It's hard but not impossible to get in to Gaza, if you have applied for clearance ahead of time and have a legitimate purpose.
The young Israeli woman only asks a few questions, is cordial, professional and polite.
Soon, we are through passport control, and the turnstiles, and making the long trek down the covered walkway that stretches out -- half a mile? three quarters of a mile? -- across "no-man's land." There are thin vertical metal strips on the sides of the walkway, caging us in, strong enough to prevent us from straying from the path but not strong enough, it occurs to me, to deflect a bullet.
Thankfully, at the far end Hala is expecting us, and ushers us through Hamas security and into a taxi and into Gaza.
First impressions? If the Israelis intended to bomb Gaza into the stone age, they may have succeeded, since all I see for the first half mile is rubble. Hala assures us that this is the part that was most devastated by the Israeli incursion of 2008/09 and not representative of Gaza City proper. We pass two young boys driving a cart created from a car frame and pulled by a laboring horse. The cart is piled with rubble the industrious boys have collected. Soon the goal of their efforts comes into site: a little two-man factory for crushing rock, and transforming it into cinder block. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. When life gives you rubble, make cinder block!
Soon we are leaving North Gaza and entering Gaza City, and with every meter we travel the buildings rise and crowd together, the streets become more and more choked with traffic, the people and noise and activity and pollution increase exponentially as we enter one of the most densely populated places on earth.
Since many who read this will have little knowledge of Gaza, I will give a little history at this point. The Gaza strip as it is called in the west, is a piece of land along the eastern Mediterranean bordered by Egypt on the south, and by Israel on the east and north. At a mere 25 miles long, and varying between 3 and 7 miles wide, it encompasses an area of only 146 square miles, but has a population of well over one and a half million people, mostly refugees or the children of refugees.
Before 1948 it is estimated that only about 60,000 people lived in Gaza. Within 20 years the population had grown to 6 times that number as thousands of Palestinians fled or were evicted from the villages from Jaffa south. They crossed no international border. Many undoubtedly thought they would go back to their villages in a few weeks or months. In fact, they been able to go back. Over the years Gaza has been under the control of Egypt or Israel. But, since Israel pulled out its settlers and especially since the takeover of the Gazan government by Hamas in 2007, the borders with Egypt and Israel are closed, and the Gazan people are trapped, effectively creating what some have called the world's largest prison. Unemployment exceeds 60%. Some 80% of the population lives below any international standard of poverty. There is no real economy, unless you count the underground (literally) economy of goods brought through tunnels from Egypt, or the welfare economy of international assistance.
And yet, for all of this, the Gazans I met were universally friendly, kind and polite.
I'm sure there is plenty of blame for this situation to go around and hardly anyone in the region or in the west is blameless. The only exception may be, ironically, the Gazan people, who are simply trying to survive and find a better life for their children than they have had.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Friday, September 4, 2009
When visiting the West Bank...
From Sunday, 8/9
Our tour guide, Osama, is a graduate student in History and Religious Studies, a Christian and a native of Bethlehem. He is also a charming, friendly, outgoing and ridiculously positive human being. Having never met him before, I managed somehow to pick him out among the crowds of tourists and tour guides on the Mount of Olives, walked right up to him and asked, "Are you meeting three Americans here? Are you Osama?"
I must admit, that day was a blur to me, a cavalcade of sites of tremendous historical and religious significance, a collage of sights and smells and sounds that I was seeing and smelling and hearing and feeling for the first time. What comes back to me are random impressions: the gnarled and stately olive trees of the Garden of Gethsemane, the steep path down into the Kidron Valley and up through the Lion's Gate and into the Old City of Jerusalem, the labyrinth of cobbled streets, the stations of the cross, Russian Orthodox priests with long robes and beards, Arab women in modest dress, the stations of the cross, a stall with mountains of colorful aromatic spices in the Arab Souq (market), the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Golgotha, the Western Wall, crusader arches, Roman pillars, the smell of roasting lamb, orange juice vendors, ka 'ek vendors, felafel stands, cigarette smoke, dust, noise, cats, steps, shops, alleys, churches. Osama is determined that we will see the sites of Jerusalem (a task for a week, not a day) with time left over to visit his home town. So we eventually climb up the streets and out through the New Gate, and into his little mazda and head for Bethlehem.
