Top 5 Christmas Songs

1. O Holy Night by Celine Dion or Trinity Church Choir

2. Do You Hear What I Hear?
Whitney Houston's "Do You Hear What I Hear?"

3. The Carol of the Bells

4. The Holly and the Ivy

5. Little Drummer Boy

6. O Come All Ye Faithful

A small success

When I first started teaching, my former AP US History teacher told me to always remember the small successes.

With all the crap and foolishness that is my classroom, on Friday we had a moment. A student threw his trash to the basket and missed.
Of course, this violated 2 classroom rules:
1) No throwing things.
2) Wait until the end of class to throw things away.

He missed and someone asked if he was going to put it in the bin. "That's the janitor's job," he responded.

So even though this conversation had nothing to do with the lesson on City States in Mesopotamia, I asked, "Hmmm. Does anyone have a problem with that?"

And two girls schooled him, about respecting people, no matter what their job. They didn't get so much into the personal responsibility aspects. I had just explained the homework which was to compare the social hierarchy in ancient Sumer to our society today. Ironic.

In the end, he caved. "Okay, okay." He muttered as he picked up the trash he threw, and put it in the waste basket.

Eat, Pray, Love

If you can get past Elizabeth Gilbert's self-absorption and pretentiousness, in your eagerness to discover (what are expected/promised) profound insights, interesting cultural revelations, or even any meaningful personal confrontation or transformation, you will find them all sorely missing.I actually couldn't finish it.

In Colbert's Studio Audience

The burning question: Would Steven Colbert be as cute in real life as he is on television?

The answer: A resounding yes.

On Monday, August 11, 2009, I showed up at 54th and 10th at 3 in the afternoon where 4 people had already lined up for standby tickets. The website said to get there at 4. A friend, however, assured me that I should be there much earlier than the advertised time. We're talking about a free event, in New York, in the summer. He was so right.

At 4, they started writing our names down and told us to come back at 5:15. At around 5:40, they started calling the names. About 7 people on standby line got in, and there must have been at least 25 rejects. My # was 68.



While we were in the holding pen where they do security and entertained us with old episodes of the Colbert Report, they gave us the ground rules and the run-down. "There are no food, drinks or cameras in the studio. Don't try to give Steven anything, or yell anything out, like 'Hi Grandma' or you'll be escorted out." Another stand-up comedian would come out first, "to warm us up." And then Steven would come out "out of character" for a question and answer session.

"This is the only time you'll see him out of character. You do know that this is a character, right?"

Right. . . Actually, I hadn't really thought about that.

Then they told us it was our job to laugh. "Steven comes from an improv background. He feeds off your energy." They made us hoop and cheer, and compared us with last night's audience. Our first whoop was lame in comparison, but the next beat them.


(Excuse the blur; it was taken with my clandestine camera.)

So I composed my question. . . "What guest surprised you the most?" Ummm. Kind of lame. He's probably already answered that a million times. . . . New question: "I recently moved to New York and will be teaching 9th grade in the South Bronx this year, what are your words of advice?" My Canadian queue-mates approved.

I didn't get a chair; I sat on the stairs on the side by the railing. The last three people had to stand. The stand-up comedian was okay; he just made fun of the people in the audience. But then Colbert came out. He ran around like he always does at the beginning of the show, kicking and flailing his arms, and making eyes at the special few. See me in the audience, at the top right, clapping my hands over my head.


(Thanks, Nate, for the screenshot!)

The first question was totally dumb: "Would you prefer a third nipple or an eleventh finger?" Since he was "out of character" he should have just made fun of her. But he's a nice person and entertained it. Then "Whose idea was it to shave your head?" After that he talked about the difference between real-life Steven Colbert and the character. He said the character has to act stupid, and that he would like the chance to sound knowledgeable. He said that he and Jon Stewart talked about trading interview styles one night; he would really enjoy that.

I didn't get that. He doesn't come off as a total idiot on the show. But yes, the interview style is slightly annoying. It seemed the major theme they were trying to hit home was that this is a CHARACTER.

I had my hand up at every opportunity, but I didn't get picked. He answered about 5 questions.

Then they got ready for the show. Heavy, rock and roll music was blasting. 2 security guards were posted; both black men. There were five big cameras, manned by 4 white men and 1 black man. The director was a white guy. Two white guys were standing across the table from him, going over the script, obviously writers. And then two women came out, a Latina and a black woman, to powder his nose and put his mike on.

He was dancing and laughing and making jokes with everyone. When the lady powdered his nose and patted down the stray hairs behind his ear, he mirrored her and pushed her stray hairs back, too, while stroking her head. . . Did I mention how cute he is?

Then it was time to start. The director started counting down with 10. At about 5, Steven yelled out, "Have a good show, everyone." At 3, the director turned to us--the studio audience--and waved his arm over his head--our cue to start whooping and yelling.

If you watched the episode, you would have seen that he used his shoe as a microwave for his burrito. When it cut to the pre-recorded stuff, he was spitting it out and trying to get it all out of his mouth. We, the studio audience, were laughing, which was not a time to laugh on the pre-recorded video. I wonder if that came out on TV?

So what do I take away from this experience?

The man has a lot of energy. Everything was engineered to pump him up. Rock and roll music blared at every break. It kind of reminded me of Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential where he describes all the chefs snorting cocaine before the rush of the pre-theatre crowd. I'm not saying anyone was doing drugs or anything. . .

But then that leads me to think of the times I've been accused, two specifically come to mind, by middle and high school students of smoking crack. (And then being so mean because I didn't share any of it with them.) And having gone through the miserable, demeaning, humiliating process of the job search that for me entailed 16 interviews and 5 demo lessons in front of classes of students I had never met, I have a new respect for performances.

So this led me to wonder what a teacher can learn from Colbert. What would it be like for me to "pump" myself up every morning before school? And then what would it be like to have a whole team of people (and a studio audience) to pump me up while I was at it? Being a teacher is a constant performance, and I have to be "in character"--an adult that teenagers should take seriously. But then again, a classroom isn't a teacher's performance; it's a students' workshop. They do the work; I direct, I coach, I guide, I inspire, blah, blah, blah.

But man, was Colbert ever inspiring? How does someone do that day in and day out? I always thought being a teacher was a hard job. Maybe I should start blaring rock and roll music between class periods.

