This is my seventh day in this new and completely different world. In such a short time, I have seen so much that is completely and utterly new to me.
My first impressions were made in the taxi ride from the airport, where I was met by, as he told me, an Arabic Muslim who didn’t practice the Muslim traditions, and also spoke Hebrew. He was only 27, but looked much older to me (though he said all his friends can’t believe he’s as old as 27!) He told me that he drinks ten cups of Arabian coffee every day, along with his cigarettes. This is no ordinary coffee, either. It is extremely strong, stronger than espresso. I deduced that it was the coffee and cigarettes that were keeping this man lean and, as he put it, “happy all the time---there is no time to be other than happy, we must live, so I will laugh and laugh! I won’t be sad!” He said he couldn’t go without his coffee and cigarettes, so he does not practice the rituals during Ramadan---that of fasting during the day. In addition, he said, “I love to take my gintonic (as he said it), and I can’t go to my mother’s house with this on my breath!” Ramadan, he told me, is a holy month-long observance of practices happening right now, which will end at the end of this week. Though I ought to already know about these things, it is all new to me.
Since it was already dark when I arrived, around 5 p.m., I didn’t see much of the countryside, but everything changed when we came to the outskirts of Ramallah. Suddenly, there were no more highway lights, and all was completely and eerily dark. I felt a sense of fear, not knowing what we would encounter. I really wanted to pay attention to the changing scene ahead, but it was very difficult as my cabdriver, “Sweet Lover”, as he called himself (insisting all cabdrivers referred to themselves by this name) was talking 100 mph with barely a break (the coffee, I imagine). I let his talk go to background as I saw this enormous wall suddenly appear (we were going up a hill), and now there were lights. It was the wall of Ramallah. I can’t remember how high Sweet Lover said it was, but that “this is not even the highest part of the wall, and you see, it cuts right through the town!”
I have been fortunate to travel so much in my life, that for a few seconds I let my mind wander and forgot where I was---just ‘en route’ to wherever I was going, as so many million times before. With this mind-set, I suddenly thought, “Oh, my God, this looks like a War Zone! What happened here?” As soon as I had that thought, I remembered where I was, and that it WAS, in fact, a war zone. There were piles of cement rubble and torn-up earth everywhere, and up ahead was a checkpoint with Israeli guards. Coming in to Ramallah is no problem at all, but there was a very long line of cars going out, as each one had to be inspected in order to go anywhere other than their city of Ramallah.
Once we were within the city limits, I felt an overwhelming sense of what I can only call depression. Everywhere we drove was desolate. I saw a couple of men walking the streets, confirming that people did live in this area. Then as we continued driving, up and up, the city became more like what one would expect a city to look like. It was so normal, in fact, that I quickly forgot how squalid it had looked just minutes before. Maybe that was like going through the Bronx on the way to Times Square, but far less modern...
I was then taken to the National Conservatory of Music, where I was met by Muhammad Yaqoub. He has been my main source of information, support, and a soulful guide in these passing days. He talked in a subdued manner about the Conservatory and its history, after which I was taken to a grocery store to buy some food for my apartment. The store was like any good grocery store. The only difference was that I couldn’t read any of the labels (in Arabic), and there were buckets of Hummus and other foods unique to this culture. The salami here is made from chicken. Very good, too!
Then I was taken to my apartment. It is very spacious, but since it is the lowest point of a tall building, and faces north, it is quite chilly, no matter what the temperature is outside. All the walls inside are white--everything is white. The floors are white tile, and to accentuate this, there are no shades over the dangling light bulbs. A bit of a vacant and ungrounded feeling is the result. Instead of unpacking, I spent much of the evening taking dishes and cutlery out and washing them, washing sticky cupboards---everything--- to get a sense of personal belonging and in keeping with the sixth sense my dear mother gave/taught me---the ability to see things beyond what others see, particularly when cleaning! In fact, the other day I went by myself for the first time into a small store, and though I went in there for food, I mainly came out with things to clean with! It isn’t that the apartment was so bad, it’s that it is my way of claiming it as my home while here.
