Return
July in Lebanon, one year later. Shatila has not changed much. The puddles remain as does the trellis of wires overhead (water, electricity, etc.). Also remaining: the salty water (encrusted taps,sticky skin), the reliable power outages, the constant proximity to people no matter where you go, how many stairs you climb. Construction is compact. And people are kind, hospitable, curious. The kids are the brightest lights of all... Almost literally :) It's the best feeling in the world seeing Ibrahim and Ghina and Ahmad and Youmna and Youssef and Esra all over again. The best. These hugs feel amazing. Their eyes look amazing. It's so good to be back.
I'm learning to type on an ipad, so this will be short and unillustrated for now. Bear with me*
School started Monday. Placement exams. We'd registered and placed some 180 kids by Tuesday. 9 classes, levels beginner, intermediate and advanced. Well over half the kids in beginner classes. Am and pm sessions, plus 1 hour of extracurricular clubs. 2 hours less (total) than last year and still very very tiring. Incredible heat and humidity. One big difference for me is that i'm an administrator now, not a teacher. I have a dream team of co-administrators. We think every decision through together. Thoroughly and with laughter. I'm surprised to be liking my function as much as i do. I decide placements, organize systems, give speeches to the student body, support the teachers, coordinate with our host organization (beit atfal assoumoud= house of the children of the resistance), make executive decisions, go into classrooms to discuss green eggs and ham, boost morale, lead art therapy sessions, and clean up after lunch. It's admin 101 and so far, so good.
I live in a vast and luxurious apartment by last year's standards. 3 rooms, 11 women, abundant windows, and a rooftop terrace with porch swing. Ahhhh. Versus last year's 2 rooms, 8 women, and no windows. We like each other amazingly well as housemates and co workers.
Khalass, yalla, and more in a few days.
SHILLAT SHATREEN SHATILA ****
LEAP Presents: Shatila SHINE
LEAP volunteers taught 2 classes a day-- 3 hour morning sessions and 3 hour afternoon sessions. we also taught extracurricular activities for an hour each day-- art, photography, theater, social media, yoga, film. vida and i ran the film project, and our vision was to make a short movie illustrating a day in the life of a kid living in shatila camp. the obstacles were substantial. our kids had limited english abilities; our attendance roster was constantly changing; kids dropped in and dropped out at random; crucial kids were kicked out or stopped coming; actors froze on camera; actors abruptly refused to participate; we had 45 minutes a day to rehearse, get on location, and shoot; locations were near impossible to arrange (no one would let us come over to film breakfast!); precious and hard-won locations were canceled unexpectedly; interpreters went missing; neither vida nor i had ever actually edited anything in our lives before... the list goes on :)
yet overall, the triumphs far outweighed the obstacles. vida and i got to go out exploring the camp every afternoon; we got to visit hidden dens and corners that we otherwise never would have known existed; we got to follow the kids through shatila's labyrinthine alleyways; we got to see the kids' favorite places; we got to see who lit up on camera and who shone behind the scenes; we got to thrill over perfect takes (and imperfect yet ridiculous outtakes); we learned to find miraculous solutions to all of the above emergencies; we learned that shatila butchers are intensely guarded about their practices (and why); we learned how to edit (!); we got to screen our triumphant final project for friends and students; we got to see the looks (and the tears) on our friends' faces when they saw their/our students reveal their world, shatila.
leaving beirut
i have about 8 hours to go before i fly back to the u.s. i have to say, this is not easy. not a bit. it's pretty heart-wrenching quitting this place. i will have much more to write and say when i'm back in brooklyn and have a consistent internet connection. i'll do my best to explain this love affair with lebanon and it's many many intricacies and complexities... for those who don't know, i'll be returning next summer to work with LEAP as an education coordinator (and teach as well, n'challah*). love to everyone and see you on the other side!
baker's eye
Amir and I have been traveling in Egypt and Jordan for the past week. Yesterday, he spent some time writing about an especially poignant photo that one of his photo club kids took during the first weeks of our program. Here are the photo and Amir's words.
