Philly grocery store flashdance
HP flashmob
Palestine
BDS flashmobs at work
Innocents’ Rights
BY: MUNA NU’MAN
In May 2003, the Israeli occupation forces imposed a curfew on my village. The curfew continued for several days, they didn’t allow us to go anywhere. There was a food shortage, people needed essential things like bread, vegetables and milk for the children.
While this was happening, the schools where my sons and daughter attended were still open in a village nearby. I decided to take them to school, a huge risk because of the curfew.
The Israeli tanks stopped opposite to our house because it was closest to the area that wasn’t under curfew and siege. When the tanks went away, I took my sons and daughter to school.
They had a typical school day, as they had experienced before the siege. At the end of the day we bought some food, and began walking home.
When we approached our neighborhood, it was imperative for us to go through wheat fields instead of going through the street that leads to our house. We walked into the field, but the Israeli soldiers saw us from their tanks.
They turned their machine guns toward us. We felt so scared and frightened, we didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t have time to think. I asked my children to lie on the ground under the wheat spikes. We began to crawl while the bullets were going over our heads. We were calling out to God to bless our lives. Despite the scorching sun, we continued crawling until we reached the edge of a lemon and orange orchard.
We remained there for about two hours. We were very tired and hungry and had only oranges to eat. We finally heard the tanks leaving our neighborhood to return to the nearby Israeli settlement. We quickly began to run out of the field.
We ran to our village and when we reached the main street, I found my husband and the Red Cross waiting there. They all thought that they wouldn’t find us alive because witnesses told them that a woman with three children were stuck in the gun fire.
For us as Palestinians, this danger is a daily routine. All of us hold our lives in our hands, not knowing what destiny awaits.
A 10-minute inspection added four months to education
BY: ALI ABU TAYEH
In one semester during my study at the university in the West Bank, I had three consecutive exams. Â On the first exam day as I was going to the university, I faced a very hard army checkpoint.
It was very crowded and the people were waiting in very long line. Â People had to pass one-by-one, and I knew it would take me a long time to pass. That meant I’d may be late to the exam.
So, I tried to avoid the checkpoint by walking through the mountains. Â I was caught by Israeli soldiers and I explained to them that I have a final exam but they did not care. They didn’t let me return home and they forced me back to the crowd, so again I had to wait for my turn to pass.
I reached the university too late and missed the exam.  The same thing happened on the way back home. I waited to pass for a long time and I reached home late. I didn’t have enough time to study for the exam the next day.
As a result of all this, I had to register the two courses again and delay my graduation for 4 months just because of a ten minute inspection.
I was disappointed and got angry, although I knew that others had suffered much more than me. Some have lost their lives because of checkpoints that prevented them from arriving at hospitals in time. Many women have been forced to give birth at the checkpoints. Â They are the most difficult tragedy for us.
To get’em talking, feed’em
A great way to stimulate conversation and get strangers to bond, is to feed them! This meal is for vegetarians (but not vegans – it’s cheesy). It’s an American-ish meal with a splash of the Middle East. Perfect for ex-pats who crave something familiar.
Served with Palestinian Taybeh beer and Eid cookies for dessert.
Salad (make this ahead of time and keep in the fridge):
3 avocados
9 small cucumbers
1/2 onion
5 tomatos
1 TBSP fresh mint, minced
juice of 1 lemon
splash of olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
Pasta
1 minced onion
4 minced garlic cloves
3 TBPS butter
2 cans of cream (about 1 pint)
1 tsp freshly ground nutmeg (fresh nutmeg makes such a difference)
2 bags of pasta
Salt and pepper to taste
While pasta is boiling, saute onion and garlic in butter. Once the onion is translucent, add the cream and stir. It will thicken slightly, but not much. Add nutmeg and salt/pepper to taste. Once the pasta is al dente, drain and add the cream sauce.
Garlic Pita-bread
Butter the top of 4 pitas. Spread 1/2 clove of minced garlic over each pita. Bake in oven while making the cream sauce. Cut each pita in half and you have enough for everyone.
Backpackers in Bethlehem
After 15 days living in Bethlehem, I hosted a couple of backpackers for the Eid holiday, Kyle and Kim. Kyle is a guy from Florida with lots of questions. He’s tall with shaggy hair and a resonating voice. He loves coffee. Kim is from Belgium. She’s quiet, short and looked gorgeous even after waking up from a nap with the friendly mosquitos that have taken over my apartment.
