Kids play soccer in a parking lot across the street from my apartment. They take over every evening. Some wearing sandals, rolled up jeans, stylish button down shirts, occasionally two different shoes, gelled hair, cigarettes, big time swag. Nine or ten up through fifteen years old, these kids play hard. No such thing as a pass. It’s all about how badly you shake the person playing defense, make them take a seat, literally. Rollover to a pull back tipped up for three juggles before smoothly lofting the pumped but tattered ball over your shoulders, head trap down to another rollover or two before cracking a shot past the keeper – ‘Ahhh gola gola!!’ slew of amiyya’ curses, big grin, high five, then it's back to the pavement. These kids dance with the ball – all of them. The older guys who have been out here for years have it down, putting it through legs and spinning around opponents easily. The younger ones try just as hard, laughing all the while.
I head out there with two roommates and a few other American students who live close by. As soon as we get there the games start. Some kids literally jump when we show up – immediately the jousting and making fun begins. We’re split into teams, exchange a few greetings, and go to work. They LOVE playing around us – we petty Americans who think working hard and making nice passes means something out there. No way. If you don’t have some skills you’ll be in net or sitting on the curb.
The parking lot, covered with loose rock and dirt, sends us sliding all over the place. So much fun playing with these kids, throwing around some Arabic, putting together beautiful one touch plays that end with a cross to header game winning goal. This is what they do. No Playstation or big screen TV’s, these kids ball hard, day in and day out.
Two or three American girls come out and play with us. They aren’t pushovers, quick to throw their body around and go in for a tackle. Some locals react positively, embracing the American women playing rough with them, forcing the girls to run in circles after the ball. Others are more conservative and will put up their hands and back away as soon as a girl comes charging in. I wonder if these kids have ever played soccer with a girl, let alone a young woman.
Always nice to recover after a few hours of streetball with fresh mint tea or delicious coffee. The trick when brewing coffee is to not pour settled coffee from the pot into the glass. Add the coffee and sugar into water just before boiling, and as soon as the rich dark juice begins to bubble up and over the edge of the metal pot tip the pot slightly toward your glass, simply guiding the spill. Taste is in the bubbly, thick, milky top layer, which is lost if you just pour from the pot. Be generous with the coffee, and the sugar. The grounds at the bottom of each glass are a welcome surprise.
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Beautiful sunsets here in Amman. The city of hills, as the sun heads to bed the sky brightens up for one last stand, neon green minarets pepper the horizon. Evening call to prayer, more soothing each time, rings out from several nearby mosques, always within a moment or two of each other. Cool breeze on our fourth floor balcony, perfect vantage point to watch the traffic lighten. Like the sky Jordanians come to life in the early night hours. Celebratory gunshots and fireworks ring out for hours each night – sometimes frighteningly close. I sit on my neighbors balcony and listen to stories from his years in Iraq, where he was born and raised, became a doctor, and only left after the death threats to his friends and family became too much too handle. He will never go back, ever. We live beside three young doctors, two from Iraq and one from Gaza. Our political discussions are gut-wrenchingly tense, but always productive and friendly in the end.
Nate and I keep ourselves on as tight a budget as possible. I often make a pot of rice, beans, veggies, and an uncomfortable amount of chili powder that will carry me through five or six meals. Occasional splurge for local hal’wiyat – deserts – at a nearby bakery, or a mansaf up near the University of Jordan. The drought here is no joke and we do our best to dry wash our dishes, shower every few days, and use little more than a dribble of water to brush our teeth.
My roommate and classmate Colin and I talk politics day and night. As conservative as they come, Colin and I beat each other up about torture, the morality of war, US domestic policy, the wonderful conflicts raging throughout the Middle easy, health care, what to do about drug dealers, and whether or not we should strangle China before she openly squashes our economy (as I write this Colin is claiming what I listen to isn’t music…and so it goes). For the first two weeks we not only slept in the same room, but we woke up together, ate breakfast together, walked to Qasid together, sat in class together, walked home together, spent evenings reading and working together, then replayed steps 1 through 734 every day. I recently enrolled in Tajweed, which meets every morning at eight. While Colin and I still have class together at ten, I’ve replaced our time together with 530am runs, lone breakfasts of left over rice and beans, fresh coffee, and a pleasant walk to Qasid with Nate – soft spoken, tall and lanky, distractingly kind and sincere, heavy southern accent. Our conversations lean more toward emotions and where we are spiritually, as he shies away from politics, and shares my unfortunate sense of wanting to be home.
Tajweed lessons teach me to recite the Qu’ran. Like reading Torah there is a particular trope for chanting the Qu’ran. That is what we hear five times a day with the call to prayer. Unfamiliar but exotic and deep, Tajweed lessons change the way I hear the Adhan. Now I understand why certain notes are held, why some burrow up in the nose and others burst out of the throat. Learning to recite the Qu’ran is a thrilling challenge. My reading skills are par but my singing skills are in the gutter. Half an hour a day I sit two and a half feet from a renowned singer trying to eek out decently melodic notes, often failing miserably. At least my voice doesn’t crack. I don’t have my own Qu’ran yet but I will soon, and it will be a treasure I pass on to my grandchildren.