Just as I was beginning to question whether the kids would ever use their cameras to take pictures of anything other than Melinda and myself from awkward angles, one of my students took a photo I will never forget. We had given them the assignment of photographing the doors, windows, and walls of the camp, in hopes that they would practice playing with composition and lighting. Just as we were about to head back to Beit Atfal, I saw Baker and Mohammad motion to me. They stood in front of a poster I had seen countless times before. They were pointing to the pictures of martyrs who had been killed while protesting at the border on Nakba day. The boys in the picture could not have been much older than my students. Baker told me the name of one of them, Imad Abu Shakra, whose picture he wanted to photograph. Seeing that the poster was torn, Mohammad instinctively reached up to hold it together while his friend took a picture. Baker proudly held the camera up to me, revealing an image that stirred an unexpected amount of emotion in me as I stood in that alley in the moukhayyam. I was staring at a hauntingly beautiful image, perfectly lit and framed, of Mohammad’s tiny illuminated hand reaching out toward his hero.
Just as I was beginning to question whether the kids would ever use their cameras to take pictures of anything other than Melinda and myself from awkward angles, one of my students took a photo I will never forget. We had given them the assignment of photographing the doors, windows, and walls of the camp, in hopes that they would practice playing with composition and lighting. Just as we were about to head back to Beit Atfal, I saw Baker and Mohammad motion to me. They stood in front of a poster I had seen countless times before. They were pointing to the pictures of martyrs who had been killed while protesting at the border on Nakba day. The boys in the picture could not have been much older than my students. Baker told me the name of one of them, Imad Abu Shakra, whose picture he wanted to photograph. Seeing that the poster was torn, Mohammad instinctively reached up to hold it together while his friend took a picture. Baker proudly held the camera up to me, revealing an image that stirred an unexpected amount of emotion in me as I stood in that alley in the moukhayyam. I was staring at a hauntingly beautiful image, perfectly lit and framed, of Mohammad’s tiny illuminated hand reaching out toward his hero.
voices from 48
gamila and zohour are our on-site contact women. they're social workers, they're mediators, they're organizers, they're disciplinarians. tonight, they were community liaisons. they arranged for four '48 refugees to come and speak to us. for 2 hours, we listened. here are their stories.
ALI
ali was 20 when he left acre. "1948 was the year when the british gave away palestinian land." word of the israeli invasion came quickly and chaotically. people were forced to leave abruptly, fearing for their lives, unarmed. palestine had no army with which to defend its people. as word spread about massacres in neighboring villages, families fled, were separated, left everything behind, "lost themselves in the journey." people had to rely on their own resources to protect themselves. young, unattached men like ali were desperate to defend their families in the face of the invasion. ali walked from village to village, trying to find his family. at one point, he walked for 24 hours, through the night. by the time he arrived at the red line, the border between palestine and lebanon, he had bought his own weapon and joined a small group of armed citizens. "one's natural instinct when invaded is to arm oneself and rebel." ali eventually made it to beirut, without word from his family. for 30 years, he had no idea how or where his family was, not even aware that his mother and father had passed. he finally made contact via a relative in london. ali was full of unanswerable questions: where is the human nature? where is the kindness? where is the justice? where is the world? can they not see? hear? his greatest wish was for all people to stand together, in peace, religion aside. "just bring us back, we're ready," he said as he kissed his fingers, touched the table, then his forehead.
MAREE EL HAJJ
maree was 7 years old in '48. maree, his brother, and their donkey had gone to draw water at the village well when they heard the sounds of gunfire and bombing in the distance. they ran directly to the main street and asked a taxi driver what was going on. "you didn't hear? the israelis are attacking palestinian villages." the brothers returned home with their water. their village leader told all the young men to arm themselves and prepare for battle. 3 days later, when a neighboring village fell, the same leader told the young men that it was now their time to protect the palestinian people. maree's family grabbed what they could and fled for the mountains. they ate just enough bread and water to stay alive. word came that "palestine is no more... the arab countries have sold us out..." they continued on to lebanon where there was nothing for refugees to eat. maree's father returned to the family's village, desperate for food. he was caught by the israeli army who asked if he was part of a rebel army. they beat him although he stated that he'd never carried a weapon. he was told to go retrieve his weapons, and that if he did so, he'd be welcomed to return and live in peace. one man stayed behind as insurance. when none of the village men returned with their non-existent weapons, the man was executed. his wife, too, was threatened with death when she went to retrieve his body. maree's father eventually made it back to lebanon, where he and his family lived (and continue to live) as refugees. maree's brother did not make it out of palestine in 1948. he was killed on the spot when he named his village of origin, along with 24 others. the palestinian people fled, and palestine was left "a land with no people." as he spoke, maree never stopped passing his prayer beads through his fingers.
