Category Archives: A Penny for My Thoughts…

Pictures of the Rescued Dog

While in Palestine I wrote this post about a dog that our apartment had rescued of the streets. (read it here) During his short stay in our apartment (a tough situation as it is forbidden to have a dog in a  Muslim home, and there was an entire Muslim family living in our same building) he was given the name Conrad. I thought I would share some pictures of him with you.

As for Conrad, we gave him lots of food to give him some strength and then my roommates released him on the wealthier end of town where hopefully he will be safe. 

It’s time for a name.

It has been over 1 year since I created this blog! I’ve been around the world, met a ton of crazy people, had various awakenings and digressions, and simply lived. I think it is time to find a name. I am going to set a deadline in my phone for Aug. 1st. So if you have any suggestions, please send them my way via comment, email, or carrier pigeon. Note that messages in a bottle will not be accepted for this transaction due to unpredictable and long delivery time.

The Unwanted Pilgrimage

We exited the elaborate courtyard whose massive walls surround some of the holiest sites for the Ibrahimic religions. To Muslims, this is the location where it is believed the prophet ascended to heaven. The site is extremely protected and many people try and are unable to enter. Having attempted multiple times to enter during the extremely short and oddly timed tourist hours, we, myself and a friend I had met at the hostel, had decided it was time to play the Muslim card, that is, use the fact that we come from Muslim families to get into the beautiful holy sites. For my friend, this was literally a card. She possessed one of the controversial Turkish ID cards. Heavily criticized for including the bearer’s religion, it was that small crescent moon and star on her card that had allowed her easy access into an area many religious pilgrims never step foot in. My US passport had offered no religious evidence, obviously, but my Arab name and Arabic quickly convinced the guard who had greeted us with the only too familiar “Closed today, Muslims only,” to let me in. So, head scarves in place, we had entered into the peaceful sanctuary about an hour before.

A small sample of the beautiful Byzantine art

A small sample of the beautiful Byzantine art

I was immediately mesmerized by the elaborate Dome of the Rock. Each inch of the massive structure is intricately designed with Byzantine art,and the gold domed roof, the staple of the Jerusalem skyline funded during renovations by Jordan, shines with a faith instilling vibrancy. Entrance into the Dome is prohibited, and while strict rules such as what religions can enter at what times, who guards the doors, and what places are off-limits are irritable to the curious visitor, it is diligent adherence to these rules that keeps the city from breaking out into violence. In fact, it was Ariel Sharon’s visit to the Temple Mount or Haram Al Sharif, (the name of the courtyard used by Jews and Muslims respectively) after Yasser Arafat refused to give up either the holy site or East Jerusalem during negotiations, which set off the First Intifada (Palestinian uprising) The solid rock under our feet was unsettled ground, and as I tried to capture the glow of the gold roof, its demand was no wonder to even myself, one of the biggest religious pessimists.

We had moved on to Al Aqsa Mosque. We had entered the prayer area and were hit with a calm wave of energy, a sensation similar to the feeling of entering an air-conditioned room after being out in the heat. The comforting feeling of entering the prayer room in a mosque had beckoned us in from the political controversy that remained all around. The women’s prayer room was humble. Every few feet another small book-case was overflowing with copies of the Quran, the Sunnah, and the Hadith. A few people had been scattered about the room praying quietly while we looked around.

Our final stop had been the Marwani Mosque. Known to some as Soloman’s Stables for the short period it had been used to hold horses during the Crusades. The mosque is located below ground. Recent renovations by the Israeli government underneath Al Aqsa have left visible cracks throughout Marwani, causing large protests from Muslims worldwide.

We exited through one of the 11 gates around the courtyard, slipping out near the Muslim quarter. The rain was beginning to fall, and we found ourselves seeking shelter under a falafel stand. Sick of falafel, but happy to be out of the rain, I ordered a small cup of humus and purchased a kilo of fresh pita bread. As we waited out the rain, we began speaking to an older Arab gentleman. After finding that I spoke some Arabic he began with the usual list of questions, the answers to which revealed that we were both of Arab origin, with Muslim fathers, and were, of course, therefore Muslim.