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Class is intense and enjoyable. Four hours a day, two professors, mostly if not strictly Arabic, homework every night. My class of nine is coming to speak and understand more confidently, we joke and ridicule in Arabic, we put together presentations and skits on short notice. I’ve warmed up to both professors, Ibrahim and Bana’an. He is short, loud, hysterical, overly energetic, and pulls vocab out of us. She is conservative, talks much faster, more critical and stern, but easing up to us every day. Just yesterday she administered an exam and came around with sweets half-way through saying ‘Kayef al’imtihaan, kayef al’imtihaan!? Ay su’ell? Jordan, Brit, Colin – ainda su’ell? How is it? How are you guys doing? Jordan, any questions? Brit? Here, have some candy, don’t hate me,’ as she passed out ginger sweets produced in Palestine, wrapped in Southeast Asia, and sold throughout the Middle easy.
Yesterday in class we were doing an exercise with new vocab words – one of us would define the word without using the word itself, the rest of the class would guess. My word was Fow’qa, towel. I meant to say ‘After I take a bath, I use a…!,’ the verb (to bathe oneself) being istahamma. Instead I mixed up the verb with ustoosheda and said ‘After I become a martyr I use a…!’ Classmates didn’t understand and were silent, Bana’an looked at me dumbfounded and expressionless. I quickly realized nobody had any idea what I said so I began frantically scrubbing my chest and arms, making an imaginary shower above my head, saying ‘You know, become a martyr! After I become a martyr I use a !!’ Ban’an said ‘I understand, ya Jordan, ana afham, where did you learn that word?!’
I realized what I was saying and replied, in perfect English ‘Oh. Shit. I am so sorry, professor, ya ustath. I didn’t mean that at all.’ Ban’an began to smile as I told the class what I had said – they roared with laughter as I smiled and turned redder than a baby butt spanked by a conservative Russian immigrant straight off the boat. Pretty funny moment, but I was silent for the rest of class. Of all things to say, go figure.
I’ve never been in an intense academic environment like Qasid. Little support from the administration and teachers so the students buckle down together, tutor and support one another. PhD candidates, wildly smart Ivy League button-down-shirters, academics, professionals. Out there melting pot of excited, motivated, lost individuals desperate to learn Arabic.
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I miss home big time. Miss the brothers and the family, comforts of an easy life, my routine, close friends, being somewhere familiar. I’ve tried to convince myself that I’m not homesick, but just have a really good situation at home that I’m reluctant to leave, and if I’ve left it, I sort of want to go back. But that’s not being homesick damnit! I finally gave in to myself, home would be sweet right now. Jed is growing up too quickly, I don’t see enough of mom, must get more of Jesse’s unbearability while I can, too seldom do I stay up late talking with dad. Alas, home soon, where I’ll see little has changed, same old goodness as always.
Thoughts that keep me up at night bounce between academics and Phi Psi this fall. Not so different when broken down – I play with my role as a Community Advisor for sophomores and one of the pledge educators for potential Phi Psi brothers. As a CA I need to balance friendship and openness with residents alongside my role as a rule maker and enforcer. With Phi Psi, I wonder how I can command the respect of new brothers without screaming or barking at them. How can I ensure the pledge process is intense, with the pledges respecting and quietly fearing me, without turning into some abusive frat animal? Radomir was a monster in the gym, screaming and often beating us with his bamboo stick. Yet outside the gym he rarely spoke above a whisper, was compassionate kind and smiling, and would do anything to help anyone. How can I become a hero like Radomir?
Healthy, safe, and filthy with high spirits and a hunger for more Arabic, Middle easiness, and experience.
Lots of love,
SF
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Sacrifice
June 11, 2011
A passage from my journal:
482 Kilograms. We led it head-first off the truck through a dark hallway into a dimly lit room, one bulb hung from the ceiling. The bull didn’t resist. I wondered if he knew what was coming. The butcher was dressed in all white, I was nervous. His front legs were tied tightly. The bull reared up on his hind legs, buckled in front, but regained his upright posture, snorting occasionally. The butcher and his aids threaded a second rope loosely around the bull’s hind legs and in one well rehearsed motion pulled the rope taught bringing the legs together and knocked the beast onto its side. It bucked once or twice, then lay still. The butcher showed Ahmed were to cut, grabbing handfuls of skin by the bull’s neck.
The knife was sharp and sliced deeply into the animal’s neck. Blood spurted out from the incision and poured onto the floor. With each huff more blood spewed from his neck, now in pieces. The bull may have died after a few seconds but it continued to huff and jerk long after its neck lay in bits on the blood soaked floor.
Skinning was done carefully and methodically, beginning with one long slice from the neck to the anus. The butcher frequently sharpened his blade, cutting the skin from the bull’s contorted body.
