Mixed Feelings at the Arab-American Film Festival

a little piece I wrote that just went live...

http://newvoices.org/2012/11/12/mixed-feelings-at-the-arab-american-film-festival/

Jerusalem Bus Ride

Standing in line for the 74, I untangle my ear buds in the palm of my hand. The cold night air cuts deep as I dodge the elbows and bags of encroaching passengers. Walking to the back of the bus, I pass rows of Israelis. Religious women have their hair wrapped in patterned cloths that extend a foot above their head. Bundled up old men with plastic bags at their feet stare at themselves out the windows. The bus pulls away from the curb and speeds through Jerusalem, encased in orange lamplight. Suddenly, a melody lifts above the engine. Faces freeze. Someone is singing in Arabic.

            Everyone starts shifting in their seats. A man wearing knotted tzit-tzit cranes his neck to stare. The voice rises louder and louder, twisting in the air until my ears ring. A soldier stands up. I tilt my head slightly over my shoulder and see a girl wearing a leather jacket with long black hair and red lipstick. She grins widely, perched on the edge of her seat. I look back at the passengers in front of me. A man yells at her to be quiet from the front of the bus.

            “Enta Omri! Oum Kalthoum! A classic!” she yells back. “What do you want?” She snaps at the crowd in Hebrew. Everyone tries to ignore her. Then the girl begins clapping and singing in Hebrew. Whispers spread. She scrunches up her face and mimics an American accent. A few people chuckle. The Haredi boy sitting to my right giggles and leans onto his arm to hide his smile.

I look back at the girl and smile too. She stops and speaks to me in Hebrew, but soon begins again in English:

            “What’s your name?”

            “Catie.”

            “Kitty? That’s my name,” she laughs loudly. “Kitty, Catie, Kitty, Catie,” she points back and forth between us. At the next stop, she swings into the aisle. She starts singing in Arabic once more, this time a little quieter. The doors open. She steps off. I put my ear buds back in and look out at the cityscape. The drone of the engine rises and I pull out my ear buds. 

Valley of the Kings

            I cross the threshold into the cool limestone burial shaft. A mustachioed Egyptian guard wearing a long grey robe eyes me as I pass. Light fills the first part of the passageway and dissolves into aquamarine shadows. I walk along the board ramp that slopes down to the sarcophagus of Seti II. Reliefs of human figures are carved into the chalky walls, many of which are rimmed coral and cobalt with residual paint. I can see ahead that the ramp drops into a steeper second slope that leads to the entrance of the tomb.  From afar, the entrance’s doorway glows apricot. For a moment, I see movement. Hypnotized, I walk slowly towards the coffin. My body is soaked with calm. The coolness spreads to my neck, arms, and cheeks, and suddenly I am six years old resting my face on my grandma’s marble table.

            Above the entrance are images of the Mehen snake coiled into a hundred figure eights. Its tail turns into a rope that is then pulled from Osiris’ mouth by strong young men. Time reverses and death rejuvenates. I slide my fingertips into the grooves of the pharaoh’s chiseled face. The Egyptian guard appears at my side. He tilts his flashlight to show me a mirror underneath the lid. Together we read the reflected glyphs. And then I realize I can’t stay here forever. Hesitantly, I walk back towards the sunlight.  

Remember Jerusalem

         “Exile is when your mind is off one place, you are talking about some place else, and your body is here,” my Hebrew teacher says as she grips the steering wheel.  We speed down the desert highway, passing through lamplight puddles and rock shadows. Suddenly she breaks hard to pick up a hitchhiker with peyos and glasses. He silently slips into the backseat and together we drive up the winding hill to the tomb of the tzadik, the prophet Shmuel Hanagid.

         The building that houses the tomb is surrounded by a patchwork of partially excavated mikvahs and altars.  The archeological site was once converted into a mosque and from time to time, Muslims still try to come and pray there. Behind the crumbling labyrinth, stretches a valley of luminous Arab cities. We walk along the edge and the night wind lifts our hair. A few dogs that have been sleeping in the ancient rooms rouse themselves and trot over.

            The tomb itself is cloaked in embroidered cloth covered with plastic. My Hebrew teacher walks over and drapes herself over it, pressing her forehead to the tomb. Her prayers come out in short gasps of breath. I pray for five minutes and then go out to wait. In walks a family of three. An old woman wearing an auburn wig and bandage around her leg sits down across from me while her daughter, a young lady wearing a long denim skirt and Reeboks, takes her baby inside to pray. Soon the old woman tries to speak to me in Hebrew, but I tell her,

            “Ani Medaberet Ivreet Kisat.” I speak little Hebrew.

            “At Yehudit?” You Jewish?

            “Ken, Ken.” Yes.

            “Baruch HaShem” she says in a raspy voice and pushes her fingers into the air to praise God. When my Hebrew teacher finally emerges, I peek inside one more time. The baby’s face is gently pressed against the tomb and giggling. The mother turns to look at me. She pats her son’s back and supports his legs. Grinning, the baby hugs the tomb.

