Five
From my old house I walked back to Tireh Road. The cafés at this end of the street have become extremely popular and are visited by fashionably dressed young women driving expensive cars who stop to smoke a nergila. At the weekend young men come in Bermuda shorts and slippers to spend their mornings sipping espresso and smoking.
In the past, men in Ramallah never wore shorts in public. In the last few years there has been a sea change in the appearance of people in the streets. Many more women cover their hair and young men now sport fancy punk styles with the sides shaved and puffy hair on top. When you pass them they emit a strong smell of perfume. In the past, men and women in the street smelled natural, in the summer with the stink of perspiration. Now, with the proliferation of cheap perfumes and a dispensation from the imams that the Prophet Muhammad liked fragrance and wore it, this has changed. The people I saw going to cafés have lived all their life under occupation. There have already been two generations since it began in 1967.
On one side of the street a café offered alcohol and no nergila. It was full of women with attractive flowing hair. On the other side there was nergila but no alcohol. It was full of mainly women in scarves, representing the division in Palestinian society in Ramallah. Both are very popular and always busy. You could smell and see the heavy scented smoke as you passed by.
I decided to turn left and take the side street named after Labib Hishmeh in appreciation of his participation in the scout movement. I wanted to have a look at the hills to the east even though it meant going down and then having to walk up again. Like many other streets in Ramallah, this one was named after a member of an old local family, most of whose members no longer live here. The dead man and his descendants have been in the US for decades. It’s as though the original inhabitants, having left the city, now want to be remembered by lobbying for streets to be named after deceased family members like a rare, extinct species.
At the corner of the slope, just before I began climbing up Damascus Road, I noticed that the recently opened eastward street is called Ayn Louzeh after the spring that used to be there before the area was developed. The large water-loving eucalyptus trees lining both sides of the road are presumably drawing on the underground spring below. Who now would remember how lovely this area used to be, with that old ruin of a house by the spring with almond trees that bloomed in February, a nearby cave and, in April, fields of yellow mallow growing on one terrace and pyramid orchids on another?
When I reached halfway up the road that would take me back to Main Street, I passed one of the old Ramallah houses built seventy years ago. It was occupied by a family of limited means. All the windows and doors were open and I could hear loud exuberant Arabic music blaring out from the house. Dirty water was draining into the street. I could not see the woman inside the house, but I could sense her determined energy as she swept everything away and for the first time I understood what she must be feeling. The evening before the house would have been full of people, her husband, children and their friends. They all ate and the men smoked. It is the habit of some men here not to care about what gets spilled. She must have sat there deferentially in the small space allotted to her that would only have dwindled as the number and gender of the guests increased. She could see food being spilled and cigarette butts extinguished underfoot. But this morning it was all hers. The children and the men were out. Now she was mistress of the whole space. It was her chance to assert her dominion, to sweep away all remnants of their presence, all evidence of their offensive practices. She was doing it in the most efficient manner by splashing water, huge bucket-loads of it, over the entire tiled floor. The water would run everywhere, underneath the beds, chairs and tables, into corners and over the balcony, leaving no spot in the house untouched, uncleansed. All the ash, food, cigarette butts, scraps of paper and whatever was left behind by those careless men who never have to pick up anything after themselves would be swept out of the house and into the street, where it belonged. She would be in flip-flops, with the ends of her trousers rolled up. Could she be swaying to the music as she waged her battle with the water to drive it out of the house? The sounds reverberating in the empty house are her choice of music. There is no one to object that it is too cold to have the windows open. Running around, she does not feel the morning chill. All the furniture has been moved to allow her to clean underneath and behind it; the throws, covers and floor mats are all shaken clean. Nothing is left where it had been the night before, when everyone behaved as they wished, while she kept to her corner, watching without comment or objection.
The dirt and murky water streaked with soapsuds drained into the street. As I passed by I was assaulted by its fusty smell. I stepped aside just in time to avoid being splashed as it sidled down the street with its clusters of hair and scraps of food.
As I stood watching this, I thought of how again and again our larger houses, our city and our countryside have been defiled by the invading Israeli army, but it was always left to us to clean up the mess. The first time was in 1967, when there was minimal destruction to property. Then in 2002 the Israeli army invaded again, in the process devastating so many homes and offices. After the invasion a slogan appeared saying, ‘Tomorrow is a better day and like a phoenix we shall rise again.’ Compared to where we were then and where we are now, this was an apt metaphor to use.
At the top of the street I turn left. On the corner there used to be an attractive old house which was demolished in 1982. In its place now stands a three-storey building containing box-like flats. I remember our efforts to save that old building, another battle we lost. Opposite, Yasser Arafat’s brother Fathi established what he called a heritage shop, selling Palestine crossstitch embroidered cushions and other items in the Palestinian colours. He also built a hotel run by the Palestinian Red Cross Society on the football pitch serving the Amari Camp School and the only open space near the crowded refugee camp. The returning leaders of our national movement were compensating for losing the battle for the land with this celebration of heritage, while ensuring the financial viability of Fatah, the largest political group.
