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.  

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.

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. 

Gilgamesh

My close friend has just left. Icy rain splatters onto my scalp and trickles down my face. My fingers and toes are bloated and turning purple from the cold. As she drives away in a taxi I feel the loss immediately. I’ve been anxious over this impending void all week. You see I used to think Israel was inherently powerful and beautiful, but lately I’m realizing that my friendship created a large part of my experience. My priorities have shifted to happiness. Last week my friend and I hiked the largest crater in the world. As I stared into the shimmering desert sky I found myself very wrapped up in the story of my life. I had to stop myself. As a little girl, I imagined Middle Eastern scenes of comfort and bliss. I stretched these static images into a linear timeline of life goals. I had forgotten that the original purpose was not achievement but relaxation and happiness. It occurred to me that Chris McCandless’ deathbed conclusion was right: Happiness is only real when shared.

            Tonight I’m debating with a Yale graduate about technology. He tells me technology improves the quality of life of people across the globe as well as grant equal access to knowledge. I tell him such advancement is inextricably linked to a system that requires many to suffer. He describes advancements that will eventually lead to the end of disease, to the elimination of suffering due to physical ailments. He conceptualizes a world in which death becomes a choice. He dreams of transferring experiences and memories from person to person so that the world becomes truly empathetic. He talks of shared consciousness. In truth this man wants what religion has been advertising for a long time.

All I hear is return.  There is no difference between Gilgamesh and the scientist who dreams of perfecting the human body to the point of postponing death indefinitely. If we stop getting caught up in the narrative of history and focus on our day to day actions, to the implications of our current choices, then maybe we’d understand the resulting negative effects. It’s when we start telling stories that sacrifices are made.

            “Yes, technology patches a problem without fixing it,” he agrees with me. The rate at which we address flaws is exponentially increasing. The lapse between the problem and the answer is decreasing, don’t I know?

            But it seems we are covering our tracks at a faster rate. We are trying not to feel the consequences of our world and we are able to seemingly erase them faster and faster. We have no time for morality. I imagine a person sweeping away their footprints until it looks like they’re not even walking. And then I find myself arguing for the utter necessity of death, for the value of loss.  And the words come from my own mouth, “We have to die.”

It Strengthens Your Heart To Be Alone In The Wilderness

Lifting the gate hatch, I cross into church territory and tuck my camera deep into my pocket. I quietly pass the monastery and walk towards the trail head that plummets to the Aegean Sea. Cold wind catches in my mouth as I begin to hike alone, down a muddy eroded staircase that twists and winds. Goats stop and stare at me, their collar bells chiming in the wind.

At the bottom of the staircase is a cave dwelling, a quiet place where monks stay on certain soul-full nights. There’s an altar set up inside with golden icons and beeswax candles.  As I continue walking, I realize that I’m standing atop a giant ancient archway that overlooks a gorge. So I swing my purse over my back and scramble down the side, using branches and roots for support. My boots  crunch against the marble rocks and the sound hurls itself like a slingshot. Slab walls tower above me. In the center of the stone valley, I’m completely exposed.

It strengthens your heart to be alone in the wilderness. And I've never been so alone. You can lose your identity in vastness.

The gorge opens onto the sea and everything is crooked. Moon-rock cliffs shoot out at odd angles from the shoreline like beached flying saucers and the sea seems to be tipping onto land.  I sit down, thinking I’ll meditate or at least contemplate this feeling. But nothing comes and I get up— almost too nervous to make the trek back. Marching through the gorge, I envision mythical heroes wandering through these landscapes, courageous people who never blurred boundaries. They kept their categories, their culture, their position, their limits, their strength. 

But with the sea crashing at my back, 

I find myself evaporating into impermanence with a rapidly beating heart.