February 6, 2003

Zababdeh ex-pats get together to socialize and create music.

Two of the University folks came over tonight to play songs and "jam." It wasn't as fruitful as other outings have been, but there were moments.

Meanwhile, not far from us, a family squabble was getting out of hand. We could hear lots of shouting and quite the commotion. At first, we assumed that soldiers had come into town, such was the noise. We called a house nearby to find out what was happening. If the same thing had happened in the States, we would've called the police. Not here: the Palestinian Authority's authority is virtually confined to two rooms in Ramallah. The bigger cities (remarkably) still have some Palestinian police (occasionally seen directing traffic), but outside that, there is no effective civil authority. So we did the next logical thing: call the Catholic priest. The role of the clergy here is very different from that in the States. When he showed up, things broke up. We returned to our musical adventures, a bit disturbed by the whole experience.

We got a poem from one of the students at the University via email today. Somehow it conveys the sense of life in this area these days:

Jeningrad

by [redacted]

killing all over the place,

the general atmosphere over here like a funeral;

being happy over here

doesn't belong to happiness;

it's from the sickness of being bored of sadness;

our reason for happiness

usually relates to anger...hate of fate.and is affected by storms of revenge,

which take over the whole place

and squeeze people's souls;

that's what we live on

all of the time.

when the intifada started every one used to feel sad when some was killed;

but now talking about the latest news,

which people enjoy speaking about all the time,

is about names related to death,

as if death had many faces and names

and different tastes during the year;

that's what we are breathing

every second.