Coming down the street I saw Fadda, whose name means silver, the long-term domestic helper of the former mayor of Ramallah, who had been appointed by Israel after the start of the occupation. She greeted me furtively, looking round as though she did not want anyone to see that she was talking to me. She was all eyes, fully aware of everything around her, and yet she put on a coy, bashful look, her shield against the world. She made me think of an opinion piece I had read by a Times columnist in 1973 when I was a law student in London. The writer was remembering his nanny and wondering what she would have achieved had she had the educational opportunities that the British welfare system now provides for those with limited means. Had Fadda been given the opportunity, she would have made something of herself; instead all her life had been spent cleaning a house that was not her own. Our dream when we worked in solidarity during the first Intifada was that we would help create an egalitarian society where everyone, including people like Fadda, would get the opportunity to shine.
Further up the road I saw two other women. One, wearing a traditional embroidered dress, was sitting on the ledge by the pavement fingering her worry beads. She was tall and had the graceful body of women from the Hebron region in the south of the West Bank. She had great presence and offered friendly greetings to every passer-by, many of whom stopped to talk to her. She lived in a cavernous one-room house built in 1911 below street level, one of those houses in Ramallah’s old city that had escaped demolition. The other, in modern dress, lived in a windowless ground-floor room in an attractive old Ramallah house long abandoned by its owners, who were living in the US. It had a thick wooden door that squeaked open directly on to the pavement. The two women never spoke to each other, nor did they seem to acknowledge each other’s existence. The woman with modern dress looked disgruntled, fed up with the world, as she sat in the frame of the open door on a low wic
ker chair. Her feet rested on the lower panel of the open blue-grey door with the big wrought-iron key of the old Ramallah houses. She was wearing a burgundy sweater and a grey skirt. Underneath her raised feet, almost covered by her skirt, a grey and black cat sat on its haunches, content as only cats can be, looking at passers-by from the comfort and security of this woman’s skirt. The woman was sewing a cross-stitch cushion cover using black and red threads. She did this for a wage. She was so intent on her work that she did not look up. Her hair was shoulder-length and grey. She lived all alone, her children having emigrated to the US. Upstairs the house was deserted. Most likely the owners were waiting for the old tenant to die or to leave, so they could demolish the house and sell up for the astronomical price that land near the centre now fetches.
Further along I came to the first traffic lights. A line of cars waited for the sombre face painted on the red light to be replaced by the smiley face painted on the green light. Once again I felt so fortunate to be walking rather than driving. I noticed a Palestinian flag unceremoniously fluttering in the air. Such a sight is no longer momentous. This practice is now ubiquitous. It is one of the few victories that was won with the Oslo deal. In the past flying the flag constituted a dangerous heroic deed that could cost lives. Now there is neither honour nor gratification in watching it flutter over the city of our confinement. Israel doesn’t care what symbols of state Palestinians exhibit. It continues to do what it can to prevent one from materialising on the ground.
At the corner a new building was going up. A few weeks earlier I was in a shared taxi and we passed this construction site where the last of the city’s woodcutters used to be. I was chatting with the taxi driver and mentioned that I hoped this new building would not be so close to the blind corner that the road could not be widened. Evidently this was not what was happening. Even as I said this I was angered at how lacking in public spirit the owner was. In a matter-of-fact way, devoid of malice or anger, the taxi driver said, ‘Sahibha wasel [its owner has connections]. Even when he was pouring cement the police would block the whole street.’ I was struck by how calmly he said this and how he was willing to accept such discrimination. For him wasel was a fact of life that he was reconciled to, could do nothing about and must simply accept. In his driving he was also accepting, not allowing himself to get worked up by all the terrible drivers. If he did he would not be able to complete the day without collapsing.
Beyond the traffic lights I crossed the street to look at a garden I admire. It belongs to a woman who lives in humble circumstances in one of the old Ramallah houses built in 1927. It has a small space in front, below street level, which gets little sun and yet she has managed to keep beds of decorative plants and a few herbs. You can always tell when a garden is the product of a hired gardener or the loving hands of the owner. I much prefer gardens with a personal touch like this one.
In front was an ugly, bulky building in which the Arab Bank has its headquarters, built where the Ramallah bus terminal used to be. Until 1994 this was an open space in the centre of the old city, providing somewhere to breathe in the crowded area. I’m told there used to be a spring here. It is where we were instructed to gather in 1991 during the First Gulf War for the distribution of gas masks. We were certain that without these we were doomed to die of the poison gas Saddam Hussein was supposed to possess. We all enthusiastically heeded the call, but of course the Israeli military failed to provide them. A frightening time.
It is regrettable that this area was not kept as an open space. But in the chaos that ensued during the transition period just before the Palestinian Authority began taking responsibility for civilian affairs from the Israeli military, a permit to build was issued and the area changed forever. To the left of the unsightly building was the old hisba (vegetable market), before it was moved to Ramallah’s sister town of Al Bireh.
