enough. For a landscape photo one might say if not good enough, the photographer was not in the right position–and maybe should have walked thru the Valley of the Shadow of Death to get there.

Once again, at the end of a trip, I was scorched, depleted, hot beyond measure, sweaty, tired. To relieve my insignificant suffering I doused myself with hot water from the shower (who among The Gang heats up the water in this season?), followed by a sweet sleep. And then…

Irises

At the entrance of Jenin refugee camp, this horse, constructed in 2003 by a German artist, is made from parts of an ambulance (and two cars) ridden in by a Jenin doctor when he was killed by Israeli forces, the ambulance exploded, al -Hisan, the horse

Off to the Freedom Theater for a children’s play, The Swing, as part of the month long fest. Little did I know Abdullah and his friends also planned to see the play, so we went together. Because of the heat they insisted we taxi there; they paid, as is the custom. Then a long wait before the show began, which gave me an opportunity to observe a German TV film crew interviewing one of the staff, a robustly handsome young man who smoked incessantly and spoke about the importance of providing alternatives for youth, other than hate and vengeance. I chatted briefly with Jenny again, my former student from Haifa. She’s not only been working here for 3 years, taking the job shortly after we met in Haifa, and is the chief fundraiser, along with doing graphic design and photography, but she married the director, Juliano, son of the founder. Is this dumb luck on my part, to have this potential link? Is it the working of my ever loving, ever reliable, ever resourceful muses?

The play, of course in Arabi, played to a packed house sitting in air-conditioned comfort. 3 men (from the Hebron based troupe, Yes) pretended to be boys, then young adults, then middle agers, then the aged, then they died, but not before fostering sons who replaced them. Very clever. Curious there were no women in the play, except for off stage characters. A swing hung mid stage, the main prop. It allowed us to see how the men aged, how they used the swing. The audience, young and old, loved the play, and despite not understanding more than a few words, I felt resonance with my condition, one mark of good art. When the 3 were aged, decrepit, exaggerating their infirmities, I felt for them, I identified with them. And thought: ah, this is me, this is how I might look now, or could look in a few years—hobbled, groaning, twisted, about to keel over.

Juliano Mer Khamis, director of the Freedom Theater

Why, I wondered, did the theater offer a raffle prize of 100 NIS to the lucky ticket holder? Tickets were free, altho limited. A pre-show video advertised their upcoming adult presentation, the one we’d earlier observed in rehearsal.

I photographed, and hope to return to photograph more, not so much the plays but the ambiance of the theater complex. Which brings me back to what I’m supposed to be doing in Jenin, helping Yusef with the website while teaching photography.

The teaching seems to be going well. Full participation, lots of fun, people seem to be learning and interested, convinced I know what I’m talking about (one of the primary questions: does the teacher know much about her subject?). My ploys might be effective for dealing with tardiness and poor preparation. I’ve had to scold those who arrive late (one boy 1 hour late, just as we were ending) and who “forget” to bring cameras. What! You forgot to bring your camera to a photo workshop? Suppose this was a French class and you forgot to bring your voice? How do you expect to learn the language if you have no voice? Or a violin lesson and you left our violin at home? Or a piano lesson and the piano were broken? How do you expect to learn photography if you don’t bring your camera? By now, with my years of experience teaching in Palestine/Israel, I have regrettably come to be unsurprised by this sloppy and laggardly performance—from some, gratefully not from all. My response? I yell, lovingly. I scold, respectfully. I cajole, while expressing compassion. Let’s hope it works. (And is not symptomatic of  Palestinian destiny)

Ala’a, as is her way, disappeared from the class, despite what I thought was her role, to assist me and translate. She said, asking forgiveness, I was too busy translating for the Italians. Yusef looked outraged when I told him this. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?

At Ala’a’s suggestion, after viewing what we could of their photos—the criticism of prints worked especially well—we climbed to the roof to photograph. Once I’d made a few, I asked, anyone want to use my camera? And one girl did, I think this is Mays, one of the brightest students, who, when I saw what she made with my Nikon, I feel has a good eye.

I’m trying to learn their names: Abdullah, my personal tour guide, his chubby, giggly friend, Yahia, Mays who I think is the talented girl, her friend Haya, and the little girl who accompanies them, Somar. Who is Toluene, written in my notebook? Most names are new to me and as always I have a tough time pronouncing and remembering them.