It was their first time in the West Bank and Kyle’s curiosity and frustration was apparent. His recent experience staying at a kibbutz left him with more questions and the sense that people didn’t want to talk about the conflict.
Feeling daunted by the task of answering all his questions fairly, I did what anyone else would do in this situation. I threw a dinner party with the few friends I have in Bethlehem: two Americans, a Canadian and a woman from Belgium.
We sat in the living room, ate creamy pasta, salad and garlic bread (made by slapping butter and freshly chopped garlic onto pita bread), drank Taybeh beer and chatted.
We talked about the hierarchical nature of ones status in Israel and the misery of the three-month tourist visa. This is issued by Israel because Palestine does not control its borders. Israeli border control cannot know that you’re living in the West Bank because they would deny you re-entry.
Kyle asked, “who’s to blame?†The resounding response was that no one party is to blame. It’s an awful situation influenced by so many countries and movements that it’s impossible to place blame anywhere.
Though the situation seems completely unsolvable, one of my dinner guests said that if international law were actually followed, a solution would be much more possible. Instead, Obama offers concessions to the Israeli government regarding settlements.
To the question “what will happen in the future?†all hands in the room went up in the air as everyone responded in near unison, “it’s impossible to say!â€
But they will keep working for peace. And Palestinians, like the non-violent resisters in Tuwani, will continue to do the same.
Olive oil soap: how it’s made and why it’s great
Ever wonder how olives are turned into olive oil soap, or olive oil for that matter? Â Watch this video for a quick tour of an olive oil press and an olive oil soap factory in a small town in northern West Bank.
If you live in Chicago, visit the Fair Trade Bazaar at Lake View Presbyterian Church on Saturday, November 20 to purchase some of both!
Photography exhibit of Nablus by kids
“I like it because it tells people outside of Palestine that we are good people,†said 14 year old Mujahid who took part in making the movie. “It helps to show that we are not terrorists.â€
Read the entire article here at Haaretz.
Slowly boiling olive oil, a lesson about religion and 9 hours traveling
I traveled to Zababdeh, a town in northern West Bank near Jenin, to tour the local olive oil business on the anniversary of Arafat’s death. As I traveled from Bethlehem to Zababdeh, I passed a long line of buses with Palestinian flags fluttering out the windows, all headed to a commemoration in Ramallah.  After three hours and three buses, I arrived in Zababdeh and met my friend, Abuna Firas, a local Melkite priest, who whisked me off for the tour.
We visited three olive oil presses, two of which were finished with their harvest of olives, a small one this year, but the third was cranking away. The workers laughed as I videotaped them pouring olives into a pulsing machine. Next on the tour was an olive oil soap factory.
We walked into the back room of a small house where a woman was cutting soap bars to be dried on a wooden board. In the back yard, a vat of olive oil slowly boiled before it would be poured into boxes for setting. After coffee and a chat with the folks at the soap factory, we went to pick up Abuna Firas’s young boys from school.
We waited in the car queue with other parents, and Abuna Firas told me that the Christian and Muslim students each take classes about their own religion.
One time, the teacher came into his youngest son’s classroom to take the Muslim children to the appropriate classroom. Elias, Abuna Firas’s 6-year-old son, stood up to go with the Muslim children. When the teacher told him to sit, he asked, “Why? I’m Muslim!â€Â The teacher had to tell him that, actually, he’s Christian. He came home from school that day and asked his father if he is Muslim or Christian and Abuna Firas lovingly reminded him, “You are Christian.â€
We headed home for a delicious lunch, complete with a bowl of local olives. I sipped Arabic coffee with Abuna and his wife, Doris, while the boys watched SpongeBob Square pants (no less weird in Arabic). At 3:30, Abuna Firas drove me to the taxi stand to begin the long trek back to Bethlehem. He plopped me in a van to Jenin and paid for my fare. With a shake of hands and a “shukran katir,†I was off.
From Jenin, I grabbed a van to Ramallah.  Traffic inched along through Nablus and into Ramallah. By 6:30, I finally reached Ramallah only to find the bus station nearly empty.
No buses to Bethlehem, I was told by women wearing “I love Palestine†t-shirts.
A nice young man, Ahmad said he’d help me get home. He said he works for the P.A. as security for President Mahmoud Abbas who was at the commemoration ceremony in Ramallah.
