November 18, 2002

School returned today, after our welcome three-day weekend. It was a busy day, as we and other teachers race to complete our lesson plans and bring the Jenin kids up to speed before the end of the semester.

Our copy of the Yale Alumni Magazine arrived today with our article in it - not via the usual post office, but rather via something more akin to the Pony Express. Mail comes to the Latin Patriarchate of Jerusalem to Abuna Aktham's name, and when he goes to Jerusalem, he can pick it up and bring it back to Zababdeh. Otherwise, the postal service works locally like this: all mail comes to Israel, then all mail for the West Bank is brought to Beit El, the Israeli army post in the heart of the West Bank responsible for all activities in the territories. If the Israeli authorities are talking to their Palestinian counterparts, West bank mail is transferred to Ramallah - if Ramallah is open. From Ramallah, if it is open, mail is transferred to Jenin - if it is open. From Jenin, if it is open, mail is transferred to Zababdeh, and if the post master comes (he lives in Jenin), we get our mail. It's easier to line up the planets by hand than for all of those things to pass.

Elizabeth and “khouriyye” sifting through the black olives.

In the evening, we went to pay some visits, including to Fr. Thomas and his wife. Elizabeth had collected some olives on our walk through the hills on Friday, and needed more advice on how to prepare them for eating. The process for black olives and green olives is different. Her green olives are on their way, soaking in salt water with lemons and hot peppers. The black ones have had a false start of sorts, so the khouriyye (literally, "priestess", a title of respect for the pastor's wife) demonstrated to Elizabeth how to do it properly. It's beginning to get cold, and our apartment always seems to be colder than the weather outside, so it's advantageous for us to visit others. It's also good for our spirits and our Arabic. Another side benefit is being fed, something we never complain about (although our waistbands would do well for more restraint on our parts).

Disturbing news arrived today about a zabdawi (resident of Zababdeh): our favorite Zababdeh-Jerusalem taxi driver is missing. The last anyone heard of him was a few days ago when he was headed back to Zababdeh from Qalandia, finding no passengers for his taxi (these days, not unusual unfortunately). Along the road, his taxi was pulled over for the usual security and ID checks. He called his wife at that point, to tell her that something was amiss, at which point the Israeli soldiers forced him to turn off his cellphone. No one has heard from him since, and no one knows where he may be held. Standard procedure is two weeks' detention, but no one really knows. We have only known him as a gracious older man who spent time in Germany in his youth as a gästarbeiter. Two years ago, his house was damaged by stray Israeli military fire from the nearby camp - fortunately no one was hurt. Now, whatever the charge, he is MIA. Unfortunately, this is an ordinary experience among Palestinians, regardless of guilt or innocence. For his sake, we can only hope for the best.