It's not far. Nothing is far apart in this tiny country. That doesn't mean that it doesn't take a while to get there, however, following the circuitous route dictated by the Israeli Wall.
Entering the town of Jesus' birth, we find Palestinian soldiers, each in crisp camouflage with ammo belt and black beret, each with an automatic weapon at the ready, stationed every 50' along both sides of the main street. "Oh," says Obama, "I had hoped the PLO convention might be over by now, but apparently it's still going on. It's the first one in fifteen years, and it's happening right next to the Church of the Nativity." With that we approach a roadblock, shiny new black hummers parked across the road, manned by a couple dozen Palestinian soldiers, and Osama makes a sudden u-turn and through a narrow opening into what turns out to be a parking garage with an incredible view across the Shepherd's Vale to a beautiful new hilltop city, glowing in the afternoon sun. "What city is that?" we ask, thinking that we've been grossly misinformed on the state of the West Bank economy. "That's not a Palestinian city," he answers, "but a Jewish settlement built on land confiscated from Bethlehem."
Our tour guide, Osama, is a graduate student in History and Religious Studies, a Christian and a native of Bethlehem. He is also a charming, friendly, outgoing and ridiculously positive human being. Having never met him before, I managed somehow to pick him out among the crowds of tourists and tour guides on the Mount of Olives, walked right up to him and asked, "Are you meeting three Americans here? Are you Osama?"
I must admit, that day was a blur to me, a cavalcade of sites of tremendous historical and religious significance, a collage of sights and smells and sounds that I was seeing and smelling and hearing and feeling for the first time. What comes back to me are random impressions: the gnarled and stately olive trees of the Garden of Gethsemane, the steep path down into the Kidron Valley and up through the Lion's Gate and into the Old City of Jerusalem, the labyrinth of cobbled streets, the stations of the cross, Russian Orthodox priests with long robes and beards, Arab women in modest dress, the stations of the cross, a stall with mountains of colorful aromatic spices in the Arab Souq (market), the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Golgotha, the Western Wall, crusader arches, Roman pillars, the smell of roasting lamb, orange juice vendors, ka 'ek vendors, felafel stands, cigarette smoke, dust, noise, cats, steps, shops, alleys, churches. Osama is determined that we will see the sites of Jerusalem (a task for a week, not a day) with time left over to visit his home town. So we eventually climb up the streets and out through the New Gate, and into his little mazda and head for Bethlehem.
It's not far. Nothing is far apart in this tiny country. That doesn't mean that it doesn't take a while to get there, however, following the circuitous route dictated by the Israeli Wall.
Entering the town of Jesus' birth, we find Palestinian soldiers, each in crisp camouflage with ammo belt and black beret, each with an automatic weapon at the ready, stationed every 50' along both sides of the main street. "Oh," says Obama, "I had hoped the PLO convention might be over by now, but apparently it's still going on. It's the first one in fifteen years, and it's happening right next to the Church of the Nativity." With that we approach a roadblock, shiny new black hummers parked across the road, manned by a couple dozen Palestinian soldiers, and Osama makes a sudden u-turn and through a narrow opening into what turns out to be a parking garage with an incredible view across the Shepherd's Vale to a beautiful new hilltop city, glowing in the afternoon sun. "What city is that?" we ask, thinking that we've been grossly misinformed on the state of the West Bank economy. "That's not a Palestinian city," he answers, "but a Jewish settlement built on land confiscated from Bethlehem."
Thursday, September 3, 2009
the talent of herding goats
Ever since returning from the middle east, friends and colleagues ply me with questions. "What was it like in Bethlehem?" "Did you ever feel uncomfortable or afraid?" "What was your most memorable moment?" By far their favorite story is the tale I am about to relate, about goats in an unexpected place, and the refined skill of herding them.
On our second night in Ramallah, after a day of touring Jerusalem and Bethlehem, we retreated to the comfort of the rooftop bar of our hotel, there to take in the view of the city, sip some local beer, eat pistachio nuts, and relax. So, Marc (my friend and fellow presenter), his son Alex (student at Drexel) and I perched upon tall chairs, looking out from the 9th floor of a hilltop hotel downhill and downtown, and across to the next hill with both a minaret and a church steeple, backlit by the coral pink of evening sky. A cool breeze was blowing and we were enjoying the exotic scene in all its beauty and bustle.