"Unequal America"-some excerpts

Some excerpts from the article "Unequal America: Causes and consequences of the wide-and growing-gap between rich and poor" by Elizabeth Gudrais in Harvard Magazine, July-August 2008.

. . .the United States also does less than most other rich democracies to redistribute income from the rich to the poor.
. . .
There is little question that it is bad for one’s health to be poor. Americans at the 95th income percentile or higher can expect to live nine years longer than those at the 10th percentile or lower.
. . .
As further evidence of a correlation between inequality and consumption culture, he points to national spending on advertising as a percentage of gross domestic product (GDP). The top-ranked countries on this measure, according to United Nations (UN) data, are Colombia, Brazil, and Venezuela—countries with inequality levels among the highest in the world—but also Australia, New Zealand, the United Kingdom (U.K.), and the United States, countries with higher inequality than similarly prosperous peers.
. . .
Japan comes second only to Denmark in terms of equal-income distribution among its inhabitants, according to United Nations data. And life expectancy at birth for the Japanese is 82.3 years, compared to Americans’ 77.9 years, even though per-capita GDP in the United States is about $10,000 more than in Japan.
. . .
One widely used measure of inequality is the Gini coefficient, named for Italian statistician Corrado Gini, who first articulated the concept in 1912. The coefficient measures income distribution on a scale from zero (where income is perfectly equally distributed among all members of a society) to one (where a single person possesses all the income). For the United States, the Gini coefficient has risen from .35 in 1965 to .44 today. On the per-capita GDP scale, our neighbors are Sweden, Switzerland, and the U.K.; on the Gini scale, our neighbors include Sri Lanka, Mali, and Russia.
. . .
In 1965, the average salary for a CEO of a major U.S. company was 25 times the salary of the average worker. Today, the average CEO’s pay is more than 250 times the average worker’s. At the same time, the government is doing less to redistribute income than it has at times in the past. The current top marginal tax rate—35 percent—is not the lowest it’s been—there was no federal income tax at all until 1913—but it is far lower than the 91-percent tax levied on top earners from 1951 to 1963. Meanwhile, forces such as immigration and trade policy have put pressure on wages at the bottom.
. . .
Americans and Europeans also tend to disagree about the causes of poverty. In a different survey—the World Values Survey, including 40 countries—American respondents were much more likely than European respondents (71 percent versus 40 percent) to agree with the statement that the poor could escape poverty if they worked hard enough. Conversely, 54 percent of European respondents, but only 30 percent of American respondents, agreed with the statement that luck determines income.
. . .
As American neighborhoods have become more integrated along racial lines, they have become more segregated along income lines and, some research indicates, with regard to all manner of other factors, including political and religious beliefs. (The Big Sort, a new book by journalist Bill Bishop, examines this evidence.) What’s more, even along racial lines, American society is still far from integrated. Sociologist David R. Williams, Norman professor of public health and professor of African and African American studies, has examined racial discrimination and health in the United States and elsewhere, including South Africa, where in 1991, under apartheid, the “segregation index” was 90, meaning that 90 percent of blacks would have had to move to make the distribution even. “In the year 2000,” says Williams, “in most of America’s larger cities—New York City, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee—the segregation index was over 80.” Only slightly lower, that is, than under legally sanctioned apartheid.

When a society is starkly divided along racial or ethnic lines, the affluent are less likely to take care of the poor, Glaeser and Alesina have found. Internationally, welfare systems are least generous in countries that are the most ethnically heterogeneous. Those U.S. states with the largest black populations have the least generous welfare systems. And in a nationwide study of people’s preferences for redistribution, Erzo F.P. Luttmer, associate professor of public policy at the Harvard Kennedy School (HKS), found strong evidence for racial loyalty: people who lived near poor people of the same race were likely to support redistribution, and people who lived near poor people of a different race were less likely to do so. Differences in skin color seem to encourage the wealthy to view the poor as fundamentally different, serving as a visual cue against thinking, “There but for the grace of God go I.”
. . .
Mean household income in 2004 was $60,528, but median household income was only $43,389. More than half of households make less money than average, so, broadly speaking, more than half of voters should favor policies that redistribute income from the top down. Instead, though, nations—and individual states—with high inequality levels tend to favor policies that allow the affluent to hang onto their money.
. . .
Previous research has shown that voter turnout is low, particularly at the low end of the income spectrum, in societies with high inequality. Again, this is counterintuitive: in unequal places, poor people unhappy with government policies might be expected to turn out en masse to vote, but instead they stay home. Campaign contributions may provide the missing link.

Candidates, naturally, target voters with money because they need funds for their campaigns. And since the poor gravitate toward parties that favor redistribution and the wealthy align themselves with parties that do not, campaign contributions end up benefiting primarily parties and candidates whose platforms do not include redistribution. By the time the election comes around, the only candidates left in the race are those who’ve shaped their platforms to maximize fundraising; poor voters, says Campante, have already been left out. In a study of campaign contributions in the 2000 U.S. presidential election, he found that higher income inequality at the county level was associated with fewer people contributing to campaigns, but contributing a larger amount on average—so the haves participated, and the have-nots did not.

. . .

“Adults’ economic status is positively correlated with their parents’ economic status in every society for which we have data,” write Christopher Jencks and Laura Tach, a doctoral student in sociology and social policy, “but no democratic society is entirely comfortable with this fact.” The prospect of upward mobility forms the very bedrock of the American dream, but analyses indicate that intergenerational mobility is no higher in the United States than in other developed democracies. In fact, a recent Brookings Institution report cites findings that intergenerational mobility is actually significantly higher in Norway, Finland, and Denmark—low-inequality countries where birth should be destiny if inequality, as some argue, fuels mobility.

. . .

For most of the twentieth century, the average American exceeded his parents’ education level by a significant margin: between 1900 and 1975, the average American’s educational attainment grew by 6.2 years, or about 10 months per decade. Then, between 1975 and 1990, the authors find that there was “almost no increase at all”; from 1990 to 2000, there was a gain of just six months. Although college graduation rates for women are still rising steadily, for men they have barely increased since the days of the Vietnam draft.