We caught a bus a nearby village. He paid for my fare. From there we caught a car to Abudis, where he lives. He had 11 hours off before he had to guard the President next, but he spent the next hour helping me find a taxi. Soon I was off, in the front seat of the yellow cab, with a wave and a “shukran katir†to Ahmad.
Within minutes I was handed a piece of piping hot pizza and a plastic cup of Pepsi form the backseat. I hadn’t had pizza in months and it tasted like a little slice of sweet home Chicago. The three guys in the back laughed at their desperate attempts to speak English and mine to speak Arabic.
Once in Bethlehem, I gave the driver directions to my place near Aida Camp and asked how much the ride cost. He shook his hand. Nothing, even though it had taken at least 45 minutes! The guys in the back seat laughed and said, “Just go and don’t worry about it! We want to get to Hebron anyway, so hurry up!â€Â So, with a very sincere “shukran katir,†to the driver and my pizza friends, I shut the door.
I looked at the clock once I reached my apartment. Abuna Firas and Doris had taken care of me in Zababdeh and Palestinian hospitality had gotten me through the six-hour journey home. On the anniversary of Arafat’s death, many people rallied and waved flags and a handful helped one American lady get home safe. Shukran katir.
Zionism is a political agenda says former Zionist
EXCERPT FROM RICH SEIGEL’S WEBSITE:
“Several years ago, as I got sick and tired of all the bad news coming from Israel, and caring deeply about it, I decided that I needed to educate myself thoroughly on the subject. I considered myself fairly well-read and well-informed, but I wanted to know everything. So, I began reading everything I could get my hands on- from both sides of the issue, and talking to everyone I could find who had first-hand knowledge- again from both sides. I fully expected this process to deepen my support for Israel. It did not.”
Read more at Seigel’s website.
Canned pickles and I think I feel at home
I spent the last three days eating delicious dinners with the Christian Peacemaker Team in Hebron, debating how social justice and action fits into Buddhist ideals while sipping tea, and smoking nargileh all wrapped up in a warm blanket. It restored my sapped energy.
Two weeks ago, I returned from a wonderfully hectic trip to Egypt and Jordan. Since then, I’ve found an apartment in Bethlehem, published a few of my former students’ videos, solidified bi-weekly Arabic lessons, set up meetings about jobs and volunteer work all over town and planned a trip to Zababdeh to learn about the olive harvest there. Today, though, was the first day I felt at home in Bethlehem.
I returned from Hebron around 10:30 in the morning. I waved from the taxi as I passed my friendly neighbor Ehmad, who works as a mechanic. I walked through my door, laden with a box of new dishes from the Hebron Pottery Factory, and immediately flipped on the water heater and downed a cup of sweet tea from a pitcher that I had made before I left for Hebron (Grandma’s Pennsylvania Dutch recipe: minus a few cups of sugar, plus a bit of fresh mint). I heated up a frozen pita on the stovetop while I chopped a tomato and an avocado for a salad. Ira Glass’s melodious voice accompanied my late breakfast.
After breakfast and This American Life, I put in a load of laundry and packed my bag for a walk around Bethlehem. My home for the next three months.
I took the longer, quieter route to the Nativity Church. On the way, I passed a video store that sells new releases for 5 shekels ($1.40, holy crap!). I bought Switch and a teeny-bopper movie I forget the name of. I zig zagged through the market, picked up a map at the Bethlehem Peace Center and ducked into the packed Nativity Church for a minute of touristy-holiness. Afterwards, I caught up on email at Christmas Lutheran Church’s community center. There, I was asked if I would play billiards on a young guys computer with him. I politely declined and tried not to be distracted by the techno chicken song that he and his crew put on repeat for the next 30 minutes. I also tried to hide my smile, because it was, admittedly, a hilarious techno chicken song.
I stopped at a small shop to buy a ras el abed (an addictive treat, like a s’more, with a horrendous name: slave’s head), and then I picked up some groceries:
Tahini
Pita
Pasta sauce
Rice and noodles
Lime scented hand lotion (strangely delicious smelling)
Canned pickles (mmmmmm), corn and mushrooms
Once at home, I warmed up a bowl of carrot stew and checked out some web pages I had saved about Sabeel, a Christian Palestinian organization that I will meet with tomorrow in Jerusalem. My apartment smelled like Arabic coffee spiced with cardamom, fresh mint and laundry detergent.
What it was about this day that made me feel so at home, I’m not exactly sure, but here I am and I feel lucky.