AMINA
amina was 12. the day they were attacked, her village leader called a meeting. "i refuse to leave. young men and women, leave or you'll be killed. elders, stay- i would rather die in my own land than be forced to leave." amina's family stayed for 6 days after the invasion began. early one morning, her family was warned to get rid of any weapons and not to open their door for anyone. her mother opened the door nonetheless, and said, "i'm not afraid of you." her family was immediately kicked out of the house. in the face of this invasion, the community grew closer. villagers were lined up and slaughtered. all anyone could think was, "i'm next." the people fled. amina's grandmother was sure that they'd be leaving for only a few days. she passed out chicken and other provisions, unaware that 63 years later, her family still would not have returned. no one was asked to leave their home-- people left so that they would not die. "it was the arab leaders who betrayed us more than anyone else. they betrayed their own people; they sent us to die." they believed that the old would die and the young would forget. "thank god for palestinian nationalism... my grandson is not yet 2 and when he hears of palestine in the news, he throws up the sign that we will one day return." the refugee's key is the most significant symbol of all, amina says. it will be passed down to younger generations, and hope will remain.
FAT'HIYYEH
fat'hiyyeh was 10 when she left jaffa. her school had been bombed before the invasion, and she now feels lucky to even speak arabic as well as she does... she counts herself as part of a generation that lost itself, its education. she saw her father killed by israeli soldiers and immediately ran barefoot to tell her brother. british and israeli soldiers shouted for her to stop, but all she could think was to run. her uncle became her guardian, and they were evacuated on a large ship that carried them from jaffa to saida. fat'hiyyeh eventually married and bore 10 children. her husband opened a chocolate shop. during lebanon's civil war, when their youngest child was 3, he was killed and left in the street. fat'hiyyeh became a cook to support her children. throughout lebanon's many wars and civil conflicts, fat'hiyyeh's family resided in east beirut's only palestinian refugee camp. "there are so many still missing... no one knew where they'd gone." fat'hiyyeh remembers life before 1948: "jews and arabs lived side by side, with no problems. my neighbors would give me raspberries. we were so close that they'd ask me to turn off their lights during the sabbath." people planted fig and olive trees with calm states of mind, never worrying about their futures, their children's futures, their security.
"our pain, our hope, our stories could never be encapsulated in so many books... we are a people who love peace. we have a culture and a history that can never be erased. we have a right to return."
l to r: (fat'hiyyeh, amina, ali mohammad, maree el hajj) amina tells her story, maree speaks, odai from nj translates
ALI
ali was 20 when he left acre. "1948 was the year when the british gave away palestinian land." word of the israeli invasion came quickly and chaotically. people were forced to leave abruptly, fearing for their lives, unarmed. palestine had no army with which to defend its people. as word spread about massacres in neighboring villages, families fled, were separated, left everything behind, "lost themselves in the journey." people had to rely on their own resources to protect themselves. young, unattached men like ali were desperate to defend their families in the face of the invasion. ali walked from village to village, trying to find his family. at one point, he walked for 24 hours, through the night. by the time he arrived at the red line, the border between palestine and lebanon, he had bought his own weapon and joined a small group of armed citizens. "one's natural instinct when invaded is to arm oneself and rebel." ali eventually made it to beirut, without word from his family. for 30 years, he had no idea how or where his family was, not even aware that his mother and father had passed. he finally made contact via a relative in london. ali was full of unanswerable questions: where is the human nature? where is the kindness? where is the justice? where is the world? can they not see? hear? his greatest wish was for all people to stand together, in peace, religion aside. "just bring us back, we're ready," he said as he kissed his fingers, touched the table, then his forehead.