He immediately pulled us into the rain and beckoned us down the street to a location he didn’t find the need to share with us. Happy to have learned I am from Colorado, he began ranting in Arabic about the Colorado River, which he had seen on TV.

“It is a big river, but not as big as the Nile or the Amazon. “ He continued as if he did not hear my repeated inquiry as to where we were going. This sort of event may seem strange, but very often we were ushered into a shop for tea or cookies, so we followed without much question.

After about 5 minutes of walking down the soaked and muddy rock road of old Jerusalem we found ourselves at another entrance to the courtyard, whose wonders we had just experienced less than 30 minutes before. At this point what was going on became clear.

This man, upon discovering our Muslim heritage had taken to escorting us on a pilgrimage to the Temple Mound/ Haram Al-Sharif, not realizing that we had already been into the site. “Muslims only” came the warding off by the soldier at the gate. The old man approached the IDF guards and began explaining to them in Arabic, that while we do not look Muslim, we were in fact, and that they needed to let us in. The conversation that ensued included 2 languages and zero communication.

“Shukran Amu, bes….” (Thank you, Uncle, but…) I said to the old man, but he continued to argue with the guards, one of which had begun demanding our passports from us to see if we were Muslim.

“Amu, we went to Al Aqsa already,” I paid great attention to make sure I got the past tense correctly in the Arabic sentence so if he didn’t understand that we had already gone, maybe the guards would.

“Bil Araby” (in Arabic) He demanded that I communicate with him in Arabic. I was speaking Arabic. And very simple Arabic even.

At this point the guard was getting impatient. Having acquired my companion’s passport and religious verification, he turned to me.

“Give me your passport.” The old man continued to speak to the other guard in Arabic asserting our religion and insisting our admittance.

“I don’t want in.”

“Give me your passport.”

At this point surrendering my passport seemed easier than arguing. Was it because I was a woman that they weren’t listening to me, or because none of us spoke fluently the other party’s native tongue? Here the guards who spoke Hebrew to each other were speaking Arabic with the old man, but English with us. I was speaking, or I guess attempting to speak, Arabic with the old man, and English with the guards. And the old man was speaking a bit of English and Arabic. Regardless of the words being spoken, none were being heard.

I handed over my passport, which did little to convince the guard that I was Muslim. Having quieted the guard for a moment, I returned my focus to the Old Man, but he wasn’t listening to me, but rather waiting for the verdict on my entry from the guard.

“Recite the Quran” the guard demanded looking up from my passport

“I DON’T WANT IN!”

“If you are Muslim recite the Quran”

“No”

“Yalla, Al Fatiha” He demanded me to recite the first Surah in the Quran.

“Yalla,” the Old man echoed the guards command.

“FINE!” I gave in and at a speed hastened by my frustration and bafflement, I recited the most famous verse of the Quran. The guard, satisfied, gestured toward the gate. And submitting to our fate, we followed the old man into the familiar courtyard. Once inside the old man welcomed us and pointed out Al Aqsa Mosque. Satisfied in his success at taking two Muslim girls on one of the most significant pilgrimages they can make, he left out the gate.

We stood in silence staring at each other before we broke out laughing. Here we were at one of the most worshipped places, where thousands of Christian pilgrims are denied entry every day, especially on Fridays such as today when no tourists are permitted in due to Muslim prayer. In fact, many Christians have covered their heads and tried lying to get in (hence the recitation test). We had been lead there, and despite our drawn out resistance, been forced into the sanctuary.We took one last walk around the grounds then exited through a different gate.

Later that day, as we wandered through the mystical old city, we unintentionally started down one of the many small roads that end at one of the gates into the too familiar mound.

“Closed. Muslims only” came the call like a broken record.

“We know.” we giggled as our response puzzled the guard. We turned around. “All roads lead to Al Aqsa” became our old city wanderings mantra.

All roads lead to Al Aqsa.

