In Palestine, like many other countries in the Mid-East and Africa (or even folks from those countries who are in the US), the role of the Mother is very important. She takes care of everything her child(ren) need. In Palestine, most people are married by at least 21 or 22. And they stay married 95% of the time. Divorce doesn't happen here much. Not because of being forced to stay though.
As my cousin Shyma explained, there are people in place to help mediate at every juncture of the marriage. She's one of those people. She's not a therapist or a lawyer. She's a nurse. But because she's the head staff nurse at 2 large clinics and a hospital (she shares her time between them), she has a lot of interaction with the women who come. She doesn't do the medical stuff with them and their children. She talks to them about their lives, their problems. How to best work things out. That's how many people work things out here. And it works.
She has many young mothers come through (pediatrics is her specialty, but she works with the mothers as well as people too) to help them deal with being a mother because so many of them just got married or have been married for a while and now have a baby to take care of and although they have the help of their families, they don't feel like they are up to being mothers. Sound familiar? Only here, someone will help you. You won't be left high and dry to just work it out. And people helping you actually care. I guess that's the difference between social work in the US and social work here. The people have BEEN directly affected by the issue and so they know what it's like. As opposed to so many Social Workie folks in the US who have no idea what its like and start to not care.
The problem though with this now is that my cousin is being there for all these women and working a lot. She's at home still, doing things, but with very limited she. She also has a 2 1/2 year old and 4 year old. She's there for them as much as she can be. But she also wants to do her job. Her kids are at my aunts house, their grandmothers, after school when she's done teaching so it's no problem and then my cousin picks them up. She'll hang out here and then go home. She says her husband use to never help out, but now he helps a little bit. It would be one thing if she wasn't working full time AND helping her father with his driving school, but she is. In the US, it's "Normal" behavior if you're working a lot for whatever reason and someone else has to watch your kids, you do what you have to do and spend some time with them. Here that's no acceptable. My aunt says it's a sin. It's a sin to have a demanding career and kids and have to sacrifice some time? Hm. Perhaps, but it's reality. She's trying to save up to build a house. That's going to take work. She's going to have to sacrifice some time. And besides, that's what grandma's are for, right? I'm sure if it was up to my cousin, she would have waited a little while longer to get married. She's 26. She's been married 4 years. They don't really do birth control here. Of course she could get some since she's a nurse, but like the Catholics, it's grow and prosper here.
And don't get me wrong. She loves her kids and her husband. She was in love with him before they got married, so it wasn't like a random forced marriage. They went to college together. He graduated 2 years before her, but they kept in touch. He went to her dad and asked to marry her and they said to wait until she graduated and they did. She was grateful that her father did that. She probably would have never finished school if she got married at 19. She probably would have had more children and not following her dreams.
She feels the stress though,as any young mother would, to have her children and her job. To not get burnt out from doing both full time and trying to make a house. Of course it's harder when her husband wont cook or clean. It makes it harder. But hell, that's not new. That's been the role play for a long time all over the place. Of course in the US, if the dad sticks around, it can possibly be more of a partnership.
I told her to talk with him. She has. He's better than he used to be, she says.
I told her that sometimes with men that come from this kind of thinking, you have to trick them into doing more. She agreed. It just is the way it is. What can she do?
She said that things were nice, all lovey before they got married and when they first got married and then after a bit of time, she saw that he was different than she though and he saw that she was different than she thought. Sounds familiar, but for different reasons. In the US, folks say it's because "people change" after marriage in terms of what they want and commitment and all that. Clearly folks aren't spending enough time with each other, living with each other, knowing each other BEFORE they get married. But in my cousins instance, it's more like he thought she'd be a submissive yes sir wife who would above all put her family before her career and do everything for him on hands and knees...or something along those lines. And she thought he was the perfect guy, who would do romantic gestures all the time and help her, not treat her like a servant and then be a more active father once the kids came. They both had a fantasy that wasn't very close to reality and after 4 years of marriage, they are learning that they're going to have to really work with each other and be a partnership...even if it still won't be equal, it's better than it use to be. Hopefully it'll continue to get better for her.
Why is it a bad thing to have your career and your family? Sometimes it's gonna be hard. Sometimes you're going to spend more time at work, than with your kids. Any young adult trying make a better life for their family is going to go through this. She's not rich. She has to work for what she needs to do. If she wants to send her kids to college. If she wants to build a house (folks don't really buy houses here... they buy a plot of land and build a house on it...it's waaaaaaay less expensive to do all of that than it will ever be to buy a house in the US...crazy huh?)
Just wanted to write about that a bit.
