Israeli Apartheid Week in the United States ended yesterday. In Beirut and the rest of the Arab world it starts tomorrow. Since I have not been able to be involved with any events directly, I sought out the WWW for some info on what’s going down. This video taught me about about the perspective of some of the movement’s organizers. Please watch it if you’re not aware of what the movement is, especially if you feel inclined to dismiss it for its alarming name.

It is a bold claim but an obvious one. I had some experiences in occupied Palestine which support it. Over spring break I’ll have some much awaited time to reflect in a more focused way on my experiences in Palestine. I’d like to share some of these experiences then.

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.306349106070432.72208.211666515538692&type=3

I want to share this album posted by some residents of a town in my ancestral region of North Lebanon that my family and I stumbled into blindly after sunset, cold and hungry. Without a hotel, we thought we were in for an uncomfortable night driving on unfamiliar mountain roads to find a place to eat and sleep, but a gem of a man Zaki al-Haj and his wonderful wife Khadija opened up their cozy home to us for two amazing days. This is a town not often frequented by Westerners like ourselves and we were amazed and so grateful that this kind family took us, as complete strangers, into their home. We were also overwhelmed with the food of their heritage, simultaneously basic and tantalizingly extravagant, tied integrally to the land that the people of Mechmech have worked for many years. It fueled us to continue to have an amazing time in Lebanon, specifically hiking in the wilderness that the town sits in. Today my mom came across this album which a sprightly young Lebanese dude my age, Khaled Adnan Taleb, posted of a hike he and his mountain-mentor took us on through a valley next to Mechmech called Wadi Jahannam, or the valley of hell. There weren’t very many clues as to why it had been given this name, since we thought it was quite splendid and pretty cold. Shaheens: do you remember why it was named this? There is a comment posted by some representative of the town at the bottom that I have translated:
“Special thanks to “al-haj” (a title of respect given to older men, especially if they have gone on al-haj, or the pilgrimage to Mecca) Zaki al-Haj (his last name) for his generous hospitality and honor in hosting this family for two consecutive days in his own home… He is an example of the generosity and tenderness and liberality (?) of every person in Mechmech… We say to all visitors who wish to visit us that if our homes aren’t available then our hearts will be available to embrace you… And welcome everyone.”

We are overwhelmed with deep gratitude for this family and their town, and also feel a strong connection with them that we will always have. Maybe this is irrelevant when we’re talking about the goodness of humanity and the hospitality of the Lebanese, regardless of their sect/religion, but I’ll mention it anyway. After we left this predominantly Muslim town, we arrived at my ancestral village, where my great grandmother lived before emigrating to the US. This town, called Saysuk, is entirely Maronite Christian, and we were showered with the same kind of overwhelming hospitality and warmness, and also felt so lucky to experience these people’s strong connection with their land through the ridiculously delicious food that they prepared for us.

I’ve decided I’ll try to share pictures in themes. This one is Mediterranean…

Also, AK is my hero. And Claire has a pretty impressive mind I guess.

alexkelleysockshands:

After an evening of Odwalla and gin, right after a miniature toy puppet show, I decided to write a blog chronicling this week ahead of me. I am faced with a peculiar but formidable challenge, presented under strange and somewhat cosmic circumstances. The long and short of it: I must, from…

I guess I shouldn’t abandon this space even though I’m back at Wesleyan and my life is trotting along.

Today, in a class about US presence in and relation with the Middle East, my professor talked about a Lebanese man named Tanios Shahine who led a peasant revolt there in 1860. It’s pretty amazing to be able to apply experience-based imaginations as I learn this history (who are the Druze? Who are the Maronite Christians? Who are the Muslims? What are their relations? although in a modern context). It’s also cool that I have a Lebanese great uncle named Tony (the American equivalent of this agrarian revolutionary who married my great Aunt who is a Shaheen). I didn’t talk enough here about my family who I developed a connection with toward the end of my saga in Lebanon. It was a pretty amazing thing. For now I’ll just share some pictures, but watch out for updates as I continue to process these recent times in my life rich in new experiences.

Adela, Mario, and Andrew. Their grandfather is my great grandmother’s nephew.

I was there too. This land between and in close proximity to the ancient city of Tripoli, the Mediterranean, and sublime snowy mountains, nestled in a small town in a sea of olive trees, has taken a special place in my memory of Lebanon and my desire to return.

Tabbouleh, hummus, raw kibbeh, dank barbecue chicken, olive oil from my great grandmother’s nephew’s olive press, and so many more delicious love foods that I missed in this shot.

Grape leaves, relatives.

Recovering from the feast that they said was in my honor but I don’t think they miss any opportunity to get together as a family and eat food. Good food.

It’s definitely a Tamer (my great grandmother’s family name)/Lebanese skill to be able to take a nap in any environment sitting in a chair. My grandfather did it a lot and that’s a part of my heritage that I definitely want to get in touch with.

Study break?

Shucks, I wasn’t able to upload the video that shows the second Bomali, and friends. Bomali is a kid who jumps out onto the floor and does his thang. I don’t know his real name. Maybe that is his real name. I’ve been experiencing some dope Dabke in the Shatila Palestinian refugee camp. Shatila, and particularly this dabke troupe and my buddy Hasan, has been really good to me. And now I should get back to work because I have too many exams and one two many papers and too much family and too many trains of thought to chase before I leave this country, for now.

Here are some stills. You can imagine the movement.

I should apologize for being so negligent of this here life-sharing space of the digital variety. I guess it means I’ve been present, right? It’s mostly because I don’t have time. For example, tonight I only have time to tell you about two Bomalis. This is the first Bomali. They call it Bomali here and so far I haven’t found an English word for it.

Does anyone recognize it? I guess it looks a lot like an orange, or a grapefruit. Well, it’s something in that family I guess. I’ve been pretty intrigued by these over-sized grapefruits for a while now, but only tonight did I get the chance to break into one. And it wasn’t very easy. I had to utilize this knife to penetrate its thick, fleshy skin. It is further compartmentalized beyond the outer skin, and so is not as easy to eat as its other citrus counterparts. But I’d say it’s definitely worth it when you get in there. It has a real full-bodied flavor and a substantive texture. If you get through one of these things you’ll have eaten a full meal.

In the next post I’ll introduce you to the second Bomali.

I’m procrastinating so I don’t have to keep preparing for my ‘academic’ presentation on Dabke in a Palestinian refugee camp tomorrow. I’ll thank Kate Finley for this one.

I just ate a meal of salad with organic(!) Lebanese produce bought at AUB, fresh green olives from my relatives in my ancestral town, and zangy clementines and perfect crisp green peppers that I bought from a kind Iranian man in the market outside of the refugee camp. The Shaheens should be touching down in NYC just about now and I’m getting a bit melancholy eating the olives of love and hospitality that we ate together as we explored Lebanon’s open doors. But I don’t have much time to get emotional. I need to string together some thoughts from my explorations of the experience of Palestinian youngins gettin down with their folk dance to present in some kind of mock-academic Anthropology conference on Thursday (how did I get myself into this)?

Happy 2012!

Eat Well. Eat More Falafel.