We raised the beast off the ground to remove his insides. Cutting and pulling the butcher removed everything inside the bull, careful to separate what was edible from what was poisonous or inedible. The majority of this animal will feed families around Ahmed’s farm and those who work the land. Only a small portion will be ours to eat.
The bull cost roughly 12,000 Egyptian pounds, about 2,000 US dollars, a new MacBook Pro. It will feed tens of families.
I wish the bull had been killed quicker, almost guillotine style. I would have kissed it first, made it comfortable, given it a hearty meal before its death, then said a prayer before opening its neck. It shat as we tied its legs, just before we knocked it to the ground. I wonder what he was thinking, eyes wide scanning the room, moments before the knife touched his throat.
The atmosphere was relaxed. Butcher and aids smiled easily as they worked, not sickly, just casually, it was another day’s work. Blood and sweat soaked clothing. A cellphone rang every few minutes.
SF
A passage from my journal:
482 Kilograms. We led it head-first off the truck through a dark hallway into a dimly lit room, one bulb hung from the ceiling. The bull didn’t resist. I wondered if he knew what was coming. The butcher was dressed in all white, I was nervous. His front legs were tied tightly. The bull reared up on his hind legs, buckled in front, but regained his upright posture, snorting occasionally. The butcher and his aids threaded a second rope loosely around the bull’s hind legs and in one well rehearsed motion pulled the rope taught bringing the legs together and knocked the beast onto its side. It bucked once or twice, then lay still. The butcher showed Ahmed were to cut, grabbing handfuls of skin by the bull’s neck.
The knife was sharp and sliced deeply into the animal’s neck. Blood spurted out from the incision and poured onto the floor. With each huff more blood spewed from his neck, now in pieces. The bull may have died after a few seconds but it continued to huff and jerk long after its neck lay in bits on the blood soaked floor.
Skinning was done carefully and methodically, beginning with one long slice from the neck to the anus. The butcher frequently sharpened his blade, cutting the skin from the bull’s contorted body.
We raised the beast off the ground to remove his insides. Cutting and pulling the butcher removed everything inside the bull, careful to separate what was edible from what was poisonous or inedible. The majority of this animal will feed families around Ahmed’s farm and those who work the land. Only a small portion will be ours to eat.
The bull cost roughly 12,000 Egyptian pounds, about 2,000 US dollars, a new MacBook Pro. It will feed tens of families.
I wish the bull had been killed quicker, almost guillotine style. I would have kissed it first, made it comfortable, given it a hearty meal before its death, then said a prayer before opening its neck. It shat as we tied its legs, just before we knocked it to the ground. I wonder what he was thinking, eyes wide scanning the room, moments before the knife touched his throat.
The atmosphere was relaxed. Butcher and aids smiled easily as they worked, not sickly, just casually, it was another day’s work. Blood and sweat soaked clothing. A cellphone rang every few minutes.
SF
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Hebron to Cairo
Nate and I were groggy as the sherut hit downtown Hebron. Classic head-bob wrench your neck bang your face against the window sort of trip from Jerusalem across the border to Bethlehem and south to Hebron. We stumbled out of the van wiping grime from our eyes and I had absolutely no idea where we were. The driver said Hebron but it didn’t look familiar. After a few minutes I recognized the street as one of the two main streets that run parallel downhill toward Hebron’s old city and primary settlement. Off we were, weaving through taxies and falafel stands, past the Lacoste and DKNY Jeans outlets, into the old city. Nate spotted the first crows nest, a small tin can looking pill box sitting on a rooftop protecting two or three IDF soldiers. We walked slowly through the market, politely declining local tour guides, offers for five shekel kufiahs, and handshakes from men exclaiming “I remember you! You’ve been here before, right!?” Nate knew I had been here one year earlier and thought the man was sincere. But once we heard that line a second and third time Nate caught on to the scam. We stopped to watch a man kill chickens. Taking each chicken by the tail, cleanly slicing its throat, once yelping now limp and silent. Methodical. Similar to the way men make falafel, scooping the delicious green mush and tossing it into the hot oil. Almost like a dance, killing chickens, making falafel.
Through two metal finger revolving doors into the site of Abraham’s burial and the settlement. Immediately I was face to face with an M4. Literally. This boyish looking soldier could have plucked my nose hairs with the barrel of his semi-automatic rifle. “We’re American, from Boston, tourists,” as we waved our golden ticket American passports. “Ahh,” the soldier replied, “Ray Allen! Paul Pierce!” “You got it,” and we were in. Nate too found himself uncomfortably close to a scruffy short soldier who wasn’t in the lightest of moods. Just like last year we were Christian to get in to the Mosque, Jewish to get into the Synagogue, and a weak combination of both as we explored the settlement. It was shabbos and the area was quiet.
Around one Nate and I took a seat on the steps of a run-down building to watch six soldiers arrest a young boy and what could have been his older brother. The boy perhaps 14, the man closer to his twenties. The Arabs were handcuffed and helped over a brick wall back into the settlement from the Arab cemetery were they had been arrested. They were told to sit/squat along a wall several meters apart. The young man was blindfolded, stuffed into an IDF jeep and driven away. The boy was taken by the arm and led deeper into the settlement. Just as the boy was being led away a settler came walking by holding his sons hand. Interesting sight, the soldier holding the Arab and the settler holding his son.