Yusef, the Center founder and director, and I have a huge problem. To design, store and maintain a website requires money. He has none, apparently. So we’re trying to do it free. I will donate my services, such as they are, but who provides the domain name, the server, and the maintenance? To surmount this problem I’m experimenting using WordPress, designed for blogs but possibly bendable to a website. Katy uses it; I’ve found online info about how to do it. And yesterday I signed up for a blog, but I had to use his email address. Which means, for now, unless I can change the address, all communication between me and WordPress goes thru Yusef. Not very expeditious. In fact, insane and possibly dooming our enterprise to failure.

M, the recent college grad without a direction, who tells me there is nothing to do here, no jobs, little hope, hangs around the Center, seeming isolated by his slightly older age. He asks me, when are you going to pick up the CD with the new software on it, what’s it called? Dreamweaver? So after the play I told the boys that I had to pick up some software specially ordered for me. They took me to a different shop which had Dreamweaver, so I bought it: 5 NIS and it included: Flash 8, Fireworks 8, Homesite 5.5, Freehand MX 11, Coldfusion 7, Contribute 3, and Captivate 1, most of which I’ve never heard of. 5 shekels! One dollar and 25 cents.

As I’ve done before, I marveled at the cheap price. Of course this is ripped off material, not fully reliable and incapable of upgrading or support. Do you know how much just Dreamweaver along would cost in my country? I asked. $400? No, more like $700.

I intend to install it on the PC I use at the center, and possibly work with it to design the Center site. But if I do, how will it be maintained?

Talking with Jenny at the Freedom Theater I learned who does their website and might meet with him to gather insights. Plus I can hope to justify my fascination and respect of the Theater to yusef by mentioning this avenue of concern.

Ok, it is hot here, and dry, and sunny, and water deprived. What did I expect? I am living my anti dream. I chose to come here in the summer, knowing the conditions, and now the conditions are upon me and I have to survive. And thrive, make the most of them photographically. For instance, on my morning walk yesterday I came upon a water tanker and  2 men with a hose. They were watering the landscaped traffic circles and squares. Most unusual. I photographed. When I tried to close in on the main man, show his face, he waved me off. Now, learning how to handle this rejection, I smiled, said ok, masallam, shukron, and trotted merrily off.

To live with this heat I follow this routine: sleep in a cool spot, the roof for now, tho I might prefer the computer room for its coziness and privacy, but never again in the sleeping area which is hot beyond belief. While indoors and not during the day when it is open to clients, I wear shorts and a tank top according to the latest Palestinian dress code. Avoid being outside during the heat of the day. Shower late in the afternoon, followed by a nap. Outside for part of the evening. And so forth. Seems to work. I’m not abjectly suffering.

However, I worry slightly about what is probably merely a mole on my right lower arm, near my wrist. It is about 1/3 inch in diameter, uniformly red, with sharp edges, not itchy or bleeding or pussy. Looking up skin cancer on the web, struggling to find a site with photos—you’d think skin cancer symptoms require visuals, but I found few)—I learned that my “object” or “issue” is most likely a mole. I’ll monitor it. And try harder to use sunscreen. Since I can’t always anticipate where I’m going and how long I’ll be under the sun, perhaps I should just carry sunscreen wherever I go.

I’m also mildly concerned about my heart. Occasionally I feel some discomfort—I wouldn’t call it pain—in my left chest area. Is this my heart giving signs of distress? Or merely gas or muscle twitches? How would I know?

One contrast between the way I’m living now, constantly on the road, new location regularly, and when I’m home is predictability. Now virtually nothing is predictable, other than my morning routine which includes a smattering of yoga, meditation, journal writing, walking, email, and my photo work including making, selecting, processing, arranging , and showing.

Whereas at home, my life becomes entirely predictable, a dreadful bore. Same routine every day: same eating time, same meals, virtually, the same people, same bed, everything, even the walk and bike routes. Once a week with Ella. Sundays with Quakers. Teach on Tuesday evenings. Quaker Youth Program committee every 2^nd Sunday. Agape steering council every quarter. Etc. This is fine, for a while, and then becomes deadening. I don’t know how others can survive such tedium endlessly. So I conclude, one big reason I travel is to relieve the boredom.