Van Rqm 4

The # 4 van line goes through the heart of Beirut. During the fifteen-year Lebanese Civil War, the Green Line divided East from West Beirut. For the most part, it was a no man's land filled with snipers. Most people never approached or traversed it during that time. Today, you can ride up and down the Green Line on the #4 van for L.L. 1000 (67 cents). It starts in Hay al Jamaa next to Hay Sillum in Dahiye and ends at the American University Hospital in Hamra.

For a year and a half, the Rqm 4 was my daily companion. I found that the cheapest and fastest way to get around Beirut was to figure out a servees trip to and from the main Rqm 4 artery. This way I could get anywhere in the city for L.L. 5000 ($3.33).

Crazy things happen and crazy people are to be found on all modes of public transportation in any city. Here's a story of a particularly harrowing van drive in Dahiye.

The ride started with jerky movements--the kind of fits and starts that make you sit up straight and grab the seat in front of you. After a while, an older guy yelled out, "Tawal balek 3lena", loosely translated as, "Be patient, for our sakes." But our chauffeur, maybe all of 19 years, was in a hurry or just wanted to show off. He got onto a major road, crossed the divide and starting plowing down the street against the traffic. The people around me started shouting, "Ma'oul? (Are you serious?) Against the traffic?"

Now for Lebanese people to say anything is a BIG DEAL. They are so used to these crazy traffic antics, they never seem to notice when their lives are in danger. A couple weeks ago, coming back from the Chouf Mountain, the driver was so keen on filling the van (to make more money) that he had a teenage boy sit in his seat, and then he sat on that guy's lap. So the question is: why was I the only one who said anything? I started shouting "Ma'oul? (Are you serious?) Who's driving here?" The other passengers laughed, and asked where I was from. "You must be new here." The sad thing is, I wasn't new there. Four years of this. Shouldn't I have gotten used to it by now?

But back to our cowboy. He didn't stop. We passengers started looking at each other, and sort of laughed at the same time, because the whole situation was so ridiculous. One guy yelled out, "Why don't you just take us directly to the hospital?"

Then our chauffeur entered a tiny alley, and almost plowed into a car that was parked in the middle of the street. (Of course, this is totally normal and to be expected in these tightly-packed neighborhoods.) But Cowboy got out and started yelling at the other driver! in a self-righteous, indignant tone no-less! This made us laugh even more.

When we got to the major intersection that I live next to, I got out and started walking home. Our driver, however, was continuing in my direction. He drove the van up slowly next to me as I was walking and told me to hop in, and that he would take me home.

"Baddee 3eish," (I want to live.) I told him, as I squelched a smile and kept walking, turning my head to look down at the holes and mud that was the street in front of me.

He gave me a goofy, naughty-looking kid, sort of grin and sped off.

Domestic Workers United Rally

On Saturday April 27, 2009, domestic workers and organizers from around the country met up on 5th Avenue and 86th Street for a rally to support passing the Domestic Workers Bill of Rights in the state of New York. They then marched through the Upper East Side with the green-and-black clad Rude Mechanical Orchestra. Here's a snippet of some audacious, flag-waving action:




Some of the chants included:

"Respect and dignity is a right, not just for the rich and white."

"Trabajadores unidos, jamás serán vencidos." (Workers united, will never be defeated.)

"We're gonna beat, beat back the slavery attack."




"Free, free domestic workers. End, end the slavery."

I didn't like the term "modern-day slavery" when referring to the situation of migrant domestic workers in Lebanon. I didn't find it very useful. In New York, it's even more far-fetched. Though there are more than 200,000 women who enter the United States on A-3, G-5, and B-1 visas--as the domestic help of diplomats, foreign nationals, and US citizens living abroad-- many of whom could be living in imprisoned, abusive conditions.





And out of the blue, they just threw in: "From Iraq to Palestine, occupation is a crime." This is ironic, considering one of the partner organizations was Jews for Racial and Economic Justice. (See their banner in the photo.) I know all Jews aren't Zionists, but I wonder if these guys are. . .



The Rude Mechanical Orchestra played a slightly funky version of "We shall overcome."



And then they ended the march at John Jay Park with the Domestic Workers Electric Slide. Someone had composed some verses to go along with the Boogey-Woogey-Woogey.

Venezuelan arepas

Venezuelan arepas are not like Colombian arepas. Colombian arepas are bigger and thinner; I’ve seen them made outdoors on a barbecue. They both use harina P.A.N. that comes in a yellow bag. I watched my grandma’s sister, Tia Carmen, making them in Plano, Texas on January 4, 2009.

Ingredients:
Harina P.A.N. in the yellow bag
Salt
Butter
A good skillet
Toaster oven

1) Put about three inches of water in a mixing bowl, and some salt.

2) Start pouring in the harina P.A.N. little by little, using your hand to mix it. Keep pouring it in until it becomes the consistency of Play-Doh. Keep kneading it throughout.

3) Make balls. (You might need to wet your palms a little.) The balls should be about as big as your hand is cupped when your thumb is touching all four other fingers. Leave them in the mixing bowls.

4) Put a skillet on the stove and set it on high. Let it get hot.
(The skillet is key. It needs to be the right thickness and work well with your stove. If that combination doesn’t work, the arepas won’t come out right.)

5) Put butter on the skillet. You can use the diet, fake butter spray.

6) Between your palms, smash the harina balls and flatten them into little, thick pancakes, about the size of your palm. With your thumb, go over the outside edges to make them smooth.

7) Let them sit on the skillet for at least 15 minutes, turning them every once in a while. It takes a long time for them to cook. They should slowly turn brown. They should not burn at all. If they do, the skillet isn’t thick enough.

8) If you want to eat them right away, put them in the toaster oven at 150 degrees for about 5 minutes. If not, put them in the fridge, and then put them in the toaster-oven when you’re ready to eat them.

9) Slice the side with a knife. Steam should come out. Put butter, white cheese, perrico, or whatever else inside.

Guacamole Recipe

Since so many of you have asked me. . .

I learned the proper way to make guacamole from Ana's mom and grandma in Cayuga, Guatemala.

1) So the most important thing is the quality of the avocados. If they are hard, you can put them in a brown, grocery bag which will help them ripen faster.

2) Start with a big bowl and a cheese grater. Take a small onion (it can be white or red) and grate it with a cheese grater. This will create a lot of liquid.