MAREE EL HAJJ
maree was 7 years old in '48. maree, his brother, and their donkey had gone to draw water at the village well when they heard the sounds of gunfire and bombing in the distance. they ran directly to the main street and asked a taxi driver what was going on. "you didn't hear? the israelis are attacking palestinian villages." the brothers returned home with their water. their village leader told all the young men to arm themselves and prepare for battle. 3 days later, when a neighboring village fell, the same leader told the young men that it was now their time to protect the palestinian people. maree's family grabbed what they could and fled for the mountains. they ate just enough bread and water to stay alive. word came that "palestine is no more... the arab countries have sold us out..." they continued on to lebanon where there was nothing for refugees to eat. maree's father returned to the family's village, desperate for food. he was caught by the israeli army who asked if he was part of a rebel army. they beat him although he stated that he'd never carried a weapon. he was told to go retrieve his weapons, and that if he did so, he'd be welcomed to return and live in peace. one man stayed behind as insurance. when none of the village men returned with their non-existent weapons, the man was executed. his wife, too, was threatened with death when she went to retrieve his body. maree's father eventually made it back to lebanon, where he and his family lived (and continue to live) as refugees. maree's brother did not make it out of palestine in 1948. he was killed on the spot when he named his village of origin, along with 24 others. the palestinian people fled, and palestine was left "a land with no people." as he spoke, maree never stopped passing his prayer beads through his fingers.
AMINA
amina was 12. the day they were attacked, her village leader called a meeting. "i refuse to leave. young men and women, leave or you'll be killed. elders, stay- i would rather die in my own land than be forced to leave." amina's family stayed for 6 days after the invasion began. early one morning, her family was warned to get rid of any weapons and not to open their door for anyone. her mother opened the door nonetheless, and said, "i'm not afraid of you." her family was immediately kicked out of the house. in the face of this invasion, the community grew closer. villagers were lined up and slaughtered. all anyone could think was, "i'm next." the people fled. amina's grandmother was sure that they'd be leaving for only a few days. she passed out chicken and other provisions, unaware that 63 years later, her family still would not have returned. no one was asked to leave their home-- people left so that they would not die. "it was the arab leaders who betrayed us more than anyone else. they betrayed their own people; they sent us to die." they believed that the old would die and the young would forget. "thank god for palestinian nationalism... my grandson is not yet 2 and when he hears of palestine in the news, he throws up the sign that we will one day return." the refugee's key is the most significant symbol of all, amina says. it will be passed down to younger generations, and hope will remain.
FAT'HIYYEH
fat'hiyyeh was 10 when she left jaffa. her school had been bombed before the invasion, and she now feels lucky to even speak arabic as well as she does... she counts herself as part of a generation that lost itself, its education. she saw her father killed by israeli soldiers and immediately ran barefoot to tell her brother. british and israeli soldiers shouted for her to stop, but all she could think was to run. her uncle became her guardian, and they were evacuated on a large ship that carried them from jaffa to saida. fat'hiyyeh eventually married and bore 10 children. her husband opened a chocolate shop. during lebanon's civil war, when their youngest child was 3, he was killed and left in the street. fat'hiyyeh became a cook to support her children. throughout lebanon's many wars and civil conflicts, fat'hiyyeh's family resided in east beirut's only palestinian refugee camp. "there are so many still missing... no one knew where they'd gone." fat'hiyyeh remembers life before 1948: "jews and arabs lived side by side, with no problems. my neighbors would give me raspberries. we were so close that they'd ask me to turn off their lights during the sabbath." people planted fig and olive trees with calm states of mind, never worrying about their futures, their children's futures, their security.