Once on the road, I long for the end of the road—home at last, thank god almighty, home at last. Back to my comfortable routines…for a short while, and then…

Bullet hole in a mural, presumably from the Battle of Jenin, April 2002

Today: day off more or less, being Friday. Webwork to include a new subsite and new blog entry. Play around perhaps with the new Center website. Walk somewhere, but not midday. Read. See what develops if anything with the local Gang. Avoid them at times, join with them at times. They are reasonably thoughtful, trying hard, given their age—college. Maybe catch up with my notes from Bethlehem to add to my journal. Maybe try to reach Sabastia, the Roman city not too far from here, but not during midday.

It is now 8:12 AM, and no one is stirring, not even a cockroach. I’ve just chatted with Dotty via Google chat. She promised to follow up with Kerry’s office. Who else can I drop in on? Or wake up? Little devil that I am, awake, while most of my family and friends back home, 7 hours time difference, are sleeping or about to hit the sack.

…It is now 9:30 AM, I’ve revised my entry, attempted to enter the toilet to pee, realized someone was in there, stood to the side ready to say, good morning, hoping to not scare whoever was making his or her morning toilet. But in fact I scared Sophie, she jumped, I apologized, she asked me how I am, I pronounced myself alive.

“Famed militant (Zakariya Zubeidi) tries new tack as Jenin theater director,” by Avi Issacharoff , published in Haaretz  on April 22, 2009

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The rising of the light: Jenin and the Freedom Theater

At the souk (market)

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

Photos

July 8, 2009, Wednesday, Jenin Creative Cultural Center:

Whoever fights monsters must take care not to become a monster himself. For, as you stand looking deep into the abyss, the abyss is looking deep into you.

—Frederick Nietzsche

No dreams that I can recall from last night but an unusual sleeping arrangement: on the roof. The 2 Italian theater men, just arrived, found the tiny space we had too small and hot for sleeping so, apparently having experience doing this in Jenin, said, we’re sleeping on the roof, care to join us?

Blessedly cool and breezy, much better than the main room, somewhat better (but further from the toilet and less private) than the computer room where I’d intended to sleep, the computer room cooler and with a slight wind thru open windows, and private. I might sleep here (where I’m writing this) tonight. The peripatetic sleeper. Does it affect my dreaming?

Yesterday thanks to the young man in my photo workshop, Abdullah, I toured parts of Jenin asking to visit the refugee camp and the freedom theater. After a stroll thru the small old city where I photographed the mural with the USAID inscription, we concentrated on the camp. Abdullah told me his aunt, his mother’s sister, had died in the attacks on Jenin in April 2002, part of Israel’s campaign to punish Palestinians for supporting suicide attacks, “Operation Defensive Shield.” That incident was a major stepping-stone in my own story of involvement with Palestine/Israel. Abdullah’s aunt had been assisting fighters by cooking for them and mending their clothing. Abdullah claims Israel knew this, sought and found her, and murdered her along with one son.

Suhada (martyrs): Abdullah Abu Alhijya’s aunt and cousin (created by Abdullah)

We entered the theater from the upper back while a rehearsal was in process. The space was dark, I could make out about 6 figures prostate on the stage floor, with much banging of pots and shouting. A man sitting in the first row leaned toward the actors and gave instructions in Arabic. This was Arna’s son, famous from the movie, Arna’s Children, a Jewish woman who founded the theater. Her son, Juliano Mer Khamis, had made that movie about the theater which helped bring the theater’s exemplary work to a wider audience.

The director stopped the action, strode onto the stage (really the lower floor of a black box theater which might hold about 700 people), and acted the part in the way he wanted his actor to do it: with heavy breathing, expressing confusion and remorse, finally spearing a prostate victim on the floor and then banging a pot.

Freedom Theater rehearsal

I tried, tried hard, to show this with my equipment but because of the low light once again I suspect I failed. This is one of my main problems—low light, the cameras not sufficiently sensitive, the electronic noise or grain equivalent too great. Had I known, I could have used my faster 50 mm lens, left at the center.