I was awoken at about 3 a.m. by the singing of the prayers via microphone from the Minaret (Mosque tower). It was such a beautiful sound, so haunting with unusual and poignant notes, that I will never forget it. Stumbling around in the dark, not wanting to be fully awake, I managed to record some of it, hoping to capture that sound forever. Even now, when I hear this happen every day at different times of the day, I feel like I’m hearing something so beautiful and sacred in terms of music as well as intent. The sound clip here was captured after 11 a.m., complete with busy city street noises.
I looked forward to a shower in the morning, but after running the water for as long as I could with a good conscience, I realized there would be no warm water. I found out later that a simple switch controls this. Before I found that out, though, I told Yaquob about the water, saying, “I planned to rough it a little, and I’m not even asking for hot water, just warm!” So yesterday, for the first time, I had HOT water! Amazing how such a luxurious thing can just make your whole day.
While I write this I’m having an exciting morning so far. I did my yoga practice for the first time since I’ve been here, and now I am using the wash machine for the first time. It is a bit distracting, and reminds me how every day here is: full of surprises! I suddenly heard a torrent of water gushing out in the bathroom. It is one of those washers with the door in the front, not on the top, and it had burst open and was pouring everywhere. I managed to get it shut and push the water down the drain (thankfully, there was a drain on the floor). I have propped a broom handle in front of it while it completes the job. Shortly after this, while it was spinning, something popped and the whole apartment went silent and still, as the spin cycle had flipped the power breaker. I found where it was, turned it back on, and it has completed the task. It has given me a good laugh. In fact, not only Sweet Lover the cab driver had this attitude about life here, but I have also heard it said by several different people since. It is their true Practice in their lives here, as I see it: “You just walk calmly toward life---don’t worry, be happy, and all will go well. We cannot waste our lives being depressed or sad about our situation, we must live and make music, and dance”. So I, too, am in a world in which I get to practice this sage advice more than usual. Even at this moment, since a woman three floors above me just now decided to wash her windows by throwing water at them from the inside, with all the water pouring down onto my newly clean laundry that is hanging on the clothesline below…Don’t worry, be happy, and all will be well! (I don’t think they know the Bobby McFerrin tune here, but they practice its psalm).
The first time I walked through the town was a bit humiliating for me. Someone from the Conservatory came to meet me and walk with me there, but because I wasn’t on my own, it was like being a pony pulled here and there to keep up through the crowds. I saw so many fascinating things on the streets and in the shop fronts on this quick walk, but I didn’t dare stop to take pictures because I was taken aback by all the stares. There aren’t many blondes here, especially female blondes, of course, and I felt so vulnerable in this new and unusual universe, walking quickly with someone while the world seemed to stop what it was doing to stare. I just wanted to hide, but couldn’t. This was a good immersion, however, because after that I made myself get out the next day and walk through the streets, and “let people stare” if they wanted to. It worked perfectly. By now, I’m happy to say I’m not even noticing it so much, and have learned to simply smile at them. It has brought out the best in each of us humans who pass one another in the streets of Ramallah.
Ramallah is a fascinating mix of to-the-minute contemporary, and an ancient era and way of life, all at the same time. Most of the women walking through the streets wear the Muslim clothing with covered hair and long coats, but I have seen none wearing face veils. Ramallah also has a large Christian-Arab population, so there are plenty of women who dress in the western European way. The men don’t wear anything unusual or traditional, but those of the Christian faith are identified easily because they are often wearing crucifix necklaces. Maybe twice have I seen men wearing the head garb, but that is all. I am guessing that is so because I am in a city, rather than the country.