"our pain, our hope, our stories could never be encapsulated in so many books... we are a people who love peace. we have a culture and a history that can never be erased. we have a right to return."
l to r: (fat'hiyyeh, amina, ali mohammad, maree el hajj) amina tells her story, maree speaks, odai from nj translates
signs of resistance
photos: nakba poster in shatila ("the catastrophe"-- this year marked the 63rd annual commemoration of israel's creation/ the palestinian diaspora); just outside of bourj el barajneh (read the wall!); a favorite poster from the camps [daniel drennan is the artist behind the first print- see more at
http://www.jamaalyad.org/MAIN/
struggles
this is a story about the struggle within the struggle: life in the camp.
life in the street: there are 2 main streets in our neck of shatila. both can fit taxis, scooters, ancient yugos and all manner of crumbly vehicles that have rusted or been reconstructed beyond recognition. both are technically wide enough to handle one way traffic, but are packed full of enough 2-way transpo to congest a standard 2-lane street. added to that are people, kids, puddles, cats, mass quantities of rubbish. home life is hidden away down alleys and passageways leading off these streets. some are wide enough for scooters (the legal age seems to be about 8), some aren't. the alleys and streets are wet and often full of puddles. it goes without saying that electrical power and water are hot (and poorly managed) commodities. the sky above is dimmed by a tangled mesh of power, water, and phone lines. sometimes the water tubing springs a leak and pedestrians below are treated to unavoidable showers... sometimes not. trash is everywhere. once upon a time, buildings were limited to one story. now, concrete development can only head skyward. which it does. streets are dusty and congested with shops, stands, espresso stands operating out of hatchbacks. fruit and veg stands are gorgeous and have the most beautiful zucchini i've ever seen. honorable mentions to the wild cucumbers, eggplants, figs, watermelon, and potatoes. butchers manage the life-death transition tactfully, handling the sheep right around when i walk home from here (10/11 pm). the process is more riveting than i care to admit. shawarma, mechaoui, and felafel are the choicest market sustenance and all cost around a dollar/ 1500 lira.
life at home: my 5 roommates and i are a 45 second walk from school. down the alley, left turn at the skinny skinny passageway, right turn at the rubbish heap and up 4 very narrow, irregular, crooked flights of cement stairs. our 2 rooms are directly to your left when you enter, bathroom to the right, kitchen straight ahead. our bedroom window open onto a cinder block wall, no gap. the kitchen window opens directly into our neighbor's living room. they have tv and it's always on. power outages are a fact of life. the generator is inconsistent. fortunately, cell phones all come with a flashlight function. fan-less, window-less sleep is my least favorite aspect of the outages. other side effects include irregular refrigeration, disrupted dvd viewing, blackout showers, dinner in the dark, etc. water is more regular, as was hot water until this week. shatila's water is supplied by 2 incredibly saline wells. spigots are encrusted in salt, as are soap bottles. soap doesn't lather much in that kind of water. hair gets scummy. skin is eternally sticky. salty tooth brushing is nasty but hasn't yet made anyone ill.
life at school: 4 narrow floors. a dentist office, kitchen, and social work office on the first. classrooms on two and three. a stage and assembly area with tented roof on top. classrooms are simple, but come equipped with tables, chairs, and ceiling fans. most of us have dry erase boards; salma's dry erase board was repurposed as a table top supported by 6 precarious cardboard boxes. she and i share a room, our 2 classes at opposite ends. my room has the window-- a blessing and a curse. blessings are the breeze and the neighbor's pet birds that sing to me all afternoon. curses are the neighbor's children who heckle my students and play target practice on us with bread. the rooftop has been a haven for overcrowded classes-- until tuesday, when ibrahim was desperately trying to behave himself during round 2 of "a cool breeze blows" (thank you julie*) and a different set of heckling neighbor kids tossed a bucket of water right on his head. he was soaked for the rest of the lesson. he still earned his star for the day :)
conclusion: laughter, joy, and serious human decency thrive despite conditions in shatila... our apartment is a joyful place. our building is a welcoming, giving, sharing place. neighbors and shopkeepers look after one other. just today, the manoush guy and morning water vendor commented on my slow-but-steady arabic improvement. it's crowded, airless, and seriously in need of infrastructural overhaul. but the people remain, and the people are beautiful.