Abdullah was in no hurry to return to the Center so we visited the theater, met the blond haired Jenny, the director of projects, and discovered that she’d been in my Haifa photo workshop in April 2006. I was asking if I might photograph a photography training—the theater sponsors a variety of trainings including of course theater, photography, film, and other arts. They are dedicated to using art as resistance to the occupation. Specifically (from their website):

Using the arts as a model for social change, The Freedom Theatre is developing the only professional venue for theatre and arts in the north of the Occupied Palestinian Territories. The aim of this project is to empower and give voice to the children of Jenin Refugee Camp through a unique programme of workshops and activities in theatre, supporting arts and multi-media, ranging in their emphasis from the largely therapeutic and healing, to the presentation of high-quality artistic products.

I met 2 of the photography instructors and I have permission return to photograph today. The theater is also holding a month long festival of children’s drama which I hope to sample. The play being rehearsed will open later this month, perhaps I can see it.

In the camp mostly I photographed structures, buildings, murals. The camp has been completely rebuilt, with money I believe from an Arabic source and Yasser Arafat. The theater also, in a new location, has expanded. During the 2002 war—and it was war, Palestinian fighters standing strong against the Israeli army who’d attacked to quell the militancy the camp is known for—the theater was destroyed.

Jenin refugee camp

Needless to report, posters of the shaheed, the martyrs, were everywhere, much like in Gaza. Along with Gaza and Nablus, Jenin is probably one of the centers of armed resistance. Ironic then that the freedom theater should be here. Are there equivalents in Gaza and Nablus, not necessarily theater, but art as resistance, art political?

Old City of Jenin

I’ve been noticing water use. Water is scarce in the camp, scarce in Jenin generally, and of course scarce throughout the region, including Israel—which could serve to bring parties together in common cause: find water, conserve water. So I show 2 men washing their car, I saw other instances of prodigal water use.

Near the end of our walk we met a family of 4 generations living together in a tall 3-story building. They invited us to stay for drinks, we obliged. I’d noticed an elderly man lying on an outdoor pad, perhaps resting from the heat, and thought to photograph him—but only with his permission, still bruised from my rejection in the souq (market) the morning before. No problem, and they all posed, and you might say de-posed or relaxed once I’d made a few initial images, so I hope for more spontaneous and revelatory appearances. But who knows, sometimes those first utterly posed portraits are the most telling.

Jenin refugee camp

Katy, my younger  daughter, wrote a very kind note saying how evocative the camp photos are and how mysterious is the Solomon’s pool set. I’m grateful that she’s viewing them and especially grateful for the comments. Such as these buoys me in my often-lonely and detached journey. I wonder who else is noticing and what they think.

My setup here at the Center varies from day to day. Currently I haunt the computer room, having snagged one computer for my regular use. Because its shelves offer a fair amount of spread out room for my gear and papers I can put my laptop on the main counter, switch relatively easily between the PC with its good Internet connection and my computer with zero connection. To transfer files I have to use the compact flash USB device, a pain. To manage my blog, I use the PC, and to manage my site I was not able to install Dreamweaver on the PC for some reason, altho I suppose I could download another trial version, but at the last desperate minute last night, tired and hot, I remembered I can use MS Explorer to send files to my site using FTP. I could also download the file transfer software I use on my laptop. So, as always, there is a workaround.

And then there iare the computer instructions mostly in Arabic. Daunting, not incapacitating, sometimes nearly so, make me want to shout: what’s all this Arabic stuff, don’t you realize everyone speaks English?

One of my photo workshop students, Mays

The first photo workshop session went ok, but the group consisting of 2 girls, 3 boys, all mid to late high school age (Abdullah just graduated, hopes to enter a university out of the country for medical training, but is not enrolled anywhere, not having funds or connections), giggled for at least the first part. Ala’a, who’d agreed to translate and assist, mysteriously disappeared about 2/3’s the way thru. I intend to ask her about this, I felt abandoned, winged it, had troubles with language, but valiantly struggled. Will they return, always the question, did I serve them properly?