3) Chop up a small tomato. It doesn't have to be super-small, tabboule-size. You don't have to add in all the juice into the bowl with the onion.

4) Add about three teaspoons of lemon juice and a lot of salt. Stir up the onion/tomato/lemon juice/salt mixture. (Actually, I kind of have no idea about the quantities. . . .I know, I know, what kind of recipe is this?)

5) Some people add fresh garlic (beat with a mortar and pestle). But I don't. I think it's too strong. You can also be daring and put in some chili powder, but be careful!

6) With a big spoon, chunk out the avocado, keeping the chunks as big as possible. And leave in the pits. (It helps keep it from going brown.)

7)With a fork, blend in the avocado with the mixture. Keep it chunky. Avoid at all costs liquidy guacamole.

8) Chop us fresh cilantro finely, and put it on top. Don't mix it in. Some people gag from cilantro, so you want them to be able to get to the guacamole that hasn't touched it.

The Lemon Tree (Movie Review)

The Lemon Tree depicts the core conflict that daily confronts the Israeli people: How much human suffering must be incurred in order to ensure reasonable security? Israeli director and co-screen writer Eran Riklis's newest film opens with the Israeli Defense Minister moving into a new house right next to the Green Line dividing Israel from the West Bank. The Secret Service forces him to cut down the lemon grove of his widowed Palestinian neighbor, for his family’s safety and "because a terrorist might cross into Israel through the grove." The protagonist, 45-year old Salma, played by Hiam Abbas, has grown up with the lemon grove that her father planted 50 years earlier. Besides remittances from her son in the US, it is her only source of income. When it is decided that it must be destroyed, Salma, “the Palestinian Erin Brockovich” as Riklis dubs her, fights it all the way to the Israeli Supreme Court.

Before last night's screening at the Jewish Community Center on the Upper West Side, Riklis claimed that he wanted to depict the lives of real people, that he wanted to get past politics, that showing the reality is the best hope for the future. He hopes that the film would hit viewers at an emotional level. This reality made it unpalatable for many Israelis, though it received accolades at film festivals throughout Europe.

It is surprising to see an Israeli director, with funds from the Israeli Ministry of Culture, make a movie that brings to light such an appalling feature of Israeli state policy. With the construction of the Security Wall between the West Bank and Israel, more stories of uprooted olive trees have come to light. It's not a new policy of the Israeli state. In the movie itself, we hear that "1,000 (have to confirm this number) trees have been cut down in the last three months." But ultimately, no one but an Israeli could have made this movie. By reinforcing the same stereotypes and scripts about Palestinians, and vindicating Israel's policy, the film ultimately props up an Israeli agenda, and like most of the media, makes a just and peaceful solution to the Arab-Israeli conflict even more untenable.

The central tension of the movie is played out in the relationship between the two female neighbors. Throughout the movie, they look at each other silently through the recently-constructed wire fence. They have chances to speak to each other, but it only happens once. Surrounded by the media and her husband, Mira, the wife of the Israeli Defense Minister, apologizes for stealing some lemons when the caterer for her house-warming party forgot to bring some. Later in the movie, Mira climbs the fence to visit Salma in her house, defying the security guards.

Mira is complicated. Though the viewer anticipates her being drawn to the side of her neighbor, she initially supports her husband's decision. Later, at her party, she is the one who hears the terrorists in the grove, before the first grenade is thrown. As an audience member, you see her dilemma, which is the dilemma of all Israelis. She emotionally connects with her fellow lonely female neighbor, but at the same time she is concerned for her own safety.

Mira is the one who tries to make contact with her neighbor--by being the only one who speaks and by climbing over the fence. In every interaction, Salma remains absolutely silent. The puppy-dog, victimized, almost blank look on her face didn't change throughout the film. It reminded me of Frodo in Lord of the Rings. I kept wondering, how long must we, the audience, be subjected to that pitiful gaze? And the one time a private, personal connection could have been made, Mira (having climbed the fence) sees Salma through the kitchen window, heaped over the counter, weeping. Salma is an object of pity.

In the Q & A period, I questioned Riklis about this depiction of the protagonist. Before the screening, he said he enjoyed working with Hiam Abbass so much in The Syrian Bride (2004) that he wanted to create a new script where she could be the showcase star. And she was in all the trailers and reviews. And yet, he smothers her. She is the stereotypical Arab woman, who for the most part is silent (until her big, moving speech in the courtroom at the end of the movie.) Her disempowered condition is seen in her inability to communicate with or understand basic things that happen around her, since she doesn't speak Hebrew. She must rely on the men to translate for her. (Abbas in The Syrian Bride is a fully bilingual person in her bicultural environment.) Like any Arab woman, she shows her affection and love by making food and cleaning.

She’s also a little strange. She wakes in her bed in the middle of the night, hearing the sounds of the fruit dropping when the grove has not been tended. (It hasn't been tended because the Secret Service enclosed it with a fence and forbade her to go inside. She still sneaks in, though.) She's so ingrained in her traditions, in her poverty, in her land, and she's so lonely that she feels that she should be part of the wolves’ clan that she hears at night coming from the ravine below.

I can identify with Mira. She has to deal with conflicting loyalties. She makes unexpected decisions. She shows courage by attempting to reach out to her neighbor.

But I can't identify with Salma.

The biggest emotional punch for me in the movie, however, was the scene where Salma started throwing lemons at the wire fence. It was the same scene I've seen my whole life—Palestinians throwing rocks against tanks. She’s the crazy, irrational, violent, stubborn Palestinian fighting for her survival against a juggernaut with absolutely no realistic expectation of changing anything. Her fighting in the Israeli judicial system is the same example, though non-violent. Is she an Erin Brockovich? or an irrational, stubborn victim, continuing to fight when all the odds are stacked against her? Her Palestinian lawyer also fits the stereotype--exploiting this case and the surrounding media coverage to land a job with the Palestinian National Authority. Because according to the stereotype, Palestinians don’t try to really help each other, they, instead, use each other for personal advantage.

Other members of the audience seemed to think that the budding romantic relationship between Salma and her young lawyer showed her chutzpah, as well. I strongly resist the tired plotline of a woman oppressed by her traditional society finding her liberation in a sexually illicit affair. Thankfully, Riklis spares us from that.