I'm getting distracted, so I'll leave it that that.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Would it be easier to be a man? [and then some]
I meant to write about this a few days ago, but got busy with being in Palestine and writing about that journey. But all the while (for the last few days) I've been thinking about this:
Would it be easier to be a man here?
AND
Would it be easier if I more Arab looking and/or more Muslima looking?
I've been thinking a lot about this for several reasons.
I thought about being a man instead. Probably would be worse off. These days being a Palestinian man gets you just as much trouble as being a black man in America. Just like when my brother walks the street and is looked at like a black man and is harassed, so I would be too. I suppose in some ways, it's helped that I'm a "harmless" looking woman. Aside from my name, you can't tell where I come from or whats running through my blood.
Then again, maybe in being here, I'd be given more power. Treated differently if I were a man. If only I could dress up, play the part. But my body screams woman. I'm not opposed to dressing like a man.
Of course I could go on and on about sexism everywhere. About the power of women anywhere in the world, including in the US, in NY, in my neighborhood in Queens.
Walking through the streets of Ramallah, Palestine, I get a lot of looks. And I've been thinking about these looks. Part of it, I've been told is that the men like how I look. Okay, fine. There's that.
And then there's being a woman who walks with confidence. Its of course not like women walk around here like they don't have confidence, but they walk different. Maybe it's all the high heeled sandals. Who knows?
And THEN I think it's also it's because they can't tell what else I am. They can see that I'm something more than just Palestinian. Of course the folks in the country look all shades of the spectrum, but there's something about them that says, yeah, you're Palestinian. I've got that and then something else.
Maybe it's the hair. I know the only arabs I've seen with hair more so like mine are some Egyptians. It's of course my black side that makes my hair curlier and kinkier. My dad had looser, wavier curls. Mine are tighter.
So that's some of that.
Maybe I'll write more about this later.
Would it be easier to be a man here?
AND
Would it be easier if I more Arab looking and/or more Muslima looking?
I've been thinking a lot about this for several reasons.
I thought about being a man instead. Probably would be worse off. These days being a Palestinian man gets you just as much trouble as being a black man in America. Just like when my brother walks the street and is looked at like a black man and is harassed, so I would be too. I suppose in some ways, it's helped that I'm a "harmless" looking woman. Aside from my name, you can't tell where I come from or whats running through my blood.
Then again, maybe in being here, I'd be given more power. Treated differently if I were a man. If only I could dress up, play the part. But my body screams woman. I'm not opposed to dressing like a man.
Of course I could go on and on about sexism everywhere. About the power of women anywhere in the world, including in the US, in NY, in my neighborhood in Queens.
Walking through the streets of Ramallah, Palestine, I get a lot of looks. And I've been thinking about these looks. Part of it, I've been told is that the men like how I look. Okay, fine. There's that.
And then there's being a woman who walks with confidence. Its of course not like women walk around here like they don't have confidence, but they walk different. Maybe it's all the high heeled sandals. Who knows?
And THEN I think it's also it's because they can't tell what else I am. They can see that I'm something more than just Palestinian. Of course the folks in the country look all shades of the spectrum, but there's something about them that says, yeah, you're Palestinian. I've got that and then something else.
Maybe it's the hair. I know the only arabs I've seen with hair more so like mine are some Egyptians. It's of course my black side that makes my hair curlier and kinkier. My dad had looser, wavier curls. Mine are tighter.
So that's some of that.
Maybe I'll write more about this later.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Wednesday Oct 15th 7:20pm Adios Bar
A small journal entry I wrote the other night. Sort of Palestine related, BUT more about how I was feeling at the moment. So it's here instead of in the other blog.
I feel sick, like I have a cold. My head aches. My nose has been stuffy and runny. I can't really breathe. I'm having a good time, yes, BUT I'm feeling sick.
I'm at a place called Adios. Stone walls, soft candles, flowing alcohol and Spanish Music. Reminds me of Mexico. But this is not Mexico. This is Palestine.
This is a very relaxed Wednesday night in an Arab Community. Some Muslim. Some Christian. Some don't care. I needed some time away. To myself. The family worries. They don't want me out alone or with friends they don't know. Really? Hm.
They know me, but they don't really know me. My arabic isn't good enough for them to know my struggles. To know what I've done my entire life and what I've been through. They don't know me. And even when my Arabic gets better, they still won't.
The pain, torment, depression, addiction through out my life and in the family. How do I explain?
Abuse, self-destruction, complex sexuality. How? And why?
They knew where I was all this time. Why was it my job to seek them all out? Why was I the one who had to pursue them when they were the older aunts and uncles and family? They were the adults. It's their job to take care of me. Maybe that's why they want to do all these things for me.