Math Problem Gone Awry

 Being home is surreal. I have been going to an internship with an attorney in Denver, an experience that has reassured my conviction in my long set career path. I really enjoy the work I have been doing and could see myself doing this for a long time. At the same time I have been taking 2 art classes at a community college which have made me rethink my life trajectory. Here I am almost $100,000 in debt from school. After a few years of law school, that will be doubled. Sure, I will be set to embark on a successful career in a profession that I have no doubts I will be good at, but I am starting in a hole deeper than my parents and grandparents ever imagined at my age. I’ve rarely seen my bank account over $1,000, and now I owe 100 times that. It’s like a high school math problem gone wrong. I remember my algebra teacher teaching us that once you had come to an answer you had to look at it logically within the context of the problem to make sure it was correct. How many dollars will Sara owe at the end of her time in college? “Teacher, this doesn’t seem right. I think I have added too many zeros.” Nope, you did it correctly.  Now finish the problem. Convert that into months income, add interest…… AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

 

Meanwhile, my dirt cheap art courses have shown me that I am actually pretty good at art. I have picked up drawing really quickly. I keep wishing each class I was on a stage instead of in a studio, but never long to be in a politics or law course. Would it have been such a bad plan to go to community college for an arts major, then spend my life with a low paying job and little debt… looking out of my hole right now, I’m finding that path doesn’t look as useless and ridiculous as it once did.

Teaching

“Habbibi! Habbibi! Habbibi!” She calls as she runs up and kisses me on both cheeks.  “Ms. Sara, Arabic?” She asks if she can speak in Arabic.

“Ah” I respond. And then I am swept into my daily Arabic practice, and myupdate on 10-year-old drama.

The large metal gate at the entrance of the school

The large metal gate at the entrance of the school

Every day I arrive at the gate to our school to unlock the door around 2:15, and everyday there are already 2 or 3 young girls anxiously waiting for our cheek-kiss greeting and to be let through the schools massive metal gate.

Aiashia, the school we teach at (Whose name has about every vowel sound in the Arabic language making it a foreigner’s nightmare to pronounce) has a tall wall of about 30 feet surrounding it on all sides, with equally extravagant flowering trees lining the wall, which provides an excellent haven concealed from the busy streets, a secret garden if you will, where these lovely ladies can safely be themselves without the fear of an unwanted male stare or judging elder.

Aside from the male security guard and our bosses, no men are permitted within the school grounds. The basketball court is at the center of a courtyard. The actual building is a horseshoe shape with about 2 dozen classrooms emptying out directly into the cement courtyard.

As students filter in they bounce between my classroom and Ms. Amy’s giggling about their day, listening to the music, and emptying their ever inquisitive minds of whatever questions they had stored for us through the day. The classrooms are hallow, and echo loudly. The desks sit two people, and each day, I drag them from their traditional rows to a dining room table esque form, only to drag them back to their original place at the end of the day. The drawings on the desk testify to what my students nag about every day. “School is boring.” I laugh. Some things are the same even on the other side of an ocean in the middle of an occupation.

To give you a general idea

a of how our classes are run I will give you a few examples of my favorite activities we have done.

1. The restaurant- Amy and I quickly learned that food and learning should go hand in hand. My class received a nicely written invitation to the Princess Restaurant, and the next day the two classes gathered to find a classroom that had been magically turned into a restaurant with common desks transformed into the most classy tables with the addition of vases of wild flowers, and only the freshest and most classy food in town (Strawberries, humus, and cookies!). The girls were the waitresses, the hostesses, and of course the hungry patrons!

2. Songs!- We are encouraged to use songs as a way of increasing our girls speaking speed, so this semester my girls started off with “I am Woman” then went to “Hold On” by B*Witched and are finishing off with “Firework” by Katy Perry. I tried to stick with motivating songs. I was so proud yesterday when I gave each person in the class a solo, and each girl had the confidence to sing by themselves. I think it attests to the safe zone that Amy and I have worked so hard to create at the school. The girls at Aiashia have really become a family, and to me, that’s more valuable than any strides they have made in mastering the English language.

