a nomadic journey

A Little More Housekeeping...

2007-09-03T15:53:00.000-04:00

As I return to my normal American life, I'm forced to figure out how to keep this column alive. More travel, trips to exotic locations and daring adventures are one method. But my little cabin and my dog are calling to me and imploring me to stay at home and embrace the things I spoke of in this column; family, friends, freedom and a little fun.

So, I will embark on a domestic project that takes a closer look at a project that I completed in the spring of this year. I spent three months riding along with the Durham Public Housing Unit and produced a documentary project about living and working in the inner city housing projects of Durham. This project can be viewed at http://carolinaphotojournalism.org:16080/ontheline/ navigate to the stories section and click on "THE MAC." Takes about 3 minutes to view, but I believe its worth the time. I hope to look at the same issues of poverty and inner city life through the eyes of the health care providers.

One thing I learned this past year, is that telling difficult and powerful stories does not need to involve travel to developing countries and conflict zones, a multitude of people desperately need a voice to their stories and they usually live just down the road.

So please stay tuned, as I hope to have new stories and interactions within the next few weeks. Please pass the column along and comment as you read.

Thanks so much for all those who have read my "short" entries (the 250 word limit didn't last too long!) and taken the dialogs beyond your computer and into your lives.

And, in the immortal words of Edward R. Murrow, "Goodnight and Good luck."

Home

2007-09-03T15:39:00.000-04:00

“I’m already going to hell, so it don’t matter anyway!” yelled my shuttle driver as he argued with a man who was blocking his parking space.

God bless America.

The sights and sounds of Times Square filled my senses and reminded me that I’m home. Colorful billboards cluttered the sky, horns blared in rush hour traffic, advertisement for adult theaters and the smell of hot dog venders overwhelmed me as I realized there’s nothing quite like America.

The sounds of my driver and his nemesis engaged in the art of road rage, physically standing outside their vehicles yelling at one another was simply music to my ears. The driver glanced at me and I saw the look of confusion as he looked at the eagerness with which I watched this scene and the smile on my face. Anger at fellow drivers is universal, only I can not understand the comments when I'm with Arabic drivers.

We drove off and upon learning I was from the south, my van driver told me of his last visit to South Carolina.

“I didn’t want his money, only a little time.” The driver stated he just wanted a little acknowledgment of his existence from his father. A lifetime devoid of birthday cards and Christmas gifts was written on his face. “I guess he was just a sperm donor,” said the driver. “Here’s Penn Station.”

With six hours to burn until my train for North Carolina left the station, I set out into the neon saturated night to find some American cuisine. I stumbled onto a coffee shop and diner not far from the station and settled in for a meal and a little people watching.

“I need a minute,” yelled a tiny old woman occupying the booth behind me. “Waitress, I’m ready,” she shouted thirty seconds later, loud enough for everyone within a one mile radius to hear. She took a long time placing her order, with special menu requests and triple checking with the waitress to make sure she took down her order properly.

After her meal was finished, she asked the women at the table next to her what time it was, but they didn’t speak English.

“You don’t speak English?” she looked at the pair with despair and incomprehension. “Pity!” she claimed, shaking her head as she turned to me and asked for the time. I replied and she said, “Oh, that’s my father’s birthday. When’s your birthday? Mine's in October.”

She muttered some more phrases to herself and shuffled out into the night wearing her pajamas and clutching her bag of food from the restaurant. She stood on the sidewalk, unsure of where to go, and shuffled back and forth for several minutes. She then walked out into the street and dodged the cars to cross to the other side.

Was she someone’s mother? Was someone waiting for her at home besides some fish or a house cat? Did she even have a home?

I returned to Penn Station to wait for the 3 am train to take me home. Most people would not consider an overnight stay in Penn Station to be desirable or even an option, but what better way to reenter your homeland than at its most raw and inhibited. Riding an Amtrak gives such an insight into so many aspects of American society and the variety of cultural differences; each station has a subculture, each train has a hierarchy of social status and functionality and each town that you travel through is so diverse. The view from the window shows you a tiny peak into other people’s lives; into their backyards, into their main streets and into their skid rows.