Just as Nate and I were making sense of the situation a short male settler, Yisroel, approached us. He spoke first in Hebrew then caught on that we didn’t understand. Within three minutes we established that Yisroel was born and raised in Brookline Mass, five minutes from Nate. Yisroel insisted that we join him for Shabbos lunch, then began calling us by our Hebrew names – me Reuven and Nate Yitzhak. Off we were.
After a short walk we entered his apartment – six or seven young women, four more adults, several toddlers, and food for an army. “Be comfortable be comfortable” he kept saying as he sat us down and began the introductions. Turns out Yisroel’s brother lives just a few blocks north of me in Manhattan – Go figure, here we are in one of the most violent cities in Israel, sitting down to Shabbat lunch with settlers who grew up or currently live within walking distance of Nate and I. The food was delicious – chicken, humus, salad, vegetables, kus kus, and juice galore. Nate and I had already eaten (three shekel falafel) but we did not hesitate for a bit more. The apartment was warm and cozy, conversations thrown about the room in Hebrew and English. One of the daughters in the apartment would be married on Monday. She is twenty-two.
After about two hours Yisroel decided it was time to take Nate and me on a tour of the settlement. Yisroel turned out to be a big shot in the settlement and claimed to be a tour guide, student, and event planner. This wasn’t your average tour. Yisroel took us to five different apartments throughout the settlement. In each we met children of all ages, their parents and family friends. More cake, biscuits, ice-cream, and a soda-like beer, more stories, more “These are my American friends, they just finished Taglit and had no place to eat Shabbos lunch.” Each family was open and welcoming, never hesitating to place a plate and cup before the foreigners. Immediately Nate and I felt a part of this close-knit community.
Yisroel took us around the settlement pointing out a four-thousand year old trash covered wall, various places where family and friends had been shot, one-time markets and newly constructed living units. He showed Nate and I a side of the settlement we could not have dreamed of ever experiencing. When we returned to his apartment for one last cup of tea the conversation turned political. He asked what the Palestinians thought of the settlers. I answered carefully and related that the locals only see the bricks used as weapons, violent soldiers set in place to protect the settlers, and barbed wire fences around their market. No local Arab has ever been inside a settler’s home, or shared lunch with six families in their respective homes. They knew nothing about settler life, and I quickly realized I was in the same position.
I have never perceived settlers in the West Bank as loving compassionate human beings. I have only known the side I see in the news, the violent extremist side that leads settlers to travel with automatic rifles and attack Palestinians. I pointed out a settler to a friend while our group was in the Old City. A middle-aged man, innocent face with puffy cheeks and unkempt curls, walking toward his car beside his family. White button down shirt, kippah, tzi tzit, in his left hand he held one son (perhaps five), and in his right he held a daughter on his hip. Inches below her butt was a 9mm tucked into his waste. If she bounced up and down she might knock it out of her father’s pants. The family got in their station wagon, a curtain was pulled around the rear windows, a small Israeli flag raised in one window, and off they were. Our birthright tour guide said the M16 was the most popular firearm among the settlers.
What to make of this adventure. Yisroel was a sweetheart, as were his family and friends. They related stories about living through the second intifadah, listening to gunshots day and night, coming home to bullet holes in their doors. Alas, life must go on. They were happy, proud, probably fanatical and blind to outside opinion, but nevertheless kind-hearted human beings.
Nate and I left the settlement exhausted and upbeat. Pretty fricken spectacular way to see the inside of Hebron and a settlement. Next would be a short pit-stop in Tel-Aviv to grab our bags before heading over land to Cairo.
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Ten am overpriced shwarma and we were out. Late start. Nate and I would grab a bus from Tel Aviv’s central station south to Eilat, where we would cross the border and head west to Cairo. Few minutes wait in the station but we were in no rush. It would be a fiveish hour shlep to the southern most city in region, the hottest spot vegas esk resort town along the sea, Eilat.
The bus was mellow, we sat in the way back, had a nice guy sleep on my shoulder for several hours. At one point two young Israeli women broke out in a screaming argument. They began yelling in English, I assume so less people would understand, which was great for Nate and me. After several tense minutes Nate turned to me and made me promise that that would never be us. I said I would make sure to leave him before stooping so low as to criticize the size of his butt, his willingness to sleep with strangers, or the color of his hair.
