Dreams of the sea

(Photo: Sunrise at The Dead Sea)

Imagine this. Your homeland is dusty, rocky, dry. Almost a desert. Only the strongest plants survive the summer that lasts for months and allows no rain to fall. Within less than an hour's drive, you can reach the sea shore. The energy of the waves and the wind blowing through your hair makes you feel alive. Here, you can breathe. Or so you have been told. In the endless mythic stories about a sea that you have never been allowed to visit.

A baking, hot summer is a reality in Palestine. A limitation to water resources is a reality in Palestine. And so is dreaming of the sea. Even though the furthest distance from the West Bank to The Mediterranean Sea is only about 70 km, many Palestinians have never seen it. During the short time I have been here, I have read children's poems about longing for the sea. I have heard stories about children who would go to the roof top of their houses to get a view of the ocean. These children cannot see the ocean anymore. Now, their gaze is blocked by a grey concrete wall. Being in Palestine, it will not take you long to realise that the dream of the sea has become a part of the Palestinian identity as a symbol of the longing for freedom and the end of occupation.

Mufiid, one of my co-workers at PYALARA, told me that not so long ago he went to Turkey with a group of young volunteers from PYALARA. This was his first flight ever. And the first time many of the children saw the sea. They had been thrilled by the sight of it. Gazing at the foamy waves, one of them had asked Mufiid: ”Is this really the sea?”

Imagine young children gazing at the sea, wondering if it always so blue. And try to keep this image in mind next time you go swimming.

Do you know your neighbour?

I once found myself in a desperate need of a hand blender. What seemed to be a very promising soup on Jerusalem artichokes was boiling on my stove, spreading a wonderful smell that reached every corner of my tiny flat. It was time to add the finishing touch, but in my search for the hand blender I realised that I have never owned one. The thought of having to give up my soup and eat porridge or dry bread for dinner instead made me do the almost unthinkable: I knocked on my neighbour's door to ask her if she had a blender I could borrow. I had lived there for more than half a year. This was the first time we met.

Knocking on an unknown neighbour's door to borrow a silly piece of kitchen supplies wasn't easy. I remember going through an inner struggle, considering the do's and dont's that are implicit within the Danish culture. A culture in which people are used to taking the safe approach and minding their own business instead of sharing their thoughts, emotions, and needs. Instead of overtly showing that they do care for the person next door.

In Denmark, we often blame the long, dark and cold winter for our inverted and slightly cold behaviour towards each other. Maybe there is something to it. The warmth and the unlimited hospitality of the Palestinian people definately seems to be as persistent and reliable as the hot Middle Eastern summer.

Last night I went to buy some water at the local store just beside my home. I never got to buy the water, but was invited to stay and have a cold drink with the owner and his two daughters, Abiir and and Dina. We talked for at least an hour. About my stay in Palestine, about their lives and my life. When it was time to close the store, I was invited to join them for a cup of Arabic coffee at a funfair located on a hill top in Ramallah. We had almost reached the fair, when Djamila, the oldest daughter in the family, called her father on the phone and decided that she would like to meet me too. We went back to the centre to pick up her and her six months' old baby Anass and, unable to make room for more people in the car, it was time to head back to the funfair. Within a few hours I got to know my neighbour in Ramallah better than the one in Denmark.

The Arabic phrase for welcome is 'ahlen wa sahlen'. Literally, 'ahlen' means that you are considered family and 'sahlen' expresses the hope that you will find it comfortable setting foot on the land. I am met with unnummerable 'ahlen wa sahlen's every day - and I truly feel welcome. I feel gratitude simply for being here, in Palestine, recognising both the beauty and the struggle of this country and its people.

One of the many beautiful old houses in Ramallah

Rukab's Ice Cream near Manara in Ramallah center. Popular and famous for its ice cream - and one of the landmarks ensuring me that I am on the right way home to DHIP.

A few words from Ramallah

Aah, asiir limuun: Fresh lemon juice with mint and sugar. It simply does not get any better. The fresh mint, slightly bitter lemon and the sugary twist is the taste of summer and good life.

I have been in Ramallah a few days now and things are good. Everybody is friendly and meets me with curiosity, kindness and polite attempts to understand my Arabic. To say the least, my vocabulary is inadequate and my pronounciation is not always as understable as I would like it to be.

My work at PYALARA is in progress. I will be working together with Ahmed, who has been with the NGO for around ten years, and we will conduct a course in journalism and creative writing in English. At this moment there is a great deal of planning to do, but we are getting there, and Friday we will get started. It will be challenging - and great fun!