The director seemed genuinely surprised, and slightly offended, by my comment that I felt that Hiam Abbas's character was static and stereotyped. "How else could I have depicted her?"

That question, for me, sealed the deal. . . This is what it comes down to—

In his eyes, a Palestinian woman really isn't a person. How can she make her own decisions? How can she do something that would surprise an audience member? How can she have internal conflicts with uncertain resolutions?

"You don't know what it's like; that is their society. Those women can't make decisions. They are subjugated by their men. This movie shows her as a hero. How likely would a Palestinian woman stand up for herself?” Riklis said to me.

He believes that Palestinian women cannot stand up for themselves, that they have no voice. It’s the same oft-repeated line of reasoning: that instead of taking responsibility for the effects of their policies, Israelis blame the victims. This line of reasoning follows to a certain conclusion; it goes like this: It is the Palestinian men who keep their women down. It is the Palestinian Muslim terrorist extremists who keep the Palestinians subjugated by fear. These pathetic creatures can't take care of themselves, because their leaders take advantage of them. Therefore democracy doesn't work for them. Therefore we are justified in occupying them.

Presenting Palestinians as objects of pity, as irrational, non-civilized people allows the powers that be to maintain their position. As long as Israelis truly believe that they are better than the Palestinians, they will never leave them to rule themselves--and truly be a democracy, the “only democracy in the Middle East” as they like to call themselves. It is their white man's burden.

I wondered at the beginning of the movie, if it would end with the emotional wallop of bulldozers destroying the lemon grove. Nope. The Israelis being the ultimate just civilization come up with a well-considered nuanced solution that balances all the considerations. The fact that a low-status Palestinian woman even gets her day in court is a testamest to the progressive Israeli society.

But even though the Israelis come off as being ultimately reasonable and clever, the whole premise is fundamentally flawed. There is a legal precedent about "moving to the nuisance." Basically, the Israeli Defense Minister decided to move into a house next to a lemon grove. It was his choice; he didn't have to live there. This isn't a case of eminent domain. So it is unjust to touch her lemon trees, considering he decided to move next to a "security risk."

When I asked the director, "What were the Palestinian critiques of the movie?" he replied, "I don't really look at people's opinions to see if they're Palestinian, or European, or Israeli. It's a human film."

He didn't answer the question. He either didn't know, or just didn't want to say. I think he just didn't know. He did acknowledge at the beginning that it was not favorably received in Israel. Apparently he didn't seek out the opinions of Palestinians. Perhaps because the co-writer of the script is Palestinian, the main actress is Palestinian, and he likes to think of himself as a progressive person who doesn't really harbor any discrimination and racism. Who doesn't like to think of himself as free of discrimination and racism?

The color-blind stance, however, is a position of power. Only the powered majority can use it, such as white people in the US and Israelis in Palestine. Rilkis didn't intend to make a racist (ethnicist?), ultimately destructive movie. He really thought he was doing good. But by presenting and reinforcing the same stereotypes of the Other, the powerful maintain their power. It is what it is—a movie directed by an Israeli, funded by the Israeli government. It ultimately serves the purposes of the Israeli State by vindicating and justifying what critics would claim to be heartless, unjust policies.

Pillow Fight Distraction

On April 4th, the Bail Out the People--Not the Banks movement staged a demonstration on Wall Street. But somehow, at about the same time, it just so happened that the World Pillow Fight Day was being staged also on Wall Street. What an interesting coincidence?!?!



It was kind of cute––seeing people smack each other with pillows, feathers flying everywhere, even into our 12th story apartment. Police were out in full force. Every once in a while, they would yell over a blow horn to have people move out of the way to allow an emergency vehicle to pass.

In Lebanon, demonstrations were always kind of scary. With all the crowds, and no police really, I was always looking for potential escape routes. This didn't have that same kind of feeling. But I knew there was something sinister about it. It makes perfect sense for those Wall Street Fat Cats to distract the people from the protests against them.

A peaceful demonstration. A successful distraction. God bless America!

In Memory of Martin Luther King, Jr:
Announcing a
National March On WALL STREET
April 3 while Wall St is Open;
continued April 4

Assemble at 1 pm Friday, April 3
at the Intersection of Wall & Broadway, and at
12 Noon Saturday April 4 at Wall and Nassau
(The Stock Exchange)
Bail Out the People Not the Banks!

Israel's economic warfare on Palestine

This was buried in an article about the effects of remittances on development and international politics.

"Controls on remittances as a form of economic warfare have been most evident in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In 2000, Israel drastically reduced the number of work permits for Palestinians because of security concerns and instead imported roughly a quarter of a million foreign workers, mostly from East Asia and Africa. Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza saw their gross national income per capita decline by about 30 percent in 2001 and 2002 combined. In contrast, remittance outflows from Israel tripled in the 1990s, to nearly $3 billion in 2001."

--Devesh Kapur and John McHale, "Migration's New Payoff", Foreign Policy, Nov/Dec 2003, p. 55.

Why it’s hard to concentrate

I’m checking my e-mail at an Internet café that’s part of a Filipina restaurant. Behind me, the owner is helping her 4th grade son with his English homework. In a shrill voice, she’s explaining the difference between singular and plural, while running back and forth to the kitchen as she’s preparing food. Her explanation and her own English grammar is somewhat lacking. I feel a slight pinge of guilt and an even slighter impulse to intervene, but I ignore it, while I continue checking my e-mail.

Her son is concentrating. He’s really trying to understand and get all the worksheet “problems” correct. The shrill voice doesn’t seem to bother him. This isn’t her normal voice. It’s her English-teaching voice. I find it shrill and grating; her son must be used to it.

At the table next to them, Palestinian husband/dad is smoking shisha with his three friends, joking loudly in Arabic. Instead of the regular hose, however, he’s using a bamboo stick. I’ve never seen anyone smoking arguile through bamboo.

People walk in and out, announcing themselves with a “Come sta?” or an ironic “Salaam wa lekom” which induces laughter.

Soon enough, the karaoke might start. It'll be hard to resist belting out my faves--"Me and Bobby McGee", "Ice, Ice Baby", "Baby got Back" if I'm feeling particularly obnoxious, or "Take a Look at Me Now" if I'm feeling particularly depressed. And since it's Filipina's, I can also choose from some Christian classics, like "Amazing Grace."