As a whole, Penn Station is quite safe with a strong police and National Guard presence and the seated area is regulated for ticket holders only, so sleeping on your bags is not an unsafe option. The only interesting times are when nature calls and you must venture into the dark realm of the public bathroom.

“Maybe she don’t have no family. Maybe no one wants her. I’m here now ‘cause I can’t get along with my family. But I won’t be here for long,” a young black woman dressed in a lace, see-through nightgown talks to the white woman cleaning the bathroom.

Another voice bellowed from the stall beside me. “I need toilet paper!” the anonymous voice screams. She then embarked on a tirade of garbled words in a language I’ve never heard before; some odd mixture of English, German and guttural noises.

As I exited the bathroom, I saw a group of young gangster teens playing games with a cop who pulled out his taser-stick device and began to run after the misbehaving youth. After boarding the train, I finally received a small gift from the travel gods, my own two seats with enough space to curl into a ball and get some real, horizontal sleep. Heaven.

After arriving in Union Station for a three hour layover, I decided to take a stroll around the train station. I walked to the front of the building and see the Capital in the distance. I notice a protester holding a sign and passing out literature. ‘Its not Iraq, Bush let’s the CIA run the world!’

It is so nice to be home.

In front of Union Station, a large statue was erected in honor of Christopher Columbus. Though it never ceases to amaze me that in America we honor a man who committed such a mass and brutal genocide, I can not help but notice the irony that this particular statue is the temporary home to some of DC’s homeless people. A man stared at me with a vacant look and lit a cigarette and I see a multitude of people huddled under blankets strewn about on the statue.

In that moment, the profound sadness I felt upon returning to America begins to take form. In the Middle East, the people take care of their families, no matter how crazy they may be, and people are not allowed to fall into the personal despair that exists in the US. I look at people now and see a deep embedded sadness that lies on the surface of most of the faces I see. This sadness is not mine personally, I am quite happy to be returning to my home and my life, but the sadness is deeper, embedded within the fabric of the society in which I live.

People rushing to jobs that fill their lives with stress and remove them from their families, people that are completely alone in the world and living on the streets, sleeping in train stations, on street corners and on cold marble benches out in the night. So many people engaged in so much pain.

Americans have the ultimate gift, the thing that every Palestinian and oppressed person in the world longs for-- freedom. And what do we do with our freedom? Maybe that’s part of the sadness. So much of our freedom is wasted. And I wonder just how wealthy we are as a nation when we let our children starve in the streets and our fathers and mothers wander the bus stations alone. How free are we when a grown man comes to the realization that his estranged father is nothing more than a “sperm donor.”

In a place with so much oppression and pain, Palestine had a richness that is difficult to find in America. Their greatest wealth is their families and their proximity to and relationship with these family members. Palestinian families, Muslim families in general, are large and close and everyone lives in the same apartment complex or on the same street. They all help to raise one another’s children. Brothers and cousins become one, sisters and mothers become one and fathers pass their legacies and their skill onto their sons.

We lack that in America. We go far from our families, choose to disown family members and even turn our backs on our families as conflicts and disagreements arise. This makes us a poor nation. This leaves our fathers on the streets, leads our sons into gangs, causes young teen girls to seek acceptance by becoming young mothers, it leaves our grandparents to die alone in nursing homes and leaves our cousins to wander the alleys looking to turn tricks for food. This poverty of family and belonging leads us, as a whole, to a profound sadness. It is despair we may not see everyday, in fact, many of us are insulated from this sadness. Some of us seek to embrace the sadness and work to bring hope to that one person’s life. But there is a cloud of palpable sadness that permeates the corners of our cities and the streets of our towns.

And it is a sadness that should not exist. For in the eyes of a Palestinian we have the ultimate gift; the one thing they know they will never possess and will go to their grave having never known what it tastes like, what it smells like, what it means to just leave—we have freedom.