3. Sports- After each class we run about 30 minutes of sports. This has typically taken the form of basketball since some brilliant architect placed the basketball hoops directly in front of the soccer goals. Some days we have played hide and seek, in which, the full circle around the large building turns each round into a high-speed chase of who can sprint in a circle faster than the person who is it. A few days I have taught the girls some Taekwondo and self-defense which went over really well.

4. Plays- Amy and I both enjoyed doing dialogs with our girls. Mine did two Dr. Seuss scripts, the Lorax and Yertle the Turtle, though Amy takes the cake on this endeavor. Her girls did the Three Billy Goats Gruff. This included desks being made into a bridge that the goats could walk across and the troll could hide under, teaching ten-year olds to charge with their fingers in the shape of goat horns, and of course a lot of “Trippity, trap, trippity, trap!” I proudly made my guest appearance as the Big Billy Goat, but was out acted by the well mastered Troll voice of little Tala.

The program has no specific curriculum which has allowed me to mold my class as I see fit. This has eased my concerns a bit about being a language imperialist simply spreading my language to these kids who meanwhile have bigger problems, thanks in large part to financial contributions to their occupying force from my government. As you can see, I still think about it a lot, but I am proud to say that I believe my classroom has become a place of joint learning and mutual growth between all the students and myself as well.

I have 3 more days of teaching and then I think I am done teaching ESL forever, but I hope to stay in touch with these lovely ladies who will never know the extent to which they have helped me.

The Victims

In an article I wrote recently for the annual Newsletter for the International Club at our school, I recalled the events of my first border crossing from Amman to Nablus across the Sheik Hussein Bridge this past October.

I concluded with the following:

“This story is neither the calmest nor the most provoking one I could share. Aadi, عادي , is the Arabic word used for “normal” or “standard.”

When a sound bomb, an empty explosive that creates a massive boom that is used as a fear tactic by Israeli military, went off during class one of my girls said to me “Aadi”.

When we asked a local boy if we could spray-paint the massive concrete wall that divides the Arab lands from those currently controlled by Israel, including some settlements outside of the Green line, he said Aadi.

My experience on the border that day was about the same as each other time I crossed, and when my other friends with Arab names and heritages tried to cross. This crossing was Aadi.

I am not trying to demonize any party in this conflict, but simply pose the question: what are the repercussions for any society, when constant presence of a military becomes Aadi, the norm? A 18 year old girl with an M4 Assault rifle: Aadi, Roads blocked by equally young boys with even more ammunition: Aadi. Fighter jets flying overhead in formation: Aadi.

Occupation has become so ingrained in every life here, that the children don’t wince at the presence of a gun or look at the planes in the sky.”

Since pressing send on the email with my article, I had pushed this thought to the back of my mind, yet today my house mates and I had a heart-twisting reminder of the violent culture that is so pervasive in Nablus society.

“We have a dog” he said as he awoke me from my nap.

Well, similar words had been said multiple times in this household.

“We have frogs” because a kid at school needs us to take care of them.

“We have a bunny,” correction- “We have 2 bunnies.” When the kids at the private school my roommates works at had taken a field trip to Jericho, been permitted to purchase rabbits, then returned them to school at the insistence of less than thrilled parents.

Yet, the announcement of a dog was accompanied by a serene facial expression, and a tone that implied a story worth hearing.

His ears had become healed over stubs on the top of his head, surgically removed by a knife and a human hand. His tail had reached the same fate, only more recently, so its weak body had not yet patched over this wicked damage. His eyes showed resignation and terror. He displayed no will to fight, no bark, growl, or showing of the teeth, even as six humans, (no different from those who had caused him this pain) sat watching him cower in silence.

Immediately, I felt rage at the street kids who would throw rocks at, pee on, and cut up a living thing. While too often people cite the Quran for permitting violence, everything I had read in the Quran, been taught in Sunday school and from my dad so strongly condemned this senseless violence. Yes, according to the Quran animals are on earth for humans to use, yet halal meat, meat butchered according to religious expectations, must include the animal being killed mercifully, without seeing the blade, and to be treated humanely up to being butchered. Surely, the treatment this dog had endured should be shunned by a conservative Muslim community. Then my concluding question from the article I wrote came into my mind.