For Ramallah does bustle. It's home to most of the US and UN NGO's that serve the Palestinian population. Its economy is growing and everywhere you go there is new construction, hotels, office buildings and apartments. There is a continuous din of honking horns. We joked with our guide that there seemed to be a language of horn honks: from the inquisitive touch of the horn of a taxi passing a trio of Americans walking down the street which asks, "Do you need a ride?" to the slightly longer beep that tells pedestrians on a narrow lane that, "You'll want to move over, there's a car coming," to the more agressive sustained one in the roundabout that says, "LOOK OUT, I'M COMING THROUGH FIRST!" to that long and loud burst that communicates in any language, "You @#$%^& son of a @#$%^." Osama tells us he averages 50 honks per day.
But I digress, to paint a picture of Ramallah, not as a sleepy backwater, but as a vibrant, fast-paced modern city. So, it was with a note of disbelief that Marc directed my attention down to the bottom of the hill and proclaimed, "I think I see a goat. No, two goats -- three -- four -- a whole herd!" We counted. Sure enough, coming up the steep street from the city center to our neighborhood was a herd of 30 goats, some brown, some white, some a mottled brown and white. And there at the rear, wearing a long woven robe from beard to sandals, and carrying a great wooden staff, was the goat herd.
Now as I said, Ramallah is a busy city. People drive very fast and aggressively there, and none more than the cabbies in their green and white Volkswagen Passats. But car after car would careen around the corner at the top of the hill, brake and make its way through the herd of the goats as if this were a daily occurrence, which apparently it was. So, from our rooftop perch we watched in wonder as this herd of goats made its way up and through the city, with the goatherd bringing up the rear.
Suddenly the goatherd raised his staff, and threw it high in the air so that it landed directly in front of the lead goat. Without a word being spoken the lead goat turned 90 degrees left, following a tiny path between houses all but invisible to us, and the rest of the herd followed. When he reached the spot the goatherd serenely gathered up his staff and trudged up the path as well, disappearing between the houses further up the hill, confident in his remarkable and well-practiced skill.
On our second night in Ramallah, after a day of touring Jerusalem and Bethlehem, we retreated to the comfort of the rooftop bar of our hotel, there to take in the view of the city, sip some local beer, eat pistachio nuts, and relax. So, Marc (my friend and fellow presenter), his son Alex (student at Drexel) and I perched upon tall chairs, looking out from the 9th floor of a hilltop hotel downhill and downtown, and across to the next hill with both a minaret and a church steeple, backlit by the coral pink of evening sky. A cool breeze was blowing and we were enjoying the exotic scene in all its beauty and bustle.
For Ramallah does bustle. It's home to most of the US and UN NGO's that serve the Palestinian population. Its economy is growing and everywhere you go there is new construction, hotels, office buildings and apartments. There is a continuous din of honking horns. We joked with our guide that there seemed to be a language of horn honks: from the inquisitive touch of the horn of a taxi passing a trio of Americans walking down the street which asks, "Do you need a ride?" to the slightly longer beep that tells pedestrians on a narrow lane that, "You'll want to move over, there's a car coming," to the more agressive sustained one in the roundabout that says, "LOOK OUT, I'M COMING THROUGH FIRST!" to that long and loud burst that communicates in any language, "You @#$%^& son of a @#$%^." Osama tells us he averages 50 honks per day.
But I digress, to paint a picture of Ramallah, not as a sleepy backwater, but as a vibrant, fast-paced modern city. So, it was with a note of disbelief that Marc directed my attention down to the bottom of the hill and proclaimed, "I think I see a goat. No, two goats -- three -- four -- a whole herd!" We counted. Sure enough, coming up the steep street from the city center to our neighborhood was a herd of 30 goats, some brown, some white, some a mottled brown and white. And there at the rear, wearing a long woven robe from beard to sandals, and carrying a great wooden staff, was the goat herd.
Now as I said, Ramallah is a busy city. People drive very fast and aggressively there, and none more than the cabbies in their green and white Volkswagen Passats. But car after car would careen around the corner at the top of the hill, brake and make its way through the herd of the goats as if this were a daily occurrence, which apparently it was. So, from our rooftop perch we watched in wonder as this herd of goats made its way up and through the city, with the goatherd bringing up the rear.