How we use this gift-- that so many have died to preserve—should be a reflection of our society; should be a reflection of our knowledge, our wealth and our abilities as a nation to embrace our gift and remove the elements of sadness from our society and others throughout the world. And how we, as individuals, use our freedoms should be a reflection of our engagement with the world and our desires to help those within this world, our cousins, our parents, our children-- even strangers walking down the street in need of coffee and someone to share it with.

Some Parting Shots...

2007-09-03T14:45:00.001-04:00

A young Palestinian girl displays her joy at the Sulha.

Here are a few images of the people I traveled with and some images of the surroundings. Enjoy!

Marium and Sam taking a moment to pray at Mary's tomb.

Ibrahim tries to talk to two people at once while taking a "break" at the Sulha Peace festival in Israel. Ibrahim graciously housed us for our time in Jerusalem at his guest house. He opens the doors for anyone and asks only a donation for your stay, his goal is to bring together people from all over the world to promote a dialogue of peace. And he just loves to feed people!

Sam takes a moment to chat with some local Palestinian kids living beside Ibrahim's guest house on the Mount of Olives. The kids are fascinated that an American actually knows Arabic and look at Sam as somewhat of a super hero during his stay.

Chris and Hunter look down the dark alleys of the Old City in Jerusalem after we heard the eye witness account of the shooting that happened earlier that day.

Two young Palestinian boys in Jericho play with a Koala bear given to them by Ibrahim's Jewish colleague and friend from Australia.

Marium compares identity papers with a local Palestinian man outside a coffee shop in Jericho. He is fascinated with the fact that Marium is from Pakistan but has an American passport and he wants to show his connection to her background with his Palestinian Identity card (they are not issued passports and can not travel freely- they must show their ID papers when traveling through the city, walking through town and carry them on their person at all times) Palestinians feel a connection with Marium due to their turbulent governments and an instant connection is made through the mere facts of their identity.

The young people I traveled with show a passion for learning and such a desire to understand the world and its injustices and spending time with them and viewing the issues through their perspective added a depth to this project that I had not anticipated. Thanks!

Ramallah

A young man works on replacing the billboard at the bustling center of Ramallah. The difference between Ramallah and Hebron are vast and overwhelming. Ramallah is the head of the Palestinian government and is bustling with life and commerce, as Hebron once did.

Posters of martyrs and Arafat can be seen throughout the West Bank.

Two young men make flat bread on a the street corner in Ramallah. By far, one of the best breads in the country, you can buy fresh bread at any time on just about any street corner.

Three men sit outside a mosque in Ramallah just before the call to evening prayer is given. The prayer fills the air from the Minaret on the right as the Imam tells Muslim worshipers that it is time to pray. The call to prayer is one of the most distinguishing factors of being in the Middle East and is a beautiful and at times eerie melody which fills the air five times a day, starting at 5 am.

The wall separating Jerusalem and Ramallah, as well as other West Bank territories is covered in graffiti from local and international artists. "Stop killing my sons, brothers, husbands, fathers," is written next to this powerful piece of art. Many see this wall as the Apartheid Wall and in many instances, it divides Palestinian villages, separates locals from their farmland and their means of earning a living and separates families from seeing one another. To navigate the barriers, you must have proper identification and many Palestinians are denied this paperwork for a variety of reasons. The Jewish claim that the wall keeps them safer, and the numbers prove this point, but many also believe that the wall itself is adding fury to the conflict and that it will backfire as hatred and tension grows at the divisions of people and land. I was also told, though I was unable to find facts to support this, that past Palestinian leadership helped to build the wall and made a major profit through the politician's building company, which helped erect the wall. Telling the story of this torn country is so difficult in that the divisions of conflict have no clear definitions and everyone has a story and everyone has a political motivation. I can tell only that which I witnessed and that which I documented.