I’m grateful that no one’s asking me to help. They know “auntie” is an American who teaches English. They also know that “auntie” charges a lot of money for her services. So I’m left to the computer with all the normal mayhem behind me. The wall is a mirror, so I can just look up and check out the action. This is my new favorite spot.

I hadn’t seen Marie in weeks

I saw her today. Usually in the mornings, when I’m eating, I stand at the window and look for her. If it’s after 7, which is when the mom leaves with the kids, she’ll stand at the window. We’ll balcony talk, or she’ll just signal me to go into the hall where she can open the door.

I hadn’t seen her in weeks. And I don’t think I made any major change to my routine. She wasn’t coming to the window. A couple days ago, Lilu, the Sri Lankan woman who cleans for us twice a week, told me that another Lebanese woman saw me talking to Marie and the other Malagasy woman who lives on the other side of me. So that even though I was trying to be so careful not to get anyone in trouble, I probably got Marie in trouble.

When I saw her today at the window, she told me to come to the inside hall, where she opened the door. She is still trapped inside the apartment by an outer iron gate. But through the bars of the gate, we can talk and pass things back and forth. She said she really missed me. She was smiling and really excited to be talking to me. She said that the madame is actually good. It’s just the kids who are very bad—“tres bravade” (or something like that.) They kick her. They insult her. “You’re black. You’re ugly. You smell.” So instead of being abused by the madame (the one who statistically commits most of the abuse), this woman is being tormented by a three and four-year old.

The last time I had seen her she had asked me to bring her perfume. I brought her deodorant instead, which she was happy with.

Then she wanted to pray. We held hands through the iron bar. I started in English. She finished in Malagasy. I kind of hugged her, and then kissed her on the cheek. I told her I was leaving, and that if she needs anything she can ask my roommate or Lilu. Tears were shed. Allah m3ha.

Sunday's Sit-In for Migrant Domestic Workers

We put it together in a week and a half. Check out the media coverage and the pictures: Al Akhbar, Al-Mustaqbal, As-Safir, iloubnan, Facebook.

We had a fun time making the posters, thinking of appropriate slogans that would be edgy enough, but not invoke completely defensive reactions. Since it was on the occasion of International Women’s Day, we said “Migrant Domestic Workers Rights = Women’s Rights= Human Rights”. Then we did personal-ish statements along the lines of, “I worked for three years and never received my salary.” A particularly weird, fun, thought-provoker (and personal favorite) was “The Mister Beats Madame Everyday.” I made that poster.

“F--- this racist, backward country!” was suggested by a friend in an e-mail. But I didn’t suggest that in the meeting, so as not to throw off our Lebanese-foreigner coalition. (But I still get a good hoot thinking about that one!)

When an Ethiopian woman showed up to the café to work on the posters, we got the idea that they should be in different languages. So Hayeon went to El Dorado to recruit some Filipinas to get some posters written in Tagalog. The day of, we got some Sri Lankans to write other posters, right on the sidewalk. The other organizers told me 20 posters would be more than enough. I made 35, and they were all used.

About 100 people came, which the other organizers were very surprised and happy about it, but still left me disappointed. I was hoping there would be more migrants. On Tuesday, I went around the Filipina section of Hamra with Liberty, another Filipina. We put posters on the walls and talked to shop and restaurant owners. Sometimes we were met with suspicion, "Why are you helping us?" Other times, we were met with sincere enthusiasm: “The government is really going to change?” “You think the Lebanese will really care about this?” “Thanks for helping us.” And then I’d be invited to sit and eat. It helps A LOT to be an American. Once they realize I’m not Lebanese, barriers go down, and a certain level of trust is extended.

My main East African organizational contacts were all booked. The Ethiopian churches had a big mission conference that weekend. The Malagasys were having a meeting with their consulate in Dora. The Sudanese had a big funeral. But since it was going to be in Hamra on a Sunday, I figured we could just get random passers-by the day of. That didn't really work. Of course, people were thrown off by the cameras.

Out of the almost 1000 people on our Facebook group, and 77 confirmed guests, about 5 new faces showed up.

When I told the other organizers I made 400 copies of the fact sheet, I was met with, “Wow, Jane, thinking big.” We ran out after 40 minutes, and someone had to make more. Someone said, “100.” I said, “200,” knowing that wouldn’t be enough. I was right. We handed out all the copies. People in their cars were stopping, asking for the papers, curious about what was going on. Demonstrations and protests, with people holding up funny, colorful signs isn’t too common a site in Lebanon.

Shout outs go to the Feminist Collective (for rallying tons of supporters in cool, black T-shirts), the AUB UNESCO club (for donating funds), IndyAct, CRTDA and Kafaa (for officially sponsoring it), and to Nadim from Human Rights Watch (for all his moral support and vision).

Now, it's time to plan for May Day!

I left my wallet in the taxi

So the guy went to my old school because I had my ID in there and to AUB because I had my hospital card in there. But he didn't leave the wallet at any of those places. Instead, AUB called me and tried to get him to come to campus to give it to me. But he refused. So I had my Lebanese friend go meet him and get it from him.

When I spoke to the guy on the phone, he told me of all his efforts to find me, driving everywhere, Facebooking me, etc. I told him I'd pay him L.L.50,000 ($33). He said, "Just..." So then I told him I'd think about it.

I told my friend to give him $50, but the guy refused. Having found a $100 bill inside, he said he would take that, otherwise I wouldn't get the wallet back.

We had no choice but to give it to him.

So then the guy friends me on Facebook. Of course, I subscribe to the mantra that just because we're friends on Facebook doesn't mean we're friends in real life. . . but was he seriously???? The jerk steals from me, and then wants to befriend me on Facebook.

Being Lebanese, he must think it's normal to extort money from people. I mean it would have been weird if he didn't, right?

More New Neighbors

My neighbor, Marie Monique’s, teeth hurt. She stands at the window and puts her hand at her check and shuts her eyes and squinches her face to show me that her teeth hurt. The people who live next door to me obviously aren’t doing anything about it. I asked her, “Doctor?” and she shook her head no. So through the iron outer gate, she opened the door and I gave her a little bottle of Advil, explaining in my bad French, 2 every 4 hours, no more than 6 in one day.