We caught the last bus from Eilat to the Taba border crossing – six and a half shekels. Eilat looked pretty, if you’re into ugly resorts, crumby casinos, and the complete absence of the teeney weeniest culture. 24 hour border, no problem on the Israeli side. 101 shekel exit fee, stamp, warm smile, expensive duty free, and we were walking to Egypt. There it got a little bit more interesting. Turns out you have to buy a visa in advance, woops. Not only does the visa cost 15 dollars, but you have to purchase it through a travel agency, or have the guarantee of a travel agency, or have some seal of approval sent to the Egyptian government (is there one?), or have your name on some stupid hand-written list that doesn’t exist proving nothing – except that it costs 60 dollars. After some hooting and hollering about how little money we have, how bogus this border nonsense was, how every border ‘officer’ looked like a miserable bum with nothing better to do than harass tourists, Nate and I forked over 40 dollars. It sucked. Too much money wasted on some crumby tourist trap. Every man for himself.
Strutted on past a few cabbies, each had a better price, one guy drove alongside us blasting music drumming on his steering wheel. If we didn’t get in before he did this little dance there was no way in hell we were getting close to this cab after that performance. After checking with several people we learned that only two buses travel from the border to Cairo every day, one at 1030 am and the second at five pm (which we missed by minutes). We would have to spend the night here in Taba. We picked up two cans of pre-cooked beans and decided the beach would be our home tonight – spending two hundred dollars at one of the three resorts, not including the additional 30 dollars for internet, was not exactly in our budget.
Strolled into the Movenpick resort looking for a place to eat our beans and a safe place to sleep – turns out this is the biggest, most beautiful, most secure resort around. We were escorted out within 30 minutes (dirty looking travelers with shoes hanging from their backpacks don’t fit in at this absurdly luxurious resort). We didn’t need them anyway!
Alongside one wall of the resort was a dark ally lined with barbed wire and two high walls. Thinking it would lead to the beach we walked down. Groups of locals passed us in the alley, we stopped to grab water from a fountain – if the locals drank it I figured we could too. The alley opened into a garbage-strewn shanty town. Hanging exposed bulbs revealed single room units, broken fences, rusting vehicles, windowless and doorless homes. This is where workers in the nearby resorts lived. Two hundred yards away European tourists threw money away on lavish dinners, high-speed internet, beautiful rooms balconies beds tours drinks and activities, while the men cleaning tables and washing linens returned to this ghetto. Then again, who are we to judge? These men were probably earning a decent living, perhaps sending money home to a family.
Nate and I walked through this shanty town, down to the water, and onward along the beach for a few minutes. I was lucky enough to step in raw sewage. At about 830 we found a low wall far enough from this community and the dimly lit road to afford us some isolation. We propped our bags against the brick and lay down. A strong wind blew trash over and around us, but we were comfortable. Cloudless warm breezy evening, sleeping 25 yards from the sea, bellies full, spirits high, this was our adventure. Couples of men walked nearby though we were quiet and were not disturbed. At about eleven we woke up to a man standing above us. Talk about creepy! This guy was literally two feet from me looking down at the two of us! His only English seemed to be “I police! Open bag!” Yea f that this shmoop was in sweat pants and a T-shirt, police my ass. He seemed to motion that we couldn’t sleep by this wall. Under who’s authority I have no idea. We were sufficiently freaked out to pack up and leave immediately.
We walked several hundred meters along the main road until we came to a partially concealed drop, what Nate calls the ‘Ski Slope.’ We lay down under a tree, bracing our butts with our shoes so we didn’t slide down into the water. The road was just two or three meters above us, but we were low and hidden under a tree. We ‘slept’ here for the next few hours.
Around five we were too awake to sleep, the sun was rising, so we decided to head back into town. Grabbed a few dusty sodas, four and a half hours to kill before the bus. Nate needed an ATM so we decided to check out the Hilton, maybe grab some Wifi. Like the Movenpick wireless in the Hilton was FAR from free. We did, however, luck out with breakfast. For ten US dollars it was an all you can eat buffet, from 7 to 1030. At 715 we sat down and began stuffing our faces. Juice, coffee, sausages, eggs, potatoes, fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and DANISHES. For three hours we ate, went to the bathroom, ate again, revisited the toilet, wrote, laughed, plate number nine, twelfth cup of juice, and schemed about stealing food. Ten dollars well spent. We cut out for the bus at 1015 laughing at the resorts.
Comfortable bus, packed, but strong cold AC. Just as we were leaving the border we passed one final checkpoint. 75 Egyptian pound port tariff. Are you kidding?! More?? We were livid! We had avoided this the night before nearly coming to blows with the guy trying to squeeze the money out of us. Here it was not avoidable. It was the same man as the night before, walked on to the bus, stood beside us, “Remember me?” with some poop-faced grin like he had won. And he did, we paid. Rules of the game. We are dollar signs before human beings in this part of the world. Pay up.
Couple of checkpoints later we were in Cairo, late afternoon, perhaps four, 430. Even before we stepped off the bus taxi drivers were screaming by the windows. Blew past them and began walking. Every few minutes we would ask for Tahrir Square. It was between ten and 15 kilometers away, but we would walk most of it. A nice young student steered us toward the metro, which we rode for half a pound each. I prayed before we stepped on. This train was so broke down falling apart rusted out ghetto-crackin oh man kiss your life away sort of car. But it went, and so did we. Jumped out a half an hour walk away from the square.
