Why Am I Wearing a Keffiyeh?

One of my Palestinian students walked into class a trifle late on Sunday. He was wearing a keffiyeh tied loosely around his neck, and as he entered, I felt a jolt of confusion. I’m not sure what a keffiyeh represents. I only knew that he was laying claim to an identity group, and that somehow, in that instinctive part of me that I’m not wholly conscious of, I had the primal response of recognizing someone from a different tribe as potentially opposed to my own. The jolt of discomfort that went through me was from a deeper place than simply recognizing otherness—this wasn’t just weird to me, it was in opposition to a group I belong to. I filed the emotion to consider it later.

As per class rules, he passed me a note a few second later that explained why he was late: “some kid from the kfar (village) tried to start up with me because I’m wearing a keffiyeh.” I thought a moment, and then scribbled a return note: “did you end amicably?”

Puzzled look up at me.

“Amicably means friendly,” I whispered, trying not to disturb my silently writing students.

“Oh. No. He wanted to fight me. But I walked away.”

“Way to be,” I answered.

At the end of class, while some students lingered to chat with me, he offered to clamber up on a table and turn the projector off. As he did so, he grabbed the end of the keffiyeh, and muttered to himself, “this is so hot. It’s choking me. Why am I wearing a keffiyeh? Well, I know why I’m wearing it.” I wish he’d answered himself out loud with a reason. I want to know, although I also kind of know. Perhaps it could clarify my own reaction.

I riffed a lesson off of a former high school English teacher of mine, and taught my students the rules to definite and indefinite articles (“listen up, German speakers!”), then handed them a bunch of sticky notes and set them loose on the school.

“Everything should have the correct article,” I told them. “The one and only principal, an arm, a hot mess in the coffee corner… but nobody can see you label it. If they do, you have to take it back. You need to sneak attack the school with correct grammar.” As I picked up my bag to follow the students out, I noticed it had a sticky note: “A bag.” Aces. I headed into the main building, following the trail of sticky notes pasted along the way.

The school had a “Peace Parade” yesterday evening. One of the Albanian students organized it in response to current events. Our students went through the village with drums and candles, and as they went, they called to the village students whom they drummed out of dorms: “Peace parade! Come and join!” The ranks swelled, and Israeli children of all ages came out with their friends and held the proffered candles. I eavesdropped on their conversations as they went along, wondering what my students would think if they could understand:

“Peace? I’m a fan.”

“What the hell do these kids from outside the land know about peace? Or war?”

“Trade you my candle.”

“The nation of Israel lives!” (This in song). “We’re still alive, still alive, still alive.”

“She’s so cute. Do you think she’ll laugh at me if I speak English to her?”

“Peace? Yeah, right. Hey, Yossi, come watch the foreigners do a parade!”

The march ended at the village outdoor auditorium. Students from our school performed “Amazing Grace,” read a poem in Spanish, in Hebrew, and in Arabic, thoroughly befuddling the Israeli students who had no idea what this had to do with peace. I happened to be around for the selection of the Arabic poem—my Yemeni student asked for my help in translating it. He and a Palestinian student chose a poem by a famous Yemeni writer in which the current war in Yemen is bemoaned, asking how nonsense has become common sense, the regular norm of our daily lives. It then goes on to cry for return to Sanaa, the capital city of Yemen.

“But we’re going to replace ‘Sanaa’ with ‘home’, and make it applicable to everyone,” they said.

“Hmm,” I thought out loud. “It really reminds me of classic Jewish prayers to return to the land of Israel after the Roman exile. Are you sure it fits the purpose of this parade?” They didn’t want to change it. As we headed out on the march, I noticed one of the Palestinian students had the Palestinian flag stuffed in her pocket. She didn’t take it out though, as far as I noticed.

The parade was a lot like the UN trying to come in and impose peace. It was very nice to see Albanian and Argentinian students in flowing white dresses and pressed slacks perform, but both the Israeli and Arab selections were more to the point: one was about this being the land of our forefathers, the other about return to a homeland. It strikes me that this is the same point that most of the world misses: two nations are vying here, but outsiders who have their own country can’t quite get the struggle. Many dismiss the vital need for nationhood of one or another of the groups. And, while Israelis recognize, ironically enough, the desperate need for a Palestinian state, Palestinians don’t seem to have the same approach to an Israeli state. Well. The kids got to play with candles and perform, so they were happy. Probably much like the UN.

Right now I’m writing in Kikar HaBima, before the iconic Habimah theater, watching toddlers play in the sand and run between the cactuses in the sunk garden in the middle and tell their parents with a high degree of seriousness, “Ima, I can’t come right now exactly, I am playing in the sand.” I’ve just come from my second run-in with Israeli healthcare, and it’s left me no less bemused than the first. After visiting a family doctor and orthopedist, I’m now armed with two prescriptions: one for an ankle brace, and the other for an ultrasound (my ankle better give birth to a diagnosis soon. It’s been five months). It feels like I’m on some kind of weird scavenger hunt through the Israeli medical system, at the end of which they will declare me a true Israeli.

Slowly, savoringly, I am learning Tel Aviv. It’s no longer odd to me that young children and toddlers play in the city’s squares deep into the hours of the night. Their calls echo against the white walls of HaBimah, and trail off in the green shadows of palm trees and cypress. Both of those trees show to best advantage at night, lit up against the white backdrop of Israeli architecture. As flute music floats from the direction of the theater, a few raindrops land on my face. I have never before felt this relaxed on a school night.