I am surprised to see how many obviously new buildings there are, with a very speedy building rate. All through Ramallah there are multitudes of tall apartment buildings, many continuously being built. These people are extremely hard and fast workers, with very long days of 12 or more hours, and it is common for people to hold two or more jobs.
I was taken to see the Arafat compound, where not long ago it was being bulldozed and attacked by explosives. Already, the whole compound has been restored, and is about the size of an over-seas Army base. One can see where the wall of the compound was decimated, as new cement is obvious on the repairs. I am impressed how quickly these people have turned their lives back into their own world, as evidenced by this compound, since we ourselves witnessed the destruction of this place on our own televisions in the US. It is as if they wish to forget as quickly as possible that anything bad ever happened. It reminds me of the biblical saying, “taking captivity captive”. After all, these towns are the only places where the Palestinians are permitted to live freely. I can’t help but be reminded of our own American heritage of maneuvering the Native Americans onto “Reservations”, places they could call their own. In this parallel, likewise the Native Americans were ‘given’ the more undesirable locations. Here in Palestine, it is primarily the absence of natural resources such as water and the loss of many of their vineyards, compelling dependence upon their occupier. We know from our own history that the Native American boundaries continued to change once there became a discovery of a desired natural resource, as in the case of the Black Hills of South Dakota, where gold was discovered, and once again the “reservation” boundaries became altered. The difference in America, however, is that at least the Native Americans are allowed to be citizens of the country they are “Reserved” upon, their native land, and are permitted to travel freely, and given the rights and benefits of every American Citizen.
MUSIC
WITHOUT BORDERS (and I don’t mean the bookstore…)
The multitude of difficulties encompassing the declarations of “boundaries” is precisely why I am here in Ramallah. That is, the woman who previously taught flute here for eight years at the National Conservatory of Music was denied entry this time, as she has married a man of Arab origin. Many of her colleagues were also denied entry this year, and so there are several new teachers, myself among them. It is possible that at some point I, too, could be denied entry, as I will come and go from this country for concerts back in America, having to re-enter each time. I would be denied for the basic reason that I would be seen as helping the Palestinian culture, and this is a forbidden concept. From my perspective, however, it is a soul reason why I am here, that what I bring is music, and music has no cultural, racial, or terrestrial boundaries. These people are in particular need of something deep for themselves, beyond the circumstantial life in which they did not ask to be born into. The truth is, I would do the same for any culture or people, anywhere, for human beings who need to live lives beyond their circumstances. Music is able to encompass everything mysterious, meaningful, and beautiful, and is able to be what it is without economic class, cultural divisions, or barriers. I know I have said it, but it is difficult to put into words succinctly. Music is for the human soul, and none of us are exempt from having one, thus making us all equal creatures on that deepest level, simply by being among the living…
Back to current activities: the streets of Ramallah are very crowded with people and cars. The going is a bit slow because of the sheer numbers, but the sights at every step are to be savored. One shop is making pita bread as a machine conveys it out of a hot oven and through a course that eventually drops it onto a palette for delivery or customers. Another shop is baking what looks like a large pizza, spinning the dough by hand, laying it on a puffed up pillow of exactly the size to stretch it, and then tossing it on a cone-shaped hot iron. It bubbles up immediately, and within a few seconds is peeled off by another person and tossed onto a pile of the same finished flat breads. I tried to buy one, but the kind man whose job it was to take these from the hot iron cone, bare-handed, would not let me pay but gave it as a gift, instead. It tastes wonderful, much thinner than a pita, with a delicious bready flavor with a rubber-y texture.
There are spice shops where there are literally dozens of five-gallon buckets full of Oriental Spices. Everything imaginable, and the aromas alone seem edible and utterly satisfying. That is the one thing I cannot convey through the great use of technology---smells. There are the most wonderful smells here, and different ones at every step. Incense and perfume here, breads here, spices there, boiling falafel here, Arabian coffee, and at least three city blocks of fresh fruit and vegetables overflowing from the carts all with an ancient-era look to them and their vendors.