It felt wonderful to be back in Cairo. Not sure what it is about these city streets but I find this place exhilarating. We were nearly skipping as we came closer to Tahrir. We hadn’t been in touch since Israel and Nate now realized his phone was gone, so we made it a priority to find an internet café. Found a hostel near Tahrir which let us use their internet. The first facebook message I see was from one of our Birthright trip advisors telling us to get in touch immediately! The police, Brandeis community, friends, family, and US embassy were all looking for us. The world had lost its head when Nate and I went quiet for 24 hours.
Emailed and messaged a bit, then skyped Ahmed, who was also freaking out about us. He agreed to come snag us by Tahrir Square. We stood on the raised grass courtyard looking out for Ahmed who claimed his car was too small for all three of us. Couple of creepy guys moved in on me and Nate. One offered us cigarettes, another stood silently staring at Nate, a third shyly approached me and began talking about giving me a message. Lucky for us Ahmed came screaming by in a drop top Mini and we were OUT! Tossed our backpacks in the car and jumped in. Nate sat shotgun, I sprawled out in the back. Off we were, safe and secure with Ahmed. First to his apartment, then dinner on the street, then shot out to his farm house in the suburbs outside the city, bongo drums and Stella in hand.
I melted into bed around midnight, exhausted after a few loonng sleepless days and nights. This week with Ahmed will be wild. Cairo is too much alive. She is loud, obnoxious, expensive, beautiful, frightening, and welcoming, even to a few lonely Americans far far from home.
Couple of quick notes – I’ve been sick for over a week. Coughing and sneezing like its my job. Nate lost his wallet and cell phone on back to back nights, both of which were recovered. My left pinky toe is a giant blister, Nate is struggling to remove a dead toenail from his left foot. Ahmed is pissed that he hasn’t shaved in two nights, little does he know that Nate and I have been wearing the same underwear for five nights and haven’t showered in four.
We are both relatively safe and having an incredible time. Cairo is not in a state of ruins. There is as little order as there was before the revolution.
Lots and lots and lots of love,
SF
Through two metal finger revolving doors into the site of Abraham’s burial and the settlement. Immediately I was face to face with an M4. Literally. This boyish looking soldier could have plucked my nose hairs with the barrel of his semi-automatic rifle. “We’re American, from Boston, tourists,” as we waved our golden ticket American passports. “Ahh,” the soldier replied, “Ray Allen! Paul Pierce!” “You got it,” and we were in. Nate too found himself uncomfortably close to a scruffy short soldier who wasn’t in the lightest of moods. Just like last year we were Christian to get in to the Mosque, Jewish to get into the Synagogue, and a weak combination of both as we explored the settlement. It was shabbos and the area was quiet.
Around one Nate and I took a seat on the steps of a run-down building to watch six soldiers arrest a young boy and what could have been his older brother. The boy perhaps 14, the man closer to his twenties. The Arabs were handcuffed and helped over a brick wall back into the settlement from the Arab cemetery were they had been arrested. They were told to sit/squat along a wall several meters apart. The young man was blindfolded, stuffed into an IDF jeep and driven away. The boy was taken by the arm and led deeper into the settlement. Just as the boy was being led away a settler came walking by holding his sons hand. Interesting sight, the soldier holding the Arab and the settler holding his son.
Just as Nate and I were making sense of the situation a short male settler, Yisroel, approached us. He spoke first in Hebrew then caught on that we didn’t understand. Within three minutes we established that Yisroel was born and raised in Brookline Mass, five minutes from Nate. Yisroel insisted that we join him for Shabbos lunch, then began calling us by our Hebrew names – me Reuven and Nate Yitzhak. Off we were.
After a short walk we entered his apartment – six or seven young women, four more adults, several toddlers, and food for an army. “Be comfortable be comfortable” he kept saying as he sat us down and began the introductions. Turns out Yisroel’s brother lives just a few blocks north of me in Manhattan – Go figure, here we are in one of the most violent cities in Israel, sitting down to Shabbat lunch with settlers who grew up or currently live within walking distance of Nate and I. The food was delicious – chicken, humus, salad, vegetables, kus kus, and juice galore. Nate and I had already eaten (three shekel falafel) but we did not hesitate for a bit more. The apartment was warm and cozy, conversations thrown about the room in Hebrew and English. One of the daughters in the apartment would be married on Monday. She is twenty-two.
After about two hours Yisroel decided it was time to take Nate and me on a tour of the settlement. Yisroel turned out to be a big shot in the settlement and claimed to be a tour guide, student, and event planner. This wasn’t your average tour. Yisroel took us to five different apartments throughout the settlement. In each we met children of all ages, their parents and family friends. More cake, biscuits, ice-cream, and a soda-like beer, more stories, more “These are my American friends, they just finished Taglit and had no place to eat Shabbos lunch.” Each family was open and welcoming, never hesitating to place a plate and cup before the foreigners. Immediately Nate and I felt a part of this close-knit community.
