7/18
The first week of the two-week English summer camp in Al-Arroub was a success, but definitely had its ups and downs. Walter and I hold the English camp from 4-7pm at the run-down but large "Women's Center," but when we aren't setting up, teaching, or taking down the English camp, we're just spending time with our friends in the refugee camp.
First, an "up."
Sunday (the start of the Middle Eastern work-week) early afternoon, just before the first day of the English camp started, I finally realized what my role should be with my inflammatory, opinionated, go-getter of a host, Hisham.
I walked into Hisham's house to find him smoking his rather expensive French cigarettes, lying on his couch in the living room watching the news on Al-Jazeera. "Sabah a-full," I said and slung my hand down to him to give him a high-five. He grabbed my hand and proceeded to lecture me with a mix of Arabic and English that I couldn't decipher as I usually am able due to my shock that he had snatched my hand and was gripping it rather tightly. Walter stood on the other end of the room agape. Hisham finally slowed down enough to explain to me that I had greeted him with something to the equivalent of "A bean-y morning to you!" rather than"Sabah Hafool"or "A shining morning to you!" I repeated the correct pronunciation a few times, looked over to his first wife, Huweida, who was laughing and decided to take her lead and smile back at Hisham, relaxing my hand. Hisham gave my had a good pat, and told me that I was a good student, a good girl, and that Walter should never let me go. Below is Walter, from Aytallahs' roof, and Hisham, from the site where he is building his second house, shouting at each other:
Hisham is an excellent father to his children. Always rough-housing with them, engaging them in conversation, joking and teasing more than I am used to, but always patiently teaching them. And this instance let me know that my role with him is best played as a student-daughter. This has been working out splendidly. I am beginning to feel like a part of their family--cooking, cleaning, and watching the news right alongside everyone. I have been learning loads of Arabic when I spend the night at their house, while Walter stays at our friend Aytallah's. This puts me in a position where Hisham sees the parts of me that desire to serve so clearly, especially in light of my work with the kids in the English camps, and thusly I am allowed, nay encouraged, to let out my real beliefs, views, and opinions--even on politics and faith. After this week, I can say that Hisham and his family have really seen me.
Next, a "down."
One night, when Walter and I were lounging on mats after dinner at Aytallah's, his whole family gradually trickled in (as most families that Walter and I spend an evening with for the first time tend to do) to welcome us with a barrage of questions, jokes, and complements. Below are Walter and Aytallah being cute and looking at something in the street below Aytallah's roof. The next picture is the two of them in the room with the mats where we had dinner this particular night.
***One of people in Arroub's favorite conversation topics is when Walter and I are going to get married. "Why are you not married yet?", "When will you get married?", "Will you have the party in Arroub?", "We will make a big, Palestinian wedding for you!" I am fairly used to these questions by now, but nevertheless, it can be tiring to explain to people who are one step away from being strangers and many steps away from understanding the concept of dating, that we will probably have to wait a bit longer to know whether we want to be married.***
Aytallah's mother is very spunky, and began to engage in me in conversation on the state of my relationship with Walter. But her Arabic washed over me so quickly, phrases like "I will make" and "dress" and "cake" and "your wedding" and bursts of laughter from her and the other 10 family members standing over us in the room came at such a rate that I began to sense that I was being a little misunderstood or maybe even lampooned.
I felt my face get hot and I slapped my hands on the mat and in Arabic almost yelled, "No! I have only known him for a year, and for now, we are just dating!" I awkwardly, but successfully conveyed that I wasn't angry, but was just overwhelmed by the speed of the conversation.
And another "down."
Later that evening, Aytallah took Walter and I to a wedding party in the camp. Parties in Palestine (as in much of the Middle East) are always separated into the girls' party and the guys' party. I was incredibly excited and didn't mind that I wouldn't know a soul on the girl's side of the party. I walked into the girl's side, expecting the be able to rely on the constancy of Arab hospitality and also upon my white skin to at least provide me with a few curious conversation partners. I was wrong.