I began to imagine the kind of life a child must have had to cut the ear off a dog. Of course, I will never know the exact life of that child, but it isn’t so hard to speculate. Most street shabab are around 13 years old. When they were about 4 years old these children experienced an intifada that I can only hope most people live their entire lives without witnessing. Israel occupied the city invading homes. Fatah, the prevalent political party in Nablus developed street militias consisting of young Palestinian men. These militias meekly opposed the Israeli forces. The members of those gangs, many of which finished the intifada in a cell or a grave, were these children’s fathers and brothers. After the physical presence of Israeli militants in the city subsided, leaving more than 500 dead and 3,000 wounded in a city the size of Pueblo, it still remained almost impossible to travel to the city due to road closure. Until recent years it was impossible to drive into the city, and people entering would have to cross a road barrier to board a bus or another car. This suffocated the already war-injured economy of Nablus, that had once dominated the Palestinian market with Olive Oil and Olive Oil Soap.

The dog was found in the old city, one of the poorest areas of town. Martyr posters line the walls with young faces who have died in opposition to the occupation. Faces from 63 years ago, 44 years ago, 10 years ago, last week. New posters are plastered over the old.

Many mornings Ben, or as you know him, Writhnar the Destroyer of Worlds, would announce to those gathered at the kitchen table, the news he had read from his Nablus search in Google news.

“Another Nabulsi was killed outside Nablus last night by settlers.” Like a broken record his words were too often the same. Another young man killed.

Drink tea at a friend’s house, learn of his jail time. Call on a neighbor; learn of how their house had been invaded by the IDF to use as a lookout point. Men born into, raised, and dying in war-torn streets, taught to fight, as a brother, father, friend, enemy….falls.

Should it be surprising then that these men hit their wives and their kids? No, it isn’t because the Quran says you can beat your wife (only with light force that doesn’t leave a mark according to most translations.) Young boys showing up to school with bruises on their bodies. Is it from their father? Or another street boy who was hit by his father?

Just yesterday a boy pulled a knife on one of our female teachers who worked in one of the refugee camps. Earlier in the semester, a student pulled a knife on another student for insulting his mom.

Though, as I focus too hard on the traces of violence, I fear I am demonizing this deep-rooted and astonishing culture. Nabulsi people are some of the most hospitable and morally ground people I have ever met. Aside from being deeply rooted in their faith, (which I view as a testament to their morality, yet others argue explicates the violence) the people here have a strong sense of community and family, work hard in school and show genuine interest in the wellbeing of strangers. Violence is in fact the break from the norm that stands out like an infectious disease-spreading over its victim. It is a foreign specimen intoxicating the local breed, and its victims are everywhere, including curled up in what was once a rabbit hutch on our porch.

 

http://www.euronablus.eu/eunab/index.php?option=com_content&view=section&layout=blog&id=8&Itemid=70

I am Wise, but It’s Wisdom Born of Pain

1 year and 364 days after he and I started dating, he broke up with me. 3 days before I travelled across the world to Nablus, Palestine, with the naïve dream of spending a whole 3 months with him after what was, for me at least, the most painful year and seven months living apart, he decides he doesn’t want me anymore. I was destroyed. My towers were crumbling down. Then, as the plot in my love story thickens, I find out that while I was spending my time wishing we were together, he had already gotten over me and by the time he broke up with me, I had been replaced. Yes, replaced.  In a plot so cruel that only reality could compose it, she has the same name as me, is full Arab, and one of my new coworkers. (At the time he informed me of this, I was living in the same house as her) Yes, my life had turned overnight into a living nightmare. For days it seemed the only positive thing that could come of my wretched state was that someday I could sell my story to become a Hollywood film, or at least a lifetime movie.

