Sounds of Ramallah

Days are going by in Ramallah and I am slowly getting used to the pace of the city. I normally wake up around 5 a.m. when the first beams of sunlight make their way through the curtains in my window. There is no trafic, no music, no people in the street. The silence of these early hours is true magic.

Half awake and half asleep I listen to the sounds of Ramallah slowly emerging.
The first person in the street is the boy who sells bread. His nasal voice cuts through the silence like a razor blade and wakes up the whole neighbourhood. Very soon, the traffic follows and adds its noise, the rythm of buzzing engines with honking horns setting the beat.

In the street you hear the sizzle of hot oil from the falafel shop, coffee boiling over the flames of a bunsen burner, and the tunes from Arabic songs mixing with an English version of Medina, and one of Aqua's golden oldies. Ramallah. A giant, musical melting pot.

In a few days, the Palestine Festival will begin. I am looking forward to add new sounds to my experiences in Ramallah.

Handala. A little boy with a big message

(Handala on the wall in Dheisheh Refugee Camp in Bethlehem)

Handala is a ten-year old refugee. He does not show his face to anybody, but only lets people see him from his back. With his hands firmly clasped together on his back he refuses to accept the solution the outside worlds suggest to the solve the conflict in his country. He does not believe in these solutions. He will not face people again, and he will not grow up, until he can return to the homeland he was forced to fled so many years ago.

In 1969, the Palestinian cartoonist Naji Salim al-Ali drew Handala for the first time. Ever since he has been a symbol of resistance towards the occupation, and representing the longing for a free country he has become of a part of the Palestinian identity.
I first heard about him in 2008, when I visited Dheisheh Refugee Camp near Betlehem, one of the many refugee camps that were established from the war that followed the officiel enunciation of the state of Israel.

In the camp is a house for common activities and gatherings. The walls in the never ending stair case leading you up through the narrow, tall building were full of drawings and poems made by the refugees living in Dheisheh.One of these drawings depicted Handala.

The story about Handala is important, but it is so hard to tell. In 1987 Naji Salim al-Ali was assasinated and Handala lost his chance to show his face again, to show his eyes, his identity. The destiny of this little figure is painfully symbolic to the destiny of the Palestinian refugees whose only hope and dream is to return to the home they left when they fled the war. A home that probably no longer exists. It is the story about clinging to hope in a hopeless situation.

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!