CNN recently covered this topic in a very well produced documentary by Christian Amanpour, God's Warriors. If you're interested in learning more, please go to You Tube: http://youtube.com/watch?v=kkKhPLAyDsM and watch the series, its well worth the time.

Leaving Jerusalem

2007-09-03T14:01:00.000-04:00

Leaving Jerusalem

A young Palestinian mother sat down beside me on a bus bound the Mount of Olives. In her arms was a beautiful little boy, around age two, with large brown eyes and little curls that brushed his cheeks. He reached out to me several times as we wound our way up the Mount, and gave me a sly little smile each time his tiny fingers grabbed my shirt.

He rested his head on his mother’s shoulder and looked at me without his smile. His round eyes seemed to hold all the pain and suffering of the Palestinian people that he was born into. We exchanged a long, knowing glance for several moments, I was thinking of how difficult his life was going to be growing up under occupation in a land with no hope for peace and he seemed to understand my thoughts. With a little sigh and another stare he seemed to say; “yes, I know my path is long and difficult and I know there is little hope for my future.” While I was simply projecting my sentiments onto a young toddler, I’ll never forget his face and that look of knowing he possessed. The look of sorrowful understanding that only a child born into the pain and suffering of a people can know. I’ve seen the same look on the faces of toddlers in a Nepalese orphanage, of street children working in the landfills of Kathmandu, of Indian children living in a beggars camp in the Himalayans, on the faces of Tibetan toddlers living in orphanages separated from their parents in China and on the faces of children living in the public housing units in downtown Durham, N.C. Such a look of pain, understanding and resignation should not be inherently present in the eyes of a toddler who cognitively does not know his role in this world yet.

My departure from Israel took the form of an overnight bus filled with young Jewish adults heading to the Red Sea resort of Eilat. The bus was filled with teenage laughter and ipod music, soldiers in uniform heading for vacation and the occasional western tourist. Our bus arrived at 4am in a destination very similar to Atlantic City; neon saturated streets, all night bars and cafes and drunken young adults staggering about scantily dressed and looking for mates. Quite a shock from the conservative young adults of Jerusalem, dressed modestly and reading from the torah at a coffee shop while gossiping with friends.

After a brief wait for the border to open, I was allowed to cross into Jordan. I was shocked at the ease of leaving the country, when compared to the seven hour ordeal of entry. A Jewish couple also crossed into Jordan for a day of vacation and asked if I’d like to share a cab. We walked to the Jordanian side of the crossing and I could tell they were a little nervous. The young man admitted this was his first time entering Jordan. Eilat is 2 miles by car from Jordan and a mile or less by boat. The couple lived in Eilat and had never crossed the other side. Odd.

The Jordanian border crossing was a welcoming site. The guards were taking their time opening everything and as is custom in Muslim countries, the pace of activities is much slower then elsewhere. The guards were having their morning coffee and chatting in a room as they told us to wait a few moments until the coffee was done.

Crossing at Eilat warrants a free visa with a one month extension, with no questions or interrogations. The man happily stamped my passport and smiled at me. “Like the sun!” he exclaimed as he pointed to the blue visa stamp in my passport, which bared the resemblance of the sun. Jordanians possess a strong sense of nationalism and this can be seen even in the tiniest of actions. Such a stamp has never been so welcome in my recently weathered passport.

“Welcome!”

And welcome is just what I felt. As our cab drove towards Aqaba, I saw the enormous Jordanian flag flying over the shore and felt a warm sense of relief. Jordan is a very comfortable country and the people are so affectionate and pleasant, even towards Americans. They may give a little ribbing about Bush, but they enjoy American people. While eating lunch with my driver and his friends at the Dead Sea, one friend said he loved Americans because they are so open and so happy, unlike the Europeans. I am always amazed at the misconceptions that we in America have of most people living in the Middle East.

Upon returning to the hotel in Madaba, where I began my journey three weeks ago, I was greeted with a warm smile and handshake from the receptionist. The next morning as I sat in the lobby waiting for my favorite driver to take me to the Dead Sea for a little float, the receptionist asked me to join her at her house for dinner that evening. I accepted and she gave me a warm smile and said she just cooked a big meal yesterday and that I will enjoy her family.