I had been told in the past, but had sadly forgotten on this occassion, that Arab weddings (even in refugee camps) are extremely dressy events. Most of the women not only take their various headcoverings off, but get elaborate up-do's, hair extensions, and coloring jobs. They put glitter in the most surprising places and wear everything from halter tops and tight jeans to prom dresses with see-through midriffs. So when I walked in with a mouse-brown t-shirt, a dusty purple zip-up sweater, and dirty Keds, everyone leaned over to their neighbor and whispered. Some even pointed, and a few laughed at me. Pretty hard. Strangely enough, not a single woman welcomed me into the room, introduced herself, or even asked me what I was doing there.
But thank God for children. About 6 children came up to me fascinated, like everyone else, but with the most honestly curious smiles on their faces, accepting me at face value. I still felt very out of place for the whole party, I wanted to dance so much but felt too scrutinized to do so, but the children eased my discomfort. When Walter and Aytallah called for me, one of the girls smiled up at me and said, "Hebbik!"..."I love you" in Arabic.
Then I became painfully aware of just how frustrating the social dynamic on the girls' side of the wedding was when I heard about the guys' party. The guys get to take up the whole street with confetti, video cameras, big screen projectors, fireworks, silly string spray, while the girls are confined to one rooftop which is covered on top and from all sides with tarps, so as not to be seen by the men. Their rowdy music practically drowns our love songs out, and they have enough room to all dance together at once instead of sitting on footstools judging the 5 or 6 girls who do have room to dance and show off their clothes.
And lastly, the English camp itself, a mix of "ups" and "downs."
The goals of this English camp are to get the kids speaking and to give them a positive, fun experience associated with English. Hisham enrolled about 30 children between the ages of 7 and 12 for me and Walter to teach basic conversation, and we do fairly well with what Arabic we need to teach. We play a lot of games, lots of "listen and repeat," and a good bit of "sit down!" too. We also worked very, very well together most of the time. Taking over when the other felt tired, exasperated, or stressed.
After speaking on the experiences of this week with several others, I am finding that most Palestinian school-age children (not just those in refugee camps) have an enormous amount of energy that often expresses itself in being extremely concerned that they get enough of the teacher's attention and extremely concerned that they have enough of various classroom resources like paper, pencils, balls, etc. In the United States, each classroom has one or two "problem kids"--kids who can't sit still, act out a lot, and have many other behavioral problems/immaturities characteristic of some kind of emotional struggle.
In our classroom, about half of our kids were what we in the U.S. would call "problem children." This might be due to poor parenting, it might be due to the harshness of life in the refugee camp, but more than anything, I believe it is a lack of space. Even in the inner city of every metropolis, there are basketball courts or some kind of park space. In the refugee camps, there are no public spaces.
Every bit of government-allocated land is for housing, so children are cooped up most of the time and have only the street to play in. This energy normally spent on exercise, movement, games, and other types of self-expression for children (since they are able to express themselves through play far earlier and more fluently than they are with verbal language) gets diverted to all sorts of other activities and behaviors. In Al-Arroub, the top 3 activities I see children doing for fun are throwing rocks at bottles or people, shooting toy guns, or sharing bikes.
In our classroom, I cannot tell you how desperately each child wants to be played with, recognized, or spoken with--to the point that they hit each other, and can say horrible things to Walter and me. One day, I had everyone draw a picture of their least favorite activity or thing and if we had not already studied to vocabulary word, that I would give them the right word. This was very challenging for some as they wanted to avoid expressing the bad things they have experienced. But one boy named Qais, one of my best students, quitely came up to me for his turn to talk wiht me about his picture. I asked him questions about what was going on in the picture, and finally what the picture was of. The picture was set in Al-Arroub and it was of "qataal," he said. "Killing," in Arabic. Qais senses the tension around him...the discontent on the part of the refugees, the military presence across the road from the camp, and his own desire to do better in school so that he can go to college.
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