Yisroel took us around the settlement pointing out a four-thousand year old trash covered wall, various places where family and friends had been shot, one-time markets and newly constructed living units. He showed Nate and I a side of the settlement we could not have dreamed of ever experiencing. When we returned to his apartment for one last cup of tea the conversation turned political. He asked what the Palestinians thought of the settlers. I answered carefully and related that the locals only see the bricks used as weapons, violent soldiers set in place to protect the settlers, and barbed wire fences around their market. No local Arab has ever been inside a settler’s home, or shared lunch with six families in their respective homes. They knew nothing about settler life, and I quickly realized I was in the same position.
I have never perceived settlers in the West Bank as loving compassionate human beings. I have only known the side I see in the news, the violent extremist side that leads settlers to travel with automatic rifles and attack Palestinians. I pointed out a settler to a friend while our group was in the Old City. A middle-aged man, innocent face with puffy cheeks and unkempt curls, walking toward his car beside his family. White button down shirt, kippah, tzi tzit, in his left hand he held one son (perhaps five), and in his right he held a daughter on his hip. Inches below her butt was a 9mm tucked into his waste. If she bounced up and down she might knock it out of her father’s pants. The family got in their station wagon, a curtain was pulled around the rear windows, a small Israeli flag raised in one window, and off they were. Our birthright tour guide said the M16 was the most popular firearm among the settlers.
What to make of this adventure. Yisroel was a sweetheart, as were his family and friends. They related stories about living through the second intifadah, listening to gunshots day and night, coming home to bullet holes in their doors. Alas, life must go on. They were happy, proud, probably fanatical and blind to outside opinion, but nevertheless kind-hearted human beings.
Nate and I left the settlement exhausted and upbeat. Pretty fricken spectacular way to see the inside of Hebron and a settlement. Next would be a short pit-stop in Tel-Aviv to grab our bags before heading over land to Cairo.
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Ten am overpriced shwarma and we were out. Late start. Nate and I would grab a bus from Tel Aviv’s central station south to Eilat, where we would cross the border and head west to Cairo. Few minutes wait in the station but we were in no rush. It would be a fiveish hour shlep to the southern most city in region, the hottest spot vegas esk resort town along the sea, Eilat.
The bus was mellow, we sat in the way back, had a nice guy sleep on my shoulder for several hours. At one point two young Israeli women broke out in a screaming argument. They began yelling in English, I assume so less people would understand, which was great for Nate and me. After several tense minutes Nate turned to me and made me promise that that would never be us. I said I would make sure to leave him before stooping so low as to criticize the size of his butt, his willingness to sleep with strangers, or the color of his hair.
We caught the last bus from Eilat to the Taba border crossing – six and a half shekels. Eilat looked pretty, if you’re into ugly resorts, crumby casinos, and the complete absence of the teeney weeniest culture. 24 hour border, no problem on the Israeli side. 101 shekel exit fee, stamp, warm smile, expensive duty free, and we were walking to Egypt. There it got a little bit more interesting. Turns out you have to buy a visa in advance, woops. Not only does the visa cost 15 dollars, but you have to purchase it through a travel agency, or have the guarantee of a travel agency, or have some seal of approval sent to the Egyptian government (is there one?), or have your name on some stupid hand-written list that doesn’t exist proving nothing – except that it costs 60 dollars. After some hooting and hollering about how little money we have, how bogus this border nonsense was, how every border ‘officer’ looked like a miserable bum with nothing better to do than harass tourists, Nate and I forked over 40 dollars. It sucked. Too much money wasted on some crumby tourist trap. Every man for himself.
Strutted on past a few cabbies, each had a better price, one guy drove alongside us blasting music drumming on his steering wheel. If we didn’t get in before he did this little dance there was no way in hell we were getting close to this cab after that performance. After checking with several people we learned that only two buses travel from the border to Cairo every day, one at 1030 am and the second at five pm (which we missed by minutes). We would have to spend the night here in Taba. We picked up two cans of pre-cooked beans and decided the beach would be our home tonight – spending two hundred dollars at one of the three resorts, not including the additional 30 dollars for internet, was not exactly in our budget.
Strolled into the Movenpick resort looking for a place to eat our beans and a safe place to sleep – turns out this is the biggest, most beautiful, most secure resort around. We were escorted out within 30 minutes (dirty looking travelers with shoes hanging from their backpacks don’t fit in at this absurdly luxurious resort). We didn’t need them anyway!
Alongside one wall of the resort was a dark ally lined with barbed wire and two high walls. Thinking it would lead to the beach we walked down. Groups of locals passed us in the alley, we stopped to grab water from a fountain – if the locals drank it I figured we could too. The alley opened into a garbage-strewn shanty town. Hanging exposed bulbs revealed single room units, broken fences, rusting vehicles, windowless and doorless homes. This is where workers in the nearby resorts lived. Two hundred yards away European tourists threw money away on lavish dinners, high-speed internet, beautiful rooms balconies beds tours drinks and activities, while the men cleaning tables and washing linens returned to this ghetto. Then again, who are we to judge? These men were probably earning a decent living, perhaps sending money home to a family.