Later that afternoon, we walked through the streets of Madaba towards her home. We chatted and were shocked to find out that we were the same age, born only a few weeks apart. I told her how refreshing it was to be welcomed into stranger’s homes for coffee and dinner. This was not the first invitation I received on this journey and it never failed to amaze me the hospitality of the Arabic people.

As we walked, we talked about how in America the people have a distance between themselves and that, while in my own country, I have never received an invitation from a stranger to join them for coffee in their home. I asked if she had ever been to America and she replied, “No, I will only go to Syria, not America.” When asked why, she gave an interesting answer. She said that America was too fast paced. That people worked too hard with too much stress and often times missed out on the enjoyable aspects of life. She feared that Jordan may become the same fast paced landscape one day and she doesn’t want her children to live that way.

She has a point. I’m guilty of neglecting the finer things in life, the things that bring joy and relaxation because I’m too busy for such an indulgence. In fact, the past two years have been such a whirlwind, that I’m ready to find an island all to myself and hide from the world for a year, and I’m only finishing my undergraduate degree. I can only imagine what has been missed by those who have been grinding away on careers at break-neck speed for decades.

Yes, we need to support ourselves and we should seek employment that allows us to do so while finding enjoyment from our jobs and our professions, but when I visit other countries and see how happy people are with so much less than Americans, I have to question our motivations. Life can be a simple endeavor, we can seek enjoyment from things other than our professions and we can also derive pleasure from our professions while enjoying our personal lives. Yet, often we choose not to do both. When did we sacrifice the self for advancement of careers and what will happen when we reach the end of that career and we see all that we might have left in its wake?

An interesting point of contemplation as I return to America and debate my own career path and the desire to start a family; can the two co-exist, particularly when part of my career requires extensive travel, to at times, undesirable places? Or better yet, should the two co-exist? Should one seek both family and career, knowing that one will be sacrificed in the end? And what happens when that career is also, and always has been, your passion? Is there room for both the passion and the family? And is that a fair environment to bring a child into, knowing that young children can not, nor should they, understand the parent’s passion for a profession? A never-ending debate- which I am beginning to believe has no solution, only a warranted compromise.

A Futile Protest?

2007-08-19T08:21:00.000-04:00

A Futile Protest?

In a small town just outside of Ramallah, international tourists, protesters and several local Palestinians gather for a weekly engagement with the IDF soldiers who guard the road leading into Israel. Following afternoon prayers, the Palestinians gather, along with the visitors and press and walk towards the checkpoint to engage in this dance, complete with tear gas, rubber bullets and rock throwing. International protesters place themselves between the soldiers and the Palestinians, with the belief that the IDF would not fire upon them due to the passports they possess.

Over the past several years, Israel has been consuming the rural landscape which is the livelihood of many of the Palestinians living in Bil’in. While the legitimacy of any protest can be questioned on many levels, the core reasons for engaging in this protest seem justifiable, if one faced the prospect of losing their livelihood due to occupation. (I apologize for the lack of research on this point, but here’s a link to more information about Bil’in: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bil%27in)

Curious to see this event and its role within the broader context of this conflict, my colleague and I decided to witness firsthand the protests and the interaction between the IDF, international demonstrators and Palestinian protesters.

What lies beneath the surface of this weekly event reflects the banality and absurdity that civil disobedience and peaceful protests can produce when the message is muddled by outside ‘revolutionaries,’ the media and some thrill seeking tourists. Sadly, this revelation is not surprising but to actually see the events unfold and the media’s role in the process is appalling and somewhat deplorable.

After our cab dropped us at the guest house which was the temporary home to these Friday protesters, I and my colleague walked to the protest site and waited quietly under a tree for the crowd to approach. A group of photographers arrived first, complete with helmets, vests and gas masks. Their helmets had the letters AP taped to them (Associated Press) and they had the word PRESS on the back of their vests. I couldn’t help but think that such an outfit might come in handy in about ten minutes.