I’d worked out a plan with Ala’a’s help which seemed appropriate: ask them what they want to learn and how they wish to learn it, tuning to them as much as possible, trying to avoid the many mistakes I made at Birzeit University and Baladna in Haifa, show some of my photos with comments (part of Spring Light, showing them part of the Atlantic coast, a site that may have astonished them since they can’t reach the Mediterranean because of the occupation; the dinner with Ibrahem in Gaza section from my website with maybe more to come, this seemed to work well, I also passed around family photos in print form, to demonstrate what I mean by a print). I’ve asked them to bring prints from their family for discussion. I outlined the steps that I use to make a good photo, with demonstrations, and asked them to practice those steps on whatever topic they’d wish.

A big problem is equipment. About half had cameras, others want to use their mobile phones. But we’ve still not discovered how to download from phones. Ala’a offered to buy a cable, I’m not sure she did. Typical in arrangements like this is what westerners might term duplicity, what Arabic people might say is being kind. No one says no, I’m not willing to do that. They nod yes and then depending on their real feelings do or don’t do what was promised. Of course this is highly annoying, or can be, but thru my years of experience here I’ve come to expect it and not rely on anyone’s word. Too bad, this might be part of the problem with organizing the resistance. Or even more generally: facilitating the re-rising or resurrection of Arabic-Muslim culture.

Most remarkable on my shared taxi ride here from Ramallah  was the absence of checkpoints—none, not even the infamous and terrifying Huwarra south of Nablus. Gone. Throughout the West Bank this seems true: a relaxation of some restrictions. Now I can ponder, why is this? USA pressure, Israel making the Palestinian Authority look good, internal economic reasons, perhaps even internal political pressures, a sop to the international community, both to the Palestinians and internationally, a ploy to hold on to the territories with minimal resistance? This checkpoint decrease seems under or not reported in the States, while, Fareed informs me, it is in the Palestinian media. Very curious. I suppose in time we might know the rationale.

I continue my dialog with the Israeli foreign ministry person, he’s now identified himself as Dan Rosen. Previously I thought it might be a woman, and could imagine falling in love. What a story that could make: falling in love without seeing each other and across a wide chasm. Perhaps I will “fall in love” anyway, a new form of “falling.”

Still no permit to enter Gaza, despite calls every day from the Gaza American Friends Service Committee office to inquire, or so Amal, its director, claims. I’ve written Senator Kerry by way of his policy aide in Boston who I’ve met, Chris, with contacts provided by Amal, and copying my letter to Dotty to urge her to follow-up with a phone call.

After yesterday’s huge mid day shuwarma, beef probably, eaten while with Abdullah and his friend on our tour, I felt I needed nothing more to eat for the day. But last night, wishing to “get out of the house,” I found the fruit drink place, had another (apples, pears, ginger), chatted with the proprietor, a handsome man about mid 40s in age. He told me he’d lived in Florida for 2 years, working with his brother as a chef in a chicken and fish restaurant, and had to return to Palestine because his visa had run out. But he wishes to live in the States, can’t. I love America, I want to live there, he stated with some passion. He suggested he would have learned English better had he an American girl friend, but because he’s married, couldn’t and didn’t. We joked that maybe what I need to learn Arabi is an Arab girl friend. Why not, I’m single?

Today: blog, photograph the freedom theater, stroll, work with Yusef on the website, maybe. It’s always maybe. No set schedule. Everything is loose here. Pick up some fruit to share, and some toilet paper—I use more paper than my share.

Links:

Arna’s Children (with clips from the movie)

Freedom Theater

The Battle of Jenin

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

Photos

July 8, 2009, Wednesday, Jenin Creative Cultural Center:

Whoever fights monsters must take care not to become a monster himself. For, as you stand looking deep into the abyss, the abyss is looking deep into you.

—Frederick Nietzsche

No dreams that I can recall from last night but an unusual sleeping arrangement: on the roof. The 2 Italian theater men, just arrived, found the tiny space we had too small and hot for sleeping so, apparently having experience doing this in Jenin, said, we’re sleeping on the roof, care to join us?

Blessedly cool and breezy, much better than the main room, somewhat better (but further from the toilet and less private) than the computer room where I’d intended to sleep, the computer room cooler and with a slight wind thru open windows, and private. I might sleep here (where I’m writing this) tonight. The peripatetic sleeper. Does it affect my dreaming?