photos: shatila's skyline; bourj el barajneh's; the view from casa shatila; abed's preferred learning environment-- the dollhouse in the corner of my side of our shared classroom; my afternoon class-- rough and tumble turned to butter [thank you for the magical wireless connection beirut sheraton four points :) ]
life in the street: there are 2 main streets in our neck of shatila. both can fit taxis, scooters, ancient yugos and all manner of crumbly vehicles that have rusted or been reconstructed beyond recognition. both are technically wide enough to handle one way traffic, but are packed full of enough 2-way transpo to congest a standard 2-lane street. added to that are people, kids, puddles, cats, mass quantities of rubbish. home life is hidden away down alleys and passageways leading off these streets. some are wide enough for scooters (the legal age seems to be about 8), some aren't. the alleys and streets are wet and often full of puddles. it goes without saying that electrical power and water are hot (and poorly managed) commodities. the sky above is dimmed by a tangled mesh of power, water, and phone lines. sometimes the water tubing springs a leak and pedestrians below are treated to unavoidable showers... sometimes not. trash is everywhere. once upon a time, buildings were limited to one story. now, concrete development can only head skyward. which it does. streets are dusty and congested with shops, stands, espresso stands operating out of hatchbacks. fruit and veg stands are gorgeous and have the most beautiful zucchini i've ever seen. honorable mentions to the wild cucumbers, eggplants, figs, watermelon, and potatoes. butchers manage the life-death transition tactfully, handling the sheep right around when i walk home from here (10/11 pm). the process is more riveting than i care to admit. shawarma, mechaoui, and felafel are the choicest market sustenance and all cost around a dollar/ 1500 lira. 
life at home: my 5 roommates and i are a 45 second walk from school. down the alley, left turn at the skinny skinny passageway, right turn at the rubbish heap and up 4 very narrow, irregular, crooked flights of cement stairs. our 2 rooms are directly to your left when you enter, bathroom to the right, kitchen straight ahead. our bedroom window open onto a cinder block wall, no gap. the kitchen window opens directly into our neighbor's living room. they have tv and it's always on. power outages are a fact of life. the generator is inconsistent. fortunately, cell phones all come with a flashlight function. fan-less, window-less sleep is my least favorite aspect of the outages. other side effects include irregular refrigeration, disrupted dvd viewing, blackout showers, dinner in the dark, etc. water is more regular, as was hot water until this week. shatila's water is supplied by 2 incredibly saline wells. spigots are encrusted in salt, as are soap bottles. soap doesn't lather much in that kind of water. hair gets scummy. skin is eternally sticky. salty tooth brushing is nasty but hasn't yet made anyone ill. 
life at school: 4 narrow floors. a dentist office, kitchen, and social work office on the first. classrooms on two and three. a stage and assembly area with tented roof on top. classrooms are simple, but come equipped with tables, chairs, and ceiling fans. most of us have dry erase boards; salma's dry erase board was repurposed as a table top supported by 6 precarious cardboard boxes. she and i share a room, our 2 classes at opposite ends. my room has the window-- a blessing and a curse. blessings are the breeze and the neighbor's pet birds that sing to me all afternoon. curses are the neighbor's children who heckle my students and play target practice on us with bread. the rooftop has been a haven for overcrowded classes-- until tuesday, when ibrahim was desperately trying to behave himself during round 2 of "a cool breeze blows" (thank you julie*) and a different set of heckling neighbor kids tossed a bucket of water right on his head. he was soaked for the rest of the lesson. he still earned his star for the day :) conclusion: laughter, joy, and serious human decency thrive despite conditions in shatila... our apartment is a joyful place. our building is a welcoming, giving, sharing place. neighbors and shopkeepers look after one other. just today, the manoush guy and morning water vendor commented on my slow-but-steady arabic improvement. it's crowded, airless, and seriously in need of infrastructural overhaul. but the people remain, and the people are beautiful.
photos: shatila's skyline; bourj el barajneh's; the view from casa shatila; abed's preferred learning environment-- the dollhouse in the corner of my side of our shared classroom; my afternoon class-- rough and tumble turned to butter [thank you for the magical wireless connection beirut sheraton four points :) ]
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