            Driving back home, my Hebrew teacher and I discuss many things. Closed doors inspire confidence. I begin to realize that if I leave this car, nothing will ever be clear again. Everything will escape out that tiny crack. The birds spiraling around the Kotel, guns slung on hips, shimmies to doumbeks, the wine on Shabbat, the smiles that push your eyes out of the way, the friends, the prayers, the soft touch of his skin, the emotion of freedom, the hope of a happy life,

the knowing who you are,

the night air.

Click.

            

The Real Thing

“The Bedouin who’s doing the kidnapping is Ali. One time he shot everyone at a checkpoint. So the military took his mother hostage to try to catch him. They got a phone call warning that if she was not returned unharmed in two hours he would do it again.” Our Egyptian guide pauses. “They believed him.”

It’s 2am and we’re winding through the jagged silhouette of the Sinai desert en route to St. Catherine. The road is blocked ahead by three oil barrels painted red, black, and white with the Egyptian flag. My tour group is fast asleep, slumped into the corners of our minivan. We wait in the pumpkin glow of the checkpoint as passports and faces are confirmed. The soldiers drag the canisters away and inform us a military convoy will escort us back when we’re done hiking.

 I’ve wanted to climb Mt. Sinai since I was five years old, when I first saw Cecil B. DeMille’s “The Ten Commandments.” I imagined standing at the peak alongside a white bearded Charleton Heston to a soundtrack of glorious trumpets. Seventeen years later, I’m risking my safety because of a Hollywood movie filmed in the 1950s. Not just that, I’m risking the dream evaporating into reality.  

There are two ways to scale the mountain. A steep 3,700 step staircase or a gentler, curvier camel route. Of course I want to take the stairs. When we arrive, we’re told by our Bedouin guide that it’s too dangerous to climb them at night. His name is Musa, the Arabic pronunciation of Moses. I ask our Egyptian guide if a little Baksheesh, tipping, will help. He talks to Musa in Arabic, and I can tell he is not talking about money, but dreams. Musa’s head is wrapped in a thin white cloth and underneath his mustache is a firm, peaceful smile. Then suddenly he nods and we’re off, passing the huddled mass of tourists.

We ascend under the moon and stars. The staircase twists through shadowed boulders and the mountains rise like velvety stage curtains. We scramble up the broken stone steps. Our hands tingle from the cold wind.  The desert is silent except for heavy breathing. I take the lead. Musa tells me right or left when I stray too far.

A thin line of tangerine light appears. It expands into two layers of peach and apricot. Then the half dome of the sun emerges, fiery and crisp. Honey sun pours into the cobalt mountain range. People try to snap the colors up. To be honest, the scene does not exactly match the image in my heart.

The trek back goes too quickly. I feel the moment slipping away. Dreams change, it’s a part of them coming true. Later our Egyptian guide confesses how worried he was that something terrible would happen. Nights before, he dreamed that Ali captured us. I stare at him, shocked that he took us anyway. I feel a surge of gratitude. He believed in my dream more.

Impromptu

“That girl is a devil,” the man points to a huddled figure with knees clasped on top of the Ramparts wall that overlooks East Jerusalem. “Do you believe in devils?”

            “No,” me and my friend say in unison.

            “Well this girl stayed at my friend’s house and he tried to have his way with her you know,” he circles his cigarette stub in the air. “She wouldn’t have hm. Then one night I find my friend against the wall, his eyes bulging out of his head and speaking verses from the Quran. She’s gone." The man looks at us with hooded hazel eyes. “If you don’t believe that, her right eye bounces like a golf ball sometimes.” He jiggles his finger in the air. “She’s been kicked out of every hostel. She sits and prays all day, on Sundays.”

            The sky is starting to turn a dull lavender. Our guide re-tucks his coral sweater into his jeans. He leads us along, his shoulders hunched and his feet turned out. And we roll with it, giving in to the spirit of the day. We take a secret path past a cave of bats and up through a winding dark staircase within the wall itself. We go from church to church, greeting all the old men in Arabic. He lists facts about the Catholics and Lutherans and their strange art. Then we’re on the rooftop of King David’s tomb, Ben Gurion’s first President’s Room. “This is the crazy land, not the Holy Land,” our guide mutters.

            On our way down we pass by groups of Russian tourists with full faces and pink skin, religious Jews with eyes darting, and overweight Americans giving us uneasy looks. I take a cigarette, a drag, and then suddenly I’m not sure if I’ve ever been more or less aware of the people around me. Magic slips off the buildings and I see things for what they are. Actions are actions, word are vapor, and we're having a good time.

             "You know I was here one night and I saw a ball of light land on the Dome of the Rock and shoot back up into the sky. " 

              And then I start smirking and shaking my head, because I've seen that video too and I know the person behind it. I look up at the pumpkin city night sky that shields us from the stars. What does truth matter?

Makhtesh Ramon

We lie on our backs watching the underbellies of army jets roar above us. Below is a drape of desert, heaps of charcoal and red sand. The day before we hiked past turquoise striped cliffs and magenta pits of dirt.  Walking back to our campsite, the cold night air caught in our mouths as we gazed in awe at the diamond studded sky.

The bowl of the crater is sealed off from all noise except for the king, king of sliding rocks around our feet. The Romans marched through this prehistoric playground long ago, but today we run up and down dinosaur-back ridges and hold stone slabs above our heads like Moses. Now this is our land and our fun.