A day shy of 2 years. Too late to not get on the plane. Sara doesn’t quit even after being discarded like a day old newspaper.  I thought I was too special to be replaced. Well, I was wrecked. Am wrecked.

Cruelty is augmented when its source claims to love you, and stings for longer when that love is reciprocated.

As important as a love, he had become a best friend.

Sanity in the Most Insane Form

I spent an entire week sleeping and crying. Here I was in a new place, a place just a week earlier he had promised we would experience together, and I couldn’t get out of bed. I was nauseous at the smell of food and completely alone. How that week did not include me drinking myself to death or conclude with me on a plane headed to Ithaca, NY will forever be a testament to my inner strength.

Then the new teachers arrived. As they pulled up in the car I was thankful for the five distractions that lugged their bags into the house. Our clan of teachers is the least homogenous group I have ever had the privilege to be a part of. We were all different colors, sizes, and ages, have drastically different senses of humor, tastes in music, and experiences, yet, so far at least, we all seem to fit together like a puzzle.

I bonded with my new friends using the fear of future regret as motivation to begin building friendships and for the first time, I smiled. I laughed. For hours at a time I hid the tears. My new roommate had the best attitude and could rarely be seen without a smile on her face. The new boys were crazy exciting and amazingly supportive. But still I could barely eat, I had no focus, and I felt like the pieces of garbage that litter each Nablus street.

Struggling from malnourishment and a substantial decrease in desire, my mind struggled to comprehend the labyrinth I had somehow gotten myself into.  Who was I? Why had I trusted another person so much that his violating that trust (at an explosive magnitude) could so utterly destroy me? How could anyone that I loved so much, and would have done anything for, be so selfish?

My new friends were a distraction and offered shoulders to cry on, gentle words, and encouragement. With nights of sacrilegious conversations in the kitchen, newly created inside jokes, and always a hot pot of tea being made, there was the perfect amount of insanity to divert me from going insane.

A Rational Mind

I walked out of bed one morning to find a new face in our living room. Every now and then you meet someone and immediately know that this is someone you will miss once they were gone. Linda was one of those, and in fact she was gone quite soon as she was only volunteering with TFP for one week. A beautiful combination of a Turkish mother and Palestinian Father, Linda holds herself with pride. And, while many would point to her elaborately styled Hijab as evidence of weakness and submission, she is one of the strongest girls I have ever met. Though, she did suggest I don’t put my private life on the internet, an ignored suggestion perhaps soon regretted, I have to share just one more personal story to illustrate how Linda worked her magic.

I must backtrack to Christmas.

The Story of the Kindle

As X always loved to read, he was disappointed that he wasn’t able to get many books in Nablus.  I realized at this point that a Kindle would be the perfect Christmas present for him, since he would be away for a full year. The problem was, since I was in Amman, there were no Kindles to be found. I was determined, so I contacted his sister about splitting the costs. Then I asked my mother to please order a Kindle from Best Buy ($200) then mail it to me ($50). My mother happily helped because she realized it was important to me. Then I had to spend 5 hours hassling to get it out of Jordanian Customs and paid $40 in taxes. This entire process had already taken 2 months arrangements, a lot of time, and money, but it was important to me because I knew he would love it when I gave it to him on our trip to the Dead Sea scheduled for the weekend before I returned home to the US. But then, he cancelled the trip the week of, and simply suggested that I leave whatever my present was for him in Colorado. Ouch. Incredibly disappointed, I tried hard to be the understanding girlfriend and kept trying, I asked a friend of mine who was going to the West Bank for Christmas if she would carry it across the border and deliver it for me along with some other goodies I’d hoped would make him smile. Here I had spent a lot of money, enlisted my mother and a friend’s help and managed to get a Kindle to him in the fucking occupied territories. But I wanted to because I loved him.

Christmas came and went. I kept wondering what he was going to do for me. I anticipated a package in the mail. Perhaps he would give it to me once I arrived in Nablus.

Nothing.

Next day, still nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

With each passing conversation, each passing day, Christmas disappeared further into the past yet he gave no mention of any gift for me, though he did thank me for his Kindle.