Suddenly the goatherd raised his staff, and threw it high in the air so that it landed directly in front of the lead goat. Without a word being spoken the lead goat turned 90 degrees left, following a tiny path between houses all but invisible to us, and the rest of the herd followed. When he reached the spot the goatherd serenely gathered up his staff and trudged up the path as well, disappearing between the houses further up the hill, confident in his remarkable and well-practiced skill.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
story of the Babylonians
I recently spent a week in the Holy Lands. I was invited as half of a two-person team to present leadership training to 20 Principals of private schools in the West Bank, in Palestine. I was a little intimidated at the prospect. Would they value what I had to offer? Would I be understood by people from such a different linguistic and cultural background? Would I be welcomed as an American? The answer to all three questions was a resounding “yes.”
I ended the seminar with a story. As I told the participants, this is the story a Montessori teacher would tell when introducing the degree symbol in studying measurement of the circumference of a circle.
Story of the Babylonians
Do you remember when we talked about the Babylonians? How they lived in the area between the two rivers, the Tigris and Euphrates in what is now Iraq? How the Hanging Gardens of Babylon were one of the 7 Wonders of the Ancient World? Even though the height of their civilization was 4000 years ago we still are talking about them and benefiting from their discoveries and inventions today.
I want you to think back to what their life was like those many years ago. They didn’t have electricity, so in the evening when it would get dark they wouldn’t be able to do what you do, read or watch TV. They would gaze at the stars and they would tell stories. Even so large a city as Babylon would be quite dark at night. Have you ever been out at night and away from the city and seen how many stars you can see in the sky? Because of their life between the two rivers they were great travelers and would also have used the stars for navigation.
So they looked at the stars and compared where they were in the sky against certain landmarks like mountain peaks and they noticed that it looked as if the stars were in a slightly different position each night. They came to think of the sky as a circle and their home as the center of that circle with the stars very slowly wheeling overhead. They counted and noticed that it took about 360 days for a star to complete its circuit and come back to the same position in the sky. So they used 360 days as a measure of time that we now call a year.
We now know that there are actually 365 days in a year and perhaps the Babylonians knew it too. But, in Babylon, 60 was a holy number. When they built a temple it would have 60 steps; when they made an offering of wheat in their temple they would offer 60 grains. 360 is a multiple of 60, so, perhaps they decided to honor the year by making it 360 days.
Somebody in Babylon, and we don’t know who, realized that this could also be a useful way of thinking about any circle, not just the circle of the night sky. He or she decided that whenever we see a circle we could divide it into 360 parts. Do you remember the fraction insets and how we divided a circle into 10 parts each of which we call a 10th? Well this person realized that people could divide a circle into 360 fractional pieces and in their language they called it something which we now call a degree.
Let me show you the symbol we write for degree. [At this point the teacher draws a circle on paper.] Now, when you use this symbol, think back to these people 4000 years ago, gazing up at the circle of a black and star-filled Babylonian sky.
Then I looked around at the participants, human beings and educators from across a vast geographical, experiential and cultural divide, but human beings and educators nonetheless, and asked: “Is there an unspoken question implicit in this story for the student to ask him or herself?” Immediately, Iyad, Principal of a large school in Ramallah and a Palestinian Arab, nodded in understanding. “What will my contribution to the world be?”
I’d like to point out three things about this lesson on the degree. First, it’s important for children to learn to measure the circumference of a circle, and it could be done more quickly and easily, but not more effectively. For who can doubt that, once the child’s imagination is engaged, he or she will never forget this lesson. In this way children experience learning not as a series of random memorizations, but as a series of ideas and accomplishments to which they are personally and wondrously connected.
Second, there’s been a lot of talk in recent years of the importance of an integrated curriculum. Can you think of a better example than this, a lesson about which one might ask, “Is this is a lesson in Mathematics, or History?