Then she introduced me to my other neighbor. I had no idea that right next to me on the other side is another Malagasy woman named Lala. Actually the entrance to her building is different from mine. But if I stick my body partly out the window, I can hand her stuff. She speaks some English.

I gave her a kid’s school book to practice from. I called Aimee, the woman in charge of the Malagasy church, and handed Lala the phone. She was beaming. Lala’s sister lives in Saida (a city about 1 ½ hours south of Beirut). But she has never seen her. She never gets to leave the house. And she always has her ears perked, to listen if the madame is coming. She gets very nervous when we talk, and once she just left. I’ve only talked to her twice.

Then I met the woman who lives two floors down from me. She’s Ethiopian. We were yelling in Arabic, so there was a lot of room for miscommunication. She’s also locked in the house, and has been for two years. She said, “Ba3rif. Haram.” (I know. Poor me.) And shrugged her shoulder, with a sad look in her eyes, but a smile on her face. I didn’t understand her smile, as if she were looking on the bright side. . .

Then I went inside to the hallway and talked to Marie Monique. And then we prayed. We hold hands through the iron gate, and we each pray in our own language. Those of you who read my blog and believe in prayer, please pray for these women—a lot.

Olive Oil Tasting

Many of you have probably attended wine tastings (though I never have.) Last night, however, I went to an olive oil tasting. Some people tell me this is becoming popular in the U.S.

I went to a very small restaurant/bar in Genmayze, where 14 of us were seated at a long table. A woman from a local NGO explained to us how most Lebanese olive oil is garbage. Though of course the Lebanese and people from the villages are very proud of their traditional agricultural products.

Extra virgin is cold pressed and has no more than .8% acidity. But even if oil passes the laboratory tests for acidity and peroxide levels, it still can't be considered "extra virgin" until a professional taster deems it as such. If olive oil is labeled "pure", "refined", or "light", run the other way--full speed! Its taste and acidity has been chemically controlled.

In 2004, 3% of olive oil production in Lebanon was classified as extra virgin. Today, through the work of NGOs educating small farmers (defined as having less than 5 dollum, 5,000 square feet), who are 50% of the growers, the production is now at 10%.

It's a very sensitive process that entails not hitting the trees with sticks (which also stymies their production the following season), to not putting them in bags but leaving them in crates, to taking them to the press in less than 48 hours, and using a modern mill, instead of the traditional stone ones (which are 87% in Lebanon) because that exposes the paste to air which starts fermentation.

The ideal time to harvest is in October when the color changes from green to black. But Lebanese farmers usually wait until later in the season when the olives are fatter.

I was riveted by all this information.

Then came the practicum.

In front of me were 5 plastic cups with some olive oil. Foil covered the tops, and they were labeled A through E. With full concentration, we were to hold the cup in front of us, and then put it in the palm of our other hand, turning it in a small circle, to mix it up and heat it up. Then we were to smell and put the foil back on.

Then, we were supposed to line them up from best to worst. The best is if you took an olive from the tree and squeezed it. The worst is you're at a stone mill, with a car running outside, the exhaust mixing with people smoking cigarettes, and people stepping on the stuff, and using dirty crates and machines--chemical contamination.

D and E were about the same and the best. They had that robust, distinctive olive oil scent that I've come to appreciate since I've come to Lebanon. A was insipid and bland. B and C were both putrid and chemically.

Then we tasted. I slirped it back, hearing the air slide through my teeth and cross my tongue. In between, I ate apples and drank water to clear my palette.

After that, I deemed E to be the best and C to be the worst.

Check it out!!!

A is the best and most pure.

D and E are contaminated!!!! B and C are the best but a year old, so they got rancid. Olive oil isn't good the following year. It lasts 18 months at the most.

So I thought D and E were the best because that's what I've gotten used to from living here for so long. I'm always eating the real-deal stuff that people buy from their neighbors in the village. And really, it's all contaminated! That robust, distinct flavor is exhaust and cigarettes and other pollutants.

Wow! It's like my whole world has been turned upside-down. . .

Being Black in Lebanon

Being black in Lebanon means you’re a servant.

It means that if you’re sitting on the bus, people will solicit you to come to their house and clean for the going rate of 7,000 L.L./hour (a little less than $5).

It means that if you’re walking with your white friend, and she’s carrying her bag or her baby or her groceries, you will get yelled at for not doing your job.

It means if you’re at a restaurant with non-black people, the wait staff will never ask for your order or expect you to pay.

It means people will ask you, “Are you Sri Lankan or Sudanese?”, and when you answer “American” in a perfect native-speaker American accent (because you don't speak any other language), people will ask, “But are you Sri Lankan or Sudanese?”

It means you are free game for men to grab and touch you.

It means you will be called ugly and “slave” to your face. (Actually this requires an explanatory note. The word “3bd” literally means slave or servant in Arabic. The common name 3bdallah means “Servant of God”.  Arabs use this word to refer to black people. Instead of saying the color black, “aswad”, from which the country name Sudan comes, people say “servant/slave”.)

If you're coming for a visit, be prepared. It helps to not speak Arabic. It's tiring, frustrating, upsetting, offending to know the things they are shouting/whispering/chiding at you on the street and in the homes of your hosts.

My New Neighbor

My new neighbor moved in when I was in New York last month. Her name is Marie Monique, and she's from Madagascar. I can't talk to her very much. But I say things like, "Je m'appelle Jane. Je suis americaine." She came on a contract to work and live in a house as a domestic worker.

The woman who had her position before her, Helen, was from the Phillipines. Helen and I talked a lot. I gave her books to read in English and materials to learn Arabic. The Arabic materials really opened up a whole new world for her. After three years, she was speaking very well, but she never saw it written. Now she could learn the correct sounds and some of the grammar, and she could start to fix her own mistakes. Helen spent most of her time locked in the house alone. (They locked her in out of the common fear/perception/myth that "maids" will run away--after stealing all your stuff.) So she was able to watch a lot of TV, which greatly improved her English.

I see Marie most of the time from my kitchen window when she stands at hers. Across the way, we talk. I'm teaching her Arabic. The sooner she's figuring out what they're saying, the better for her. That's how I figure it.

This morning, I called the pastor of the Malagasy church, a woman who's been here for 10 years. Marie can open the door, but not the iron gate in front of it. So through the bars, I handed her the phone. I'm sure she has not talked to anyone in her language since she arrived. She was asking about making phone calls. Her employers haven't taken her to the centrale to use the phone yet.