Of course obligation in Arab and muslim culture make it so, but also guilt. They didn't know I had been sick this whole time. Or that I struggled to do schoo and worka t the same time. They still don't know the financial struggles I had and we had at home. Of course they didn't. How could they know? Was my uncle in NY going to tell them? Was my mom?
The more I think about it, the more my head feels the pressure. The more my head aches with this feeling of, "if I never wrote to them, would they have bpthered to look for me, to want me to be part of them?"
Maybe they did try and were unsuccessful. Maybe things were too busy and life was too hard. Maybe they forgot about me. Maybe. Maybe.
I sit in this place, watching Arabic music videos. The women who sing are clearly not Muslim Arabs. Or not very religious Muslims. All the songs ooz sexuality without showing too much skin or sexual contact between them and the men. It's sexual without being tasteless, like American videos. They all have very thin eyebrows. Very dark eye make up that brings out the color and almond shape of their eyes. Light skin. Long wavy or curled hair. Very beautiful. Syrian. Turkish. Lebonese. Egyptian. Not sure if any of them are Palestinian. Maybe there are and I don't know. Maybe I should do more research. My little cousin knows. She's about 12 or 13. Of course she knows all the Arab singers.
She thinks my life is like on TV because I'm in Amreeka. They thought NY was a different country from America. They think we're all like Bush. How can I blame them for thinking that? The US shows the world its ass. And we suffer for it.
I sit with my wine. Men come in here slowly but surely for beer. It's now 8pm. I write. Eat carrots with vinegar and nuts. Drink red wine. Maybe I look out of place here. The man who runs this place talked to me about the hotel for a while. The Grand Park is above Adios. I read about it in my travel book and decided to check it out. It's different from what the book says because they renovated the previous year. I was looking forward to the pool table, but it's gone. They're going for a more classy, membership based type feel. Thats what he says at least.
The man changed the music from Spanish to Russin. Now to John Lee Hooker.
I have this JL Hooker album at home.
All the men sit at the end of the bar. They drink tall glasses of beer, chain smoking their cigarettes, looking at me.
I wear my hair straight back out of my face in a bun. I've heard I look so different when my hair is straight back instead of curling all around my face. I wore my new green and silver coined earrings and necklace. I bought them in Jerusalem and the coins are older than my great grand father. Dark green scarf wrapped around my shoulders. A long sleeved black shirt I borrowed from my cousin. Olive green pants my aunt bought me. Black flip flops.
My hands fliding over my notebook. My pen and paper the guide. Arabic tongue surrounded by African American blues. How poetic. How me. The manager tells me he feels connected to southern blues. He feels the words. The music. The message. Rhythm and guitar vibrating softly against the stone walls. The softness of the candles. The light from the television glowing on the faces of the men.
I continue to eat peanuts and carrots.
The men look down. They want to be up again. The manager asks me if I mind if we listen to Arabic music. I tell him I love Arabic music. One of the men hand him a cd. John Lee Hooker and his blues is paused.
The music starts.
A man sings about a woman named Leila. Drums and flute. Accordian and guitar. His voice vibrates, moves me. Is smooth like this wine. The music gives me chills. The hairs stand up on my arms and legs. I feel the need, desire to dance. But I am immoble. I feel bashful. The men here are much older. Different. The atmosphere isn't that of other bars whether in NY or Palestine. It is what it is.
They change the music again. A southern country blues. Black man singing. Music sounds from around Alabama or somewhere down there. A video that played 30 mins ago is playing again.
It's 8:35pm. Almost time to go. I ask for my check. The manager tells me to bring my friends here and we'll have a good time. Tells me if I want a membership, I can get one. I tell him sure, I'll tell people. I pay. I spend $20 on 3 glasses of wine and me time. I'm sated. I leave. Time to go back. I still feel sick. But I am having a good time. Yes, I am having a good time.
I feel sick, like I have a cold. My head aches. My nose has been stuffy and runny. I can't really breathe. I'm having a good time, yes, BUT I'm feeling sick.
I'm at a place called Adios. Stone walls, soft candles, flowing alcohol and Spanish Music. Reminds me of Mexico. But this is not Mexico. This is Palestine.
This is a very relaxed Wednesday night in an Arab Community. Some Muslim. Some Christian. Some don't care. I needed some time away. To myself. The family worries. They don't want me out alone or with friends they don't know. Really? Hm.
They know me, but they don't really know me. My arabic isn't good enough for them to know my struggles. To know what I've done my entire life and what I've been through. They don't know me. And even when my Arabic gets better, they still won't.