Thirdly, and most importantly, through stories like this, the Montessori elementary student is imbued with a deep gratitude for the contributions of all of the plants and animals and people who have come before. This speaks to the truest and deepest purpose of education, as these Palestinian school principals immediately grasped. The outcome of education we all wish for, and which our world so desperately needs, is not students who ask “What is the world going to do for me?” but students who ask themselves, “What am I going to do for the world?”Thursday, August 13, 2009
it's the people
Tonight from a hotel room in Jerusalem, the conference over, a day to be a tourist before the interminable flight back to the U.S., I'm thinking about my experiences on the West Bank these past 5 days. Has it only been 5 days? When have I been so completely immersed in an experience as these last 5 days?
The google headings are in Hebrew tonight after 5 nights of flowing Arabic. This neighborhood of Jerusalem seems to be all about orthodox Jews in black suits, fedoras and ringlets, Palestinian street urchins scratching for entertainment or money, and cats. Everywhere are cats.
And I miss my Palestinian friends. Their kindness, generosity and openness. I look forward to the next time we meet. Until then, I wish them peace. I wish them peace.
The google headings are in Hebrew tonight after 5 nights of flowing Arabic. This neighborhood of Jerusalem seems to be all about orthodox Jews in black suits, fedoras and ringlets, Palestinian street urchins scratching for entertainment or money, and cats. Everywhere are cats.
And I miss my Palestinian friends. Their kindness, generosity and openness. I look forward to the next time we meet. Until then, I wish them peace. I wish them peace.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
an angel on the mountain of temptation
Jericho is the lowest (900' below sea level) and many would say the oldest city in the world. I am here as part of a two person team, providing leadership training for some 20 Heads of Palestinian schools. Yesterday, we delved into the book Good to Great and discussed some of its implications for leadership in private schools. One of Jim Collin's concepts is that it is most important who you have in your organization. He calls it "getting the right people on the bus." (Although, my new friend Hani says there are times as Head of school when all he wants to do is get off the bus!)
My part was to present a new perspective on hiring, namely, crafting questions that allow a candidate to demonstrate from past behavior that he/she has a requisite quality or characteristic rather than simply relying on opinion. I had suggested a question to probe a candidate's ability to follow through on a commitment, and had asked the audience, "Can anyone tell me of a time when you followed through and kept a commitment when it was difficult to do so?" Several people suggested examples from their own lives, thus demonstrating that they possess that important quality. But, the best example didn't arise until dinner last night.
We had taken the tram up 1300 meters onto the Mount of Temptation, the very place where, according to the New Testament, Jesus spent 40 days and nights fasting and meditating during the temptation of Satan. We were gathered around a large table enjoying the local cuisine, taking in a view to the East across the Jordan River to the mountains in Jordan and south to the Dead Sea.
The young man to my left showed me pictures of his family on his cell phone, including a daughter whose name in Arabic translates as "angel."
He confided in me that he had been tempted to answer the question about keeping a commitment, posed earlier in the day. To do so, he would have told the story of his wedding day.
This was in 2003 during the Intifada. He and his bride-to-be returned from Ramallah to his tiny village in the mountains for the ceremony, taking nearly an entire day to cover the short distance due to the many checkpoints and the length of time to pass each. They had a wonderful celebration with family and friends, then prepared to return to Ramallah and work.
By this time, though, the road to ramallah was closed. But their commitment to work (and keeping a scarce job) was strong, and so they attempted the arduous trek up a trail and over a mountain on foot.
It was March and the elevation was high. It was cold and wet and miserable and slippery and dangerous, but they persevered. Just as they had congratulated themselves on crossing the highest section of the mountain trail, they met other travelers coming back, and learned that there was an Israeli tank below blocking the way, firing tear gas and letting no one through. During the hours ahead they tried the trail again and again, only to be turned back by the danger of the Israeli tank. Finally they made it through and appeared for work exhausted but on time.
It's unusual for me to be speechless. But in Palestine, this is a daily occurence for me. All I could say was that "I hear you, my Friend, and I will take your words with me when I return home."
And so we sat together in the gathering dark, the lights coming on across the river in Jordan, and gazed at his cell phone and the photo of a young girl dressed in white, his daughter, his angel.
My part was to present a new perspective on hiring, namely, crafting questions that allow a candidate to demonstrate from past behavior that he/she has a requisite quality or characteristic rather than simply relying on opinion. I had suggested a question to probe a candidate's ability to follow through on a commitment, and had asked the audience, "Can anyone tell me of a time when you followed through and kept a commitment when it was difficult to do so?" Several people suggested examples from their own lives, thus demonstrating that they possess that important quality. But, the best example didn't arise until dinner last night.