What to do? I didn't dare talk to the employers when Helen was there. I didn't want her to get in trouble and make her situation worse. But I wanted to talk to those people after Helen left, before the new woman came. Sadly, I missed my window of opportunity because I was in New York.

My roommate came in late last night from the U.S. She saw me in the hall talking to Marie. I introduced them briefly. Later, all tired and jet-lagged, she mumbled, "Why am I back in such a f--- up country that trades in slaves?"

This woman came to work under a "contract." She will not see her wages for the first three months. (It's illegal under international law for the agencies to do this.) I wonder what it's supposed to be, maybe $100/month? I'll ask. And then I'll ask when she sees it. She doesn't really know what she's in for. In the meantime, I'll try to learn some French.

Wani just called from Sweden

He is very happy and can't believe how much God has blessed him. The only problem is that it's too cold.

He lives in a town about 500 km. north of Stockholm. He's the only Sudanese there. The government will pay him $1000/month for two years. His rent is $500/month. He is taking 4 hours of Swedish a day and 3 hours of music lessons. When he becomes a professional musician, he will earn more than $5000/month with 40% going to taxes.

Waiting and Expecting

I was talking to a Belgian free-lance journalist at a bar this weekend. I asked him how work is. In general, Beirut is a pretty flooded market for foreign free-lance writers. He said it's slow, but he's sure things will pick up in a couple months.

February 14-Hariri trial starts in the Hague
February-Israeli elections
June 7-Parliamentary elections

Frederick Douglass & Migrant Domestic Workers in Lebanon

            My eighth-grade students at the American Community School in Beirut, Lebanon walked in to find a question on the board.  This was the routine.  They opened their journals and started to write their response to, “How does slavery dehumanize?” When they shared their responses, they started with,

“The masters treated them like animals.”

“They would beat them for no reason.”

“They would take the women and rape them.”

“They would separate them from their family members.”  

Then I read to them the passage about Frederick’s new mistress, Sophia Auld.

She was entirely unlike any other white woman I had ever seen. . . . The meanest slave was put fully at ease in her presence, and none left without feeling better for having seen her. Her face was made of heavenly smiles, and her voice of tranquil music.

But, alas! this kind heart had but a short time to remain such. The fatal poison of irresponsible power was already in her hands, and soon commenced its infernal work. That cheerful eye, under the influence of slavery, soon became red with rage; that voice, made all of sweet accord, changed to one of harsh and horrid discord; and that angelic face gave place to that of a demon.[1]

The big bully of the class, Danny, raised his hand and said, “Miss, that’s me. Before we had a maid, I was a nice person.  When we first got her, I treated her nicely.  But now, I just boss her around. I throw things on the floor on purpose, and make her pick them up. I have been dehumanized.”

I found that even after a couple of weeks, I, myself, became like my Lebanese friends, considering it normal to ignore a person because she was the domestic help.  Later, I started attending a church in Beirut where a good third of the congregation are foreign workers. It took a while for me to regain my humanity. I'm still in recovery.

---

[1] Douglass, Frederick, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave Ch. VI, Document maintained at http://sunsite.berkeley.edu/Literature/Douglass/ Autobiography/06.html by the SunSITE Manager. 
Last update 5/14/97. SunSITE Manager: manager@sunsite.berkeley.edu, Accessed on 10/30/2007.

Open letter to Arab Summit in Kuwait (From an E-mail I received)

Beirut, 15 Jan. 2009

Open letter to Arab Summit in Kuwait.

Excellencies kings and presidents of Arab World,

This is a proposal from Arabic citizen to your highness,

Due to very hard situation in Gaza, your excellencies may stop the Arab Oil Exporting for the same period that Israeli aggression may long on Gaza, and the oil will continue exporting with your conditions when the aggression stops.

Best wishes to your excellencies, finding way which stop the aggression.

Arabic citizen

Fareed Mohsen

Responding to some comments

Wally asked, "please let us have your opinion as to why Hamas chooses the most populated areas from which to launch their rockets?"

Matt said I don't need to defend Hamas.

So somehow the media is so genius that straight-up carnage is shown on television. Raw #'s 430 Palestinian, 4 Israelis dead. And yet they talk their way out of the reality.

Self-defense against Hamas terrorism. People shouldn't have to live with the constant threat of rockets.

No, no one should live with the constant threat of rockets.

And no one should have to live with no electricity, no medicine, now no food, no freedom of movement, no ability to work, no way to pursue any kind of future, constant surveillance, constant humiliation, illegal occupation, and NOW this kind of bombardment. This is the worst kind of terror. You can see it with your own eyes.

And yet, it gets spinned. Don't empathize with the Palestinians. Empathize with the Israelis. How does this happen?

1) Israelis are Americans. Arabs are not Americans.

2) Palestinians are terrorists. The media and Israelis keep saying the target is Hamas. Hamas is a bad government. Hamas is terrorists. But Hamas is the democratically elected government of a people who are contending with a peace process that has done nothing for them. Gaza is the area of Detroit. Everyone is related to someone or knows someone in Hamas. To some extent there are weapons anywhere, and most of the people would have no idea.

Israel can say they are going after military, terrorist, Hamas targets. But when you ask them what it is. It's the whole of Gaza. Those guys in New York told me that the women are terrorists, and those "children" want them dead. So therefore Israel doesn't have to answer for the numbers of 80 children and 30 women dead. Though the rest of the world would define them as civilians (though of course women can be whatever).

The only way this works is to make a distinction between Hamas and Palestinians. The Israeli/U.S. defenders of these atrocities say that they're targeting Hamas, not Palestinians. But if you really ask them, to them it is all the same. Or in reality, there is no way to make the distinction.

Everyone who asks me to empathize with an Israeli living with the threat of rockets must be able to empathize with a Palestinian living under illegal Israeli occupation.

Neither is right. I'm not justifying Hamas. But I'll justify the right of a Palestinian to live as a human being. Anyone who looks at the TV and keeps empathizing for those people who live where 4 people died, and at the same time refuses to empathize with the people who have to live where 400 have died has no moral ground to stand on.

The cease-fire calls for everyone to stop.