Yesterday thanks to the young man in my photo workshop, Abdullah, I toured parts of Jenin asking to visit the refugee camp and the freedom theater. After a stroll thru the small old city where I photographed the mural with the USAID inscription, we concentrated on the camp. Abdullah told me his aunt, his mother’s sister, had died in the attacks on Jenin in April 2002, part of Israel’s campaign to punish Palestinians for supporting suicide attacks, “Operation Defensive Shield.” That incident was a major stepping-stone in my own story of involvement with Palestine/Israel. Abdullah’s aunt had been assisting fighters by cooking for them and mending their clothing. Abdullah claims Israel knew this, sought and found her, and murdered her along with one daughter.

We entered the theater from the upper back while a rehearsal was in process. The space was dark, I could make out about 6 figures prostate on the stage floor, with much banging of pots and shouting. A man sitting in the first row leaned toward the actors and gave instructions in Arabic. This was Arna’s son, famous from the movie, Arna’s Children, a Jewish woman who founded the theater. Her son, Julian Mer Khamis, had made that movie about the theater which helped bring the theater’s exemplary work to a wider audience.

The director stopped the action, strode onto the stage (really the lower floor of a black box theater which might hold about 700 people), and acted the part in the way he wanted his actor to do it: with heavy breathing, expressing confusion and remorse, finally spearing a prostate victim on the floor and then banging a pot.

I tried, tried hard, to show this with my equipment but because of the low light once again I suspect I failed. This is one of my main problems—low light, the cameras not sufficiently sensitive, the electronic noise or grain equivalent too great. Had I known, I could have used my faster 50 mm lens, left at the center.

Abdullah was in no hurry to return to the Center so we visited the theater, met the blond haired Jenny, the director of projects, and discovered that she’d been in my Haifa photo workshop in April 2006. I was asking if I might photograph a photography training—the theater sponsors a variety of trainings including of course theater, photography, film, and other arts. They are dedicated to using art as resistance to the occupation. Specifically QUOTE THEM.

I met 2 of the photography instructors and I have permission return to photograph today. The theater is also holding a month long festival of children’s drama which I hope to sample. The play being rehearsed will open later this month, perhaps I can see it.

In the camp mostly I photographed structures, buildings, murals. The camp has been completely rebuilt, with money I believe from an Arabic source and Yasser Arafat. The theater also, in a new location, has expanded. During the 2002 war—and it was war, Palestinian fighters standing strong against the Israeli army who’d attacked to quell the militancy the camp is known for—the theater was destroyed..

Needless to report, posters of the shaheed, the martyrs, were everywhere, much like in Gaza. Along with Gaza and Nablus, Jenin is probably one of the centers of armed resistance. Ironic then that the freedom theater should be here. Are there equivalents in Gaza and Nablus, not necessarily theater, but art as resistance, art political?

I’ve been noticing water use. Water is scarce in the camp, scarce in Jenin generally, and of course scarce throughout the region, including Israel—which could serve to bring parties together in common cause: find water, conserve water. So I show 2 men washing their car, I saw other instances of prodigal water use.

Near the end of our walk we met a family of 4 generations living together in a tall 3-story building. They invited us to stay for drinks, we obliged. I’d noticed an elderly man lying on an outdoor pad, perhaps resting from the heat, and thought to photograph him—but only with his permission, still bruised from my rejection in the souq (market) the morning before. No problem, and they all posed, and you might say de-posed or relaxed once I’d made a few initial images, so I hope for more spontaneous and revelatory appearances. But who knows, sometimes those first utterly posed portraits are the most telling.

One of my daughters wrote a very kind note saying how evocative the camp photos are and how mysterious is the Solomon’s pool set. I’m grateful that she’s viewing them and especially grateful for the comments. Such as these buoys me in my often-lonely and detached journey. I wonder who else is noticing and what they think.

My setup here at the Center varies from day to day. Currently I haunt the computer room, having snagged one computer for my regular use. Because its shelves offer a fair amount of spread out room for my gear and papers I can put my laptop on the main counter, switch relatively easily between the PC with its good Internet connection and my computer with zero connection. To transfer files I have to use the compact flash USB device, a pain. To manage my blog, I use the PC, and to manage my site I was not able to install Dreamweaver on the PC for some reason, altho I suppose I could download another trial version, but at the last desperate minute last night, tired and hot, I remembered I can use MS Explorer to send files to my site using FTP. I could also download the file transfer software I use on my laptop. So, as always, there is a workaround.