It wasn’t until a month later he broke up with me, yet he had blown off Christmas.

In one of our two terrible conversations we have had since I got here, I brought up Christmas, and how he had blown it off. He said he hadn’t and that he had a gift for me. Feeling a little less hurt I put my hands out to receive an unwrapped, no note included, Keffiyeh, which is a scarf. They cost 20 shekels (approximately $6). He bought it at a factory that he had gone to with a group of people, which I am fairly certain included my replacement. They had gone several weeks after Christmas.  It wasn’t the price of the gift that hurt. It was the effort, or complete lack of. While I had tried my best to make sure my gift said in a million ways, I love you, his was a fuck you.

-Back to Linda-

I explained this story to Linda on one of my better days, seriously trying to ponder how any human could receive a gift so clearly wrapped in affection (including a hand stitched case) and reciprocate with a gift no better than a last-minute airport present purchased out of obligation.

That is when she said it. “Could the $200 Kindle/20 shekel scarf be a metaphor for your entire relationship?”

and then I realized how right she was. I had always been willing to put in the $200 effort and constantly received a 20 shekel response. (Again, metaphorical, it wasn’t the price that was the problem, of course)

“You are not a 20 Shekel girl”

Her words resonated for a moment. She was right. I am not a 20 shekel girl. The thought was empowering and allowed me to fully open my tear swollen eyes, which coupled with dark shadows from days without sleep had become a part of the new face that cast back from the mirror on the days I had bothered to get out of bed and check my appearance. Why had I let myself be used and treated like trash? Why had I ever allowed it to get to a point where I could be thrown away?

While I was so caught up on what I deserved in comparison to the effort I put in, I hadn’t realized the truth. He didn’t deserve me. He doesn’t deserve me. Even now, he doesn’t deserve the tears I am crying at 3 am because I can’t sleep from the pain, so I’m writing a blog post instead.

During Linda’s few days with us in Nablus, I quietly celebrated my first day not crying in 22 days. A small triumph.

As I prepared to send Linda off in a taxi she said to me “stay strong, super woman.”

Head up

Yes, I still cry most days. And each tear is another drop that I will never forgive him for. I still question my value after being treated like dirt. I wonder why I wasn’t worth treating with the decency I wouldn’t deny any human, let alone someone I had claimed to love.

My girls have become the light in my days. This past week we began learning to sing I Am Woman by Helen Reddy. While the bright young ladies I have the pleasure of teaching love the lyrics and music, they’re oblivious to the fact that teacher is relying on their singing to keep her sensible, especially since 2 rooms down, the new girl is working with her girls. My roommate and coworker is not so oblivious, and laughs at our class as we belt out.

I have started making my own relationships with the people to which, 3 months ago I was simply the girlfriend, and with the new people who never knew the two of us.  I have sat at the same restaurants we had both gone to together, but this time with better people and now, I no longer wish he was sitting in the chair next to me.

Soon, Nablus will not reek of him, but will smell the sweetness of home and true friends.

I hope to find my smile again. The one I see when I look through old high school photos. I’ve joked with the people here about wanting to be re-virginatized from the realities of the world.I feel like I have aged 10 years in the past 6 months, referring not only to being romantically burned, but also to the pain I have seen in many of my friends’ (locals and foreigners) eyes when they tell about their time in prison, their abusive ex-boyfriends, and a yearning for a home that does not include large guns and sound bombs. The high school Sara knew that things don’t end happily ever after, but she didn’t believe it. Somewhere between “Once upon a time” and where I am now, that reality has set in. Getting out of the country expedited the realization. The high school me is a stranger. I value the wisdom I have gained from travelling. And while I’ll flirt with the desire for innocence, I know that it is both impossible and unprefered, but it must be possible to recreate the emotions of joy and hope that I see in my younger eyes with what I know now.

Oh yes, I am wise
But it’s wisdom born of pain
Yes, I’ve paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to
I can do anything
I am strong(strong)
I am invincible(invincible)
I am woman

Salaam, Habibi

Sara