The pain, torment, depression, addiction through out my life and in the family. How do I explain?
Abuse, self-destruction, complex sexuality. How? And why?
They knew where I was all this time. Why was it my job to seek them all out? Why was I the one who had to pursue them when they were the older aunts and uncles and family? They were the adults. It's their job to take care of me. Maybe that's why they want to do all these things for me.
Of course obligation in Arab and muslim culture make it so, but also guilt. They didn't know I had been sick this whole time. Or that I struggled to do schoo and worka t the same time. They still don't know the financial struggles I had and we had at home. Of course they didn't. How could they know? Was my uncle in NY going to tell them? Was my mom?
The more I think about it, the more my head feels the pressure. The more my head aches with this feeling of, "if I never wrote to them, would they have bpthered to look for me, to want me to be part of them?"
Maybe they did try and were unsuccessful. Maybe things were too busy and life was too hard. Maybe they forgot about me. Maybe. Maybe.
I sit in this place, watching Arabic music videos. The women who sing are clearly not Muslim Arabs. Or not very religious Muslims. All the songs ooz sexuality without showing too much skin or sexual contact between them and the men. It's sexual without being tasteless, like American videos. They all have very thin eyebrows. Very dark eye make up that brings out the color and almond shape of their eyes. Light skin. Long wavy or curled hair. Very beautiful. Syrian. Turkish. Lebonese. Egyptian. Not sure if any of them are Palestinian. Maybe there are and I don't know. Maybe I should do more research. My little cousin knows. She's about 12 or 13. Of course she knows all the Arab singers.
She thinks my life is like on TV because I'm in Amreeka. They thought NY was a different country from America. They think we're all like Bush. How can I blame them for thinking that? The US shows the world its ass. And we suffer for it.
I sit with my wine. Men come in here slowly but surely for beer. It's now 8pm. I write. Eat carrots with vinegar and nuts. Drink red wine. Maybe I look out of place here. The man who runs this place talked to me about the hotel for a while. The Grand Park is above Adios. I read about it in my travel book and decided to check it out. It's different from what the book says because they renovated the previous year. I was looking forward to the pool table, but it's gone. They're going for a more classy, membership based type feel. Thats what he says at least.
The man changed the music from Spanish to Russin. Now to John Lee Hooker.
I have this JL Hooker album at home.
All the men sit at the end of the bar. They drink tall glasses of beer, chain smoking their cigarettes, looking at me.
I wear my hair straight back out of my face in a bun. I've heard I look so different when my hair is straight back instead of curling all around my face. I wore my new green and silver coined earrings and necklace. I bought them in Jerusalem and the coins are older than my great grand father. Dark green scarf wrapped around my shoulders. A long sleeved black shirt I borrowed from my cousin. Olive green pants my aunt bought me. Black flip flops.
My hands fliding over my notebook. My pen and paper the guide. Arabic tongue surrounded by African American blues. How poetic. How me. The manager tells me he feels connected to southern blues. He feels the words. The music. The message. Rhythm and guitar vibrating softly against the stone walls. The softness of the candles. The light from the television glowing on the faces of the men.
I continue to eat peanuts and carrots.
The men look down. They want to be up again. The manager asks me if I mind if we listen to Arabic music. I tell him I love Arabic music. One of the men hand him a cd. John Lee Hooker and his blues is paused.
The music starts.
A man sings about a woman named Leila. Drums and flute. Accordian and guitar. His voice vibrates, moves me. Is smooth like this wine. The music gives me chills. The hairs stand up on my arms and legs. I feel the need, desire to dance. But I am immoble. I feel bashful. The men here are much older. Different. The atmosphere isn't that of other bars whether in NY or Palestine. It is what it is.
They change the music again. A southern country blues. Black man singing. Music sounds from around Alabama or somewhere down there. A video that played 30 mins ago is playing again.
It's 8:35pm. Almost time to go. I ask for my check. The manager tells me to bring my friends here and we'll have a good time. Tells me if I want a membership, I can get one. I tell him sure, I'll tell people. I pay. I spend $20 on 3 glasses of wine and me time. I'm sated. I leave. Time to go back. I still feel sick. But I am having a good time. Yes, I am having a good time.
Hope you're reading my Palestine blog!
Hey folks. In case you didn't see the link on the Palestine blog, here it is again.
I will have some writing in here during my stay, BUT most of the writing will be in the palestine blog.
Take a look see. www.emanrimawiinpalestine.blogspot.com
Let me know what you think
I will have some writing in here during my stay, BUT most of the writing will be in the palestine blog.
Take a look see. www.emanrimawiinpalestine.blogspot.com
Let me know what you think
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