At this fruit market there is everything imaginable. Even spinach, which I so happily purchased! The vendors are all shouting as loud as possible, presumably “buy my things, here!” or something. The smell throughout this market is heavenly. It smells like freshly-peeled fruits, no matter where you go. When you pass the fresh herbs, such as sage, there is an overwhelming, seductive aroma (the smell of sage reminds me of my home of Montana!). While walking around in this enormous street market, there was a young Muslim woman who saw me and said something in Arabic, and held out her hand to be shaken. I shook it, and she said in a heavy accent, “you from where?” “America”. “Oh, America!! Hello America! Thank you to come here!”
Since my introduction to everything here is during the time of Ramadan, I am not sure how it will change next week. They are not even sure when Ramadan will end, this Saturday/Sunday, because it depends all upon the moon. The working week here is different, too. Friday is more like our Saturday, a day off. We work on Saturday, but also have Sunday off. There are no two days in a row that you take off from work. When Ramadan is over, there will be a week’s vacation starting this Sunday, as I have been told that the end of Ramadan is like our Christmas, and its ensuing vacation. What makes this time different right now is that most people are fasting during the day, and as soon as the sun sets, the city becomes overwhelmed with people, eating and shopping for gifts to buy that they will give at the conclusion of Ramadan. Whether I will notice a difference in city life after Ramadan remains to be seen.
My birthday was a few days ago, and I didn’t tell anyone, which was a treat. Therefore, I can skip a year, as I try to as often as possible. It was a wonderful day in which I was invited to dine with Yaqoub and his family, along with one of the directors of the Conservatory of Music, Suhail Khoury, and many family members. It was a feast, really. The table was filled with food. One large platter of slow-cooked lamb with onion, spices, and stuffed grape leaves and stuffed mini zucchinis all in a heaping mound to choose from. The special yogurt sauce goes over these stuffed delicacies, similar to the Greek Tzaziki sauce. There was stone-oven baked chicken with spices that made it so unique, and tabouli, hummus, barley soup, and pitas. It was fantastic. I’ve run out of adjectives of exultation.
After the feast, we went to a CD release party at the Conservatory from a woman who is one of the founders. A lengthy speech beforehand, which was apparently very humorous as everyone was laughing heartily. I didn’t understand a word of it. (I realized how painful it must be to sit through one of my own shows if someone in the audience does not speak the language, since I tell many stories!) This woman composed her own music, and played piano. She was joined by a very competent singer. I was struck by how much the music sounded like Schubert. I didn’t know they would compose such western European sounding music, but to be sure, this is the music the Conservatory is teaching and wishes to perpetuate, along with traditional music.
I left early with Yaqoub to attend a concert at the Popular Cultural Center. He was to sing in it, and he said the concert started in five minutes. We were five minutes away from the hall! He drove calmly through the city and was sure they would start late if there were speeches before hand. He was right. First the speeches, and then something was said in which everyone stood up and it turns out it was their National Anthem. It was interesting. Very western sounding, like a tired Sousa march, or if Sousa had written ballads, this would be it, with strings and lots of snare drum. I found myself wishing it was more traditional to their own culture, and that the arrangement included some traditional instruments.
The hall at the Popular Cultural Center is stellar. Very large, with real lighting (colored gels), an enormous sound board, etc. The performance was a traditional dance group, preceded by Yaqoub singing with an oud player and frame drum. This was my favorite part of the show. It was traditional singing, and the music was obviously well known by the audience, as they clapped along, hooting and whistling. It was fantastic. (See short video clip.) The dance troupe began with two traditional male singers walking down the isle singing in that Arabic style that gives me Goosebumps. It made me cry. I’m so happy to hear this music. I'm so happy to be here! "We must sing and dance and make music!", as they say here...
---Rhonda, Oct. 19, 2006
PART 2, soon. To Be Continued…..