I remember walking to the Al Bireh hisba when the curfew was lifted after the First Gulf War. I wanted so much to hear ‘the busy hum of men’ and knew I would find it there. How I yearned after our long and anxious confinement to be around people. In the course of my ordeal during the war I had also forgotten what a feast for the senses, an olfactory chorus, it was to walk through the spice market leading to the hisba. There were strong aromas of chamomile, sage and mint from the numerous herb, spice and dried-fruit shops lining the street. The pavement was crammed with sacks of brown dried figs, raisins, black carob beans (those long horn-like pods that remind one of biblical times) and white solid yoghurt balls. One of the shops was grinding thyme leaves and their dry, piercing smell, which is captured by the front of the nose, saturated the air. This was followed by the deeper, more rounded smell of sesame seeds being roasted and the mouth-watering, soothing smell of baked bread that strikes deep at the stomach. Further on was the rakish smell of grilled chickens turning on spits and of shawarma sizzling as the fat dropped from the slices of meat on the spike, with the fire blazing behind. And then there were the ubiquitous falafel stands, where the round brown patties were cooked in boiling sesame oil with its pungent smell that assaulted you full in the face.
And it remains as it was then. In Al Bireh this double chorus of smells and sounds remains unaltered. But the area of the old Ramallah hisba, south of where I was walking, which used to be the hub of resistance to the occupation, has now become unrecognisably gentrified, with pavement cafés that often leave no room for pedestrians to pass, pizza and hamburger places with foreign-sounding names, and an active nightlife. It also has become a centre for a number of cultural and musical institutions. One of these is Al Kamandjati, which has been influential since its establishment in 2002 in popularising both Arabic and Western classical music, and offering music lessons, especially to deprived children from refugee camps. It is run by Ramzi Aburedwan, himself from Amari camp. It operates out of a renovated building not far from the old Ramallah municipal building now used as a one-stop-shop facility, where it’s possible to check on and pay all municipal and other taxes in the same place.
As I passed this municipal one-stop shop I remembered the Western expert sent after the Oslo Accords to help the Palestinian Authority develop modern methods. How he went on and on about the possibility of gathering in one place all the transactions for payments, and how confused the official was as he tried to understand what this ‘expert’ was talking about, using English which he could barely understand. When he finally got it, he couldn’t stop saying, ‘Yes, yes, it is good, one-stop shop, one-stop shop.’
In recent years Ramallah has acquired three music academies. In February 1967 my father and a number of other music lovers worked on plans to establish the first. The occupation put a stop to their efforts. It was many decades later that their dream materialised. Of the twenty-eight founding members, only six have remained in Palestine; the rest have either emigrated or died. As well as the music academies, there are a number of concert halls where world-famous musicians perform. An audience appreciative of classical music has been cultivated.
In the early 1950s many of the old city houses were rented to country people who came to Ramallah from the Hebron region’s impoverished villages, such as Sair and Thahrieh, seeking work. The previous owners of these houses had emigrated to the US. With the rent-control law in force, tenants were unwilling to move. This remained the case until their situation improved once work in Israel became an option and they left to live in better housing. This was when wholesale renovation could begin and now only a scattering of families continue to inhabit the old houses built early in the last century. As I walk along the city’s familiar streets, passing its monuments, murals and museums, I try to get to grips with what has become of it after half a century of occupation.
Twenty-five years after the establishment of the Palestinian Authority few opportunities for work have been found for those labouring away in Israel, many of whom are employed in building the illegal Israeli settlements. Their numbers continue to rise. Their morning begins at two-thirty. They have t
o drive to the checkpoints, where they are made to wait for hours before they’re allowed through on foot. Only then do they proceed to their place of work in Israel or to the Jewish settlements, returning exhausted in the late afternoon. They are the unseen who suffer in silence, glad to find work in Israel or at the settlements, however harsh and humiliating the conditions. Once, when I was returning from travel early in the morning, I saw a number of them crossing the highway to smuggle themselves into Israel. The car lights reflected on their white shirts as though a flock of birds had flown across. By the time I started my walk this morning, none could be seen. They were all already at work.
For the past week, every time I’ve walked to the office I’ve noticed an old man with a long necktie sitting near the kerb, at the same corner by the pavement, looking wistful as if bidding farewell to the scene before his eyes. And he was there again today, in the same place and with the same pose. He was frail, with quick, sudden movements which were then followed by moments of long repose. Who was he? A man who was dying or an expat who was visiting after a long absence and possibly for the last time? He wore a red and black waistcoat and always started the day by sitting near the kerb, his nose almost touching his long narrow chin, his mouth firmly closed, his eyes looking dreamily into the distance. Both his hands rested on the crook of his smooth, amber-coloured wooden cane. Something about him intrigued me, sitting as he did bent over, reflecting on his life as he scrutinised every passer-by. Then I saw him lift one of his hands, hold it up to support his long chin, which was framed by two of his fingers, and rest his elbow on the crook of his staff. He seemed to keep this pose for a long time. I found myself observing him with fascination, worried that one day I might end up like him, posing at street corners in Ramallah, directing my gaze to the horizon in a long vacant stare.
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