Nate and I walked through this shanty town, down to the water, and onward along the beach for a few minutes. I was lucky enough to step in raw sewage. At about 830 we found a low wall far enough from this community and the dimly lit road to afford us some isolation. We propped our bags against the brick and lay down. A strong wind blew trash over and around us, but we were comfortable. Cloudless warm breezy evening, sleeping 25 yards from the sea, bellies full, spirits high, this was our adventure. Couples of men walked nearby though we were quiet and were not disturbed. At about eleven we woke up to a man standing above us. Talk about creepy! This guy was literally two feet from me looking down at the two of us! His only English seemed to be “I police! Open bag!” Yea f that this shmoop was in sweat pants and a T-shirt, police my ass. He seemed to motion that we couldn’t sleep by this wall. Under who’s authority I have no idea. We were sufficiently freaked out to pack up and leave immediately.
We walked several hundred meters along the main road until we came to a partially concealed drop, what Nate calls the ‘Ski Slope.’ We lay down under a tree, bracing our butts with our shoes so we didn’t slide down into the water. The road was just two or three meters above us, but we were low and hidden under a tree. We ‘slept’ here for the next few hours.
Around five we were too awake to sleep, the sun was rising, so we decided to head back into town. Grabbed a few dusty sodas, four and a half hours to kill before the bus. Nate needed an ATM so we decided to check out the Hilton, maybe grab some Wifi. Like the Movenpick wireless in the Hilton was FAR from free. We did, however, luck out with breakfast. For ten US dollars it was an all you can eat buffet, from 7 to 1030. At 715 we sat down and began stuffing our faces. Juice, coffee, sausages, eggs, potatoes, fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and DANISHES. For three hours we ate, went to the bathroom, ate again, revisited the toilet, wrote, laughed, plate number nine, twelfth cup of juice, and schemed about stealing food. Ten dollars well spent. We cut out for the bus at 1015 laughing at the resorts.
Comfortable bus, packed, but strong cold AC. Just as we were leaving the border we passed one final checkpoint. 75 Egyptian pound port tariff. Are you kidding?! More?? We were livid! We had avoided this the night before nearly coming to blows with the guy trying to squeeze the money out of us. Here it was not avoidable. It was the same man as the night before, walked on to the bus, stood beside us, “Remember me?” with some poop-faced grin like he had won. And he did, we paid. Rules of the game. We are dollar signs before human beings in this part of the world. Pay up.
Couple of checkpoints later we were in Cairo, late afternoon, perhaps four, 430. Even before we stepped off the bus taxi drivers were screaming by the windows. Blew past them and began walking. Every few minutes we would ask for Tahrir Square. It was between ten and 15 kilometers away, but we would walk most of it. A nice young student steered us toward the metro, which we rode for half a pound each. I prayed before we stepped on. This train was so broke down falling apart rusted out ghetto-crackin oh man kiss your life away sort of car. But it went, and so did we. Jumped out a half an hour walk away from the square.
It felt wonderful to be back in Cairo. Not sure what it is about these city streets but I find this place exhilarating. We were nearly skipping as we came closer to Tahrir. We hadn’t been in touch since Israel and Nate now realized his phone was gone, so we made it a priority to find an internet café. Found a hostel near Tahrir which let us use their internet. The first facebook message I see was from one of our Birthright trip advisors telling us to get in touch immediately! The police, Brandeis community, friends, family, and US embassy were all looking for us. The world had lost its head when Nate and I went quiet for 24 hours.
Emailed and messaged a bit, then skyped Ahmed, who was also freaking out about us. He agreed to come snag us by Tahrir Square. We stood on the raised grass courtyard looking out for Ahmed who claimed his car was too small for all three of us. Couple of creepy guys moved in on me and Nate. One offered us cigarettes, another stood silently staring at Nate, a third shyly approached me and began talking about giving me a message. Lucky for us Ahmed came screaming by in a drop top Mini and we were OUT! Tossed our backpacks in the car and jumped in. Nate sat shotgun, I sprawled out in the back. Off we were, safe and secure with Ahmed. First to his apartment, then dinner on the street, then shot out to his farm house in the suburbs outside the city, bongo drums and Stella in hand.
I melted into bed around midnight, exhausted after a few loonng sleepless days and nights. This week with Ahmed will be wild. Cairo is too much alive. She is loud, obnoxious, expensive, beautiful, frightening, and welcoming, even to a few lonely Americans far far from home.
Couple of quick notes – I’ve been sick for over a week. Coughing and sneezing like its my job. Nate lost his wallet and cell phone on back to back nights, both of which were recovered. My left pinky toe is a giant blister, Nate is struggling to remove a dead toenail from his left foot. Ahmed is pissed that he hasn’t shaved in two nights, little does he know that Nate and I have been wearing the same underwear for five nights and haven’t showered in four.
We are both relatively safe and having an incredible time. Cairo is not in a state of ruins. There is as little order as there was before the revolution.
Lots and lots and lots of love,
SF
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