The first photo workshop session went ok, but the group consisting of 2 girls, 3 boys, all mid to late high school age (Abdullah just graduated, hopes to enter a university out of the country for medical training, but is not enrolled anywhere, not having funds or connections), giggled for at least the first part. Ala’a, who’d agreed to translate and assist, mysteriously disappeared about 2/3’s the way thru. I intend to ask her about this, I felt abandoned, winged it, had troubles with language, but valiantly struggled. Will they return, always the question, did I serve them properly?

I’d worked out a plan with Ala’a’s help which seemed appropriate: ask them what they want to learn and how they wish to learn it, tuning to them as much as possible, trying to avoid the many mistakes I made at Birzeit University and Baladna in Haifa, show some of my photos with comments (part of Spring Light, showing them part of the Atlantic coast, a site that may have astonished them since they can’t reach the Mediterranean because of the occupation; the dinner with Ibrahem in Gaza section from my website with maybe more to come, this seemed to work well, I also passed around family photos in print form, to demonstrate what I mean by a print). I’ve asked them to bring prints from their family for discussion. I outlined the steps that I use to make a good photo, with demonstrations, and asked them to practice those steps on whatever topic they’d wish.

A big problem is equipment. About half had cameras, others want to use their mobile phones. But we’ve still not discovered how to download from phones. Ala’a offered to buy a cable, I’m not sure she did. Typical in arrangements like this is what westerners might term duplicity, what Arabic people might say is being kind. No one says no, I’m not willing to do that. They nod yes and then depending on their real feelings do or don’t do what was promised. Of course this is highly annoying, or can be, but thru my years of experience here I’ve come to expect it and not rely on anyone’s word. Too bad, this might be part of the problem with organizing the resistance. Or even more generally: facilitating the re-rising or resurrection of Arabic-Muslim culture.

Most remarkable on my shared taxi ride here from Ramallah was the absence of checkpoints—none, not even the infamous and terrifying Huwarra south of Nablus. Gone. Throughout the West Bank this seems true: a relaxation of some restrictions. Now I can ponder, why is this? USA pressure, Israel making the Palestinian Authority look good, internal economic reasons, perhaps even internal political pressures, a sop to the international community, both to the Palestinians and internationally, a ploy to hold on to the territories with minimal resistance? This checkpoint decrease seems under or not reported in the States, while, Fareed informs me, it is in the Palestinian media. Very curious. I suppose in time we might know the rationale.

I continue my dialog with the Israeli foreign ministry person, he’s now identified himself as Dan Rosen. Previously I thought it might be a woman, and could imagine falling in love. What a story that could make: falling in love without seeing each other and across a wide chasm. Perhaps I will fall in love anyway, a new form of falling.

Still no permit to enter Gaza, despite calls every day from the Gaza American Friends Service Committee office to inquire, or so Amal, its director, claims. I’ve written Senator Kerry by way of his policy aide in Boston who I’ve met, Chris, with contacts provided by Amal, and copying my letter to Dotty to urge her to follow-up with a phone call.

After yesterday’s huge mid day shuwarma, beef probably, eaten while with Abdullah and his friend on our tour, I felt I needed nothing more to eat for the day. But last night, wishing to “get out of the house,” I found the fruit drink place, had another (apples, pears, ginger), chatted with the proprietor, a handsome man about mid 40s in age. He told me he’d lived in Florida for 2 years, working with his brother as a chef in a chicken and fish restaurant, and had to return to Palestine because his visa had run out. But he wishes to live in the States, can’t. I love America, he stated with some passion. He suggested he would have learned English better had he an American girl friend, but because he’s married, couldn’t and didn’t. We joked that maybe what I need to learn Arabi is an Arab girl friend. Why not, I’m single?

Today: blog, photograph the freedom theater, stroll, work with Yusef on the website, maybe. It’s always maybe. No set schedule. Everything is loose here. Pick up some fruit to share, and some toilet paper—I use more paper than my share.

Links:

Arna’s Children

Freedom Theater

Jenin camp, especially historic photos, before and during 02

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