We had taken the tram up 1300 meters onto the Mount of Temptation, the very place where, according to the New Testament, Jesus spent 40 days and nights fasting and meditating during the temptation of Satan. We were gathered around a large table enjoying the local cuisine, taking in a view to the East across the Jordan River to the mountains in Jordan and south to the Dead Sea.
The young man to my left showed me pictures of his family on his cell phone, including a daughter whose name in Arabic translates as "angel."
He confided in me that he had been tempted to answer the question about keeping a commitment, posed earlier in the day. To do so, he would have told the story of his wedding day.
This was in 2003 during the Intifada. He and his bride-to-be returned from Ramallah to his tiny village in the mountains for the ceremony, taking nearly an entire day to cover the short distance due to the many checkpoints and the length of time to pass each. They had a wonderful celebration with family and friends, then prepared to return to Ramallah and work.
By this time, though, the road to ramallah was closed. But their commitment to work (and keeping a scarce job) was strong, and so they attempted the arduous trek up a trail and over a mountain on foot.
It was March and the elevation was high. It was cold and wet and miserable and slippery and dangerous, but they persevered. Just as they had congratulated themselves on crossing the highest section of the mountain trail, they met other travelers coming back, and learned that there was an Israeli tank below blocking the way, firing tear gas and letting no one through. During the hours ahead they tried the trail again and again, only to be turned back by the danger of the Israeli tank. Finally they made it through and appeared for work exhausted but on time.
It's unusual for me to be speechless. But in Palestine, this is a daily occurence for me. All I could say was that "I hear you, my Friend, and I will take your words with me when I return home."
And so we sat together in the gathering dark, the lights coming on across the river in Jordan, and gazed at his cell phone and the photo of a young girl dressed in white, his daughter, his angel.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
the crossing
The West Bank is filled with checkpoints. In a car with Israeli plates and a U.S. passport it's pretty hassle free. But this morning we want to leave our hotel in Ramallah and visit Jerusalem. You can only get a taxi as far as the checkpoint. From there you need to make your way through the checkpoint on foot, with the Palestinians, then catch a bus to Jerusalem on the other side. So, for the first time we get a hint of what the average Palestinian goes through. It's a dirty warren of narrow metal bar passageways and turnstyles. The wait is long; the lines unpredictable. They let a few people pass the turnstyles at a time. How you are treated and how long it takes is completely at the whim of an Israeli guard, who looks at each person with a disdain bordering on belligerence. You hope he isn't having a bad day, or perhaps you will have one as well.
Once outside we ask locals for the Jerusalem bus and a kindly gentleman insists that we go in line before him to board. He sits next to me and turns out to be from Detroit, here to check on his family property. He tells us how to get to the Mount of Olives, where we'll meet our tourguide. As he gets off at his stop, he takes my hand warmly, then reminds the driver to make sure that the Americans get off at the right place and know where to go. It seems so far that the guide books are correct: the Palestinians will go out of their way to help us.
Our tour guide, a Palestinian Christian named Osama, is another revelation of kindness and friendliness. Wherever we go he seems to be recognized by friends among the priests, fellow tour guides, and vendors. He is working on his PHD and incredibly informative. How do I describe Jerusalem with its crowded, narrow, winding streets with this mix of ancient architecture from the time of Christ and before? It feels like a trip to the center of human history. But more on that when I have more time.
Once outside we ask locals for the Jerusalem bus and a kindly gentleman insists that we go in line before him to board. He sits next to me and turns out to be from Detroit, here to check on his family property. He tells us how to get to the Mount of Olives, where we'll meet our tourguide. As he gets off at his stop, he takes my hand warmly, then reminds the driver to make sure that the Americans get off at the right place and know where to go. It seems so far that the guide books are correct: the Palestinians will go out of their way to help us.
Our tour guide, a Palestinian Christian named Osama, is another revelation of kindness and friendliness. Wherever we go he seems to be recognized by friends among the priests, fellow tour guides, and vendors. He is working on his PHD and incredibly informative. How do I describe Jerusalem with its crowded, narrow, winding streets with this mix of ancient architecture from the time of Christ and before? It feels like a trip to the center of human history. But more on that when I have more time.
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