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.”
“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.
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