As the protesters approached, I began to shoot from one side of this small group, trying to get a feel for the amount of people and identify the heart of the scene. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several people dressed in pink clown suits complete with costume makeup. I paused for a moment to process the presence of clowns.

The press hovered about the group and once they reached the barbed wire, I crossed the line onto the Israeli side to shoot with the other photographers. I slowly began to distance myself from the group, knowing that at any minute canisters of tear gas would be shot towards the crowd. As I walked towards the filmmakers and the soldiers, I noticed that the main “director” of the film crew was sending his cameraman towards the soldiers when they were clearly yelling at them not to come any further. The “director” continued to yell at the soldiers and checked to make sure his crew was in position.

As I tried to digest this reality and still create distance, the sounds of canisters being shot into the air drowned the yelling protesters. I found a nice little rock wall blocked from the wind and the soldiers and watched this dance from a close vantage point. The clowns kept walking up the street and the soldiers kept shooting canisters at them. Laughter rang out from the IDF positions, and I can not say that I blame the soldiers. One clown received a canister to the rear end, which created quite a bit of laughter from the soldiers, some of whom documented the event with their camcorders and cell phones . Several of the international protesters, with point and shoot cameras in hand, continued approaching the post where the soldiers were standing and shouted silly phrases of peace and cursed the soldiers, only to have a tear gassed response.

Beyond the ridiculous nature of clowns and “tourists” shouting at soldiers with teargas; what I found quite amazing during this time was the behavior of the press. I use the term press loosely; several AP photographers, some local shooters, some filmmakers, bloggers and the brother of a famous writer with a digital point and shoot. Several of the Palestinians remained close to the barbed wire and the photographers would stand next to them and wait for the gas to be shot. Often times, some of the photographers provoked the soldiers to shoot the gas canisters and approached the point where clearly they would be fired upon and waved for the protesters to approach as well.

While waiting for a gas cloud to pass, I heard a cell phone ringing nearby; and the protester actually answered it. In a calm voice, amidst a cloud of tear gas, the protester told the caller that he was at a demonstration, now was not a good time to talk and that he would have to call them back soon.

Afterwards, several protesters gathered the canisters and more photo opportunities were available for the press. Off to the side of the protest, just below the heart of the village, several young kids began throwing stones at the soldiers and the IDF engaged with more tear canisters and rubber bullets. The international protesters ran to the hills to participate in this engagement while the remaining participants made their way back to the guest house.

At this point, the real tragedy of this dance presented itself. After witnessing the behavior of the adults, these young children with slingshots began to aim for the soldiers. In theory, international protesters are supposed to provide a physical barrier between the Palestinians and the IDF, yet as soon as the rubber bullets began to fly, the international protesters cowered behind a wall as the young children continued to throw stones and receive rubber bullets. A Palestinian man yelled “welcome” to the international protesters and they ran over the hills to watch this part of the demonstration. Having seen enough, I walked back to find my colleague and digest the events I witnessed.

What are these young children learning from this event? Each week they watch the process unfold and they participate in ways that could cause them serious harm. There have to be better methods of protest, better means of conveying a message, better ways to conduct an effective act of civil disobedience that does not end in harmful fumes and rubber bullets.

Outside the falafel stand, people swapped stories of near misses, shared photos and laughed about their involvement while eating ice cream and having refreshments. The ‘documentary filmmaker’ bragged about their footage, gloated about starting the revolution in Kashmir and then asked who was heading back to Tel Aviv for drinks?

While driving back to Ramallah with several very kind and informed protesters, I raised the perspective that the presence of clowns (members of an NGO who uses clowns in demonstrations to show the soldiers that the violence is comical or unnecessary) degrades and demeans the movement of the Palestinian people. While this weekly protest, in my opinion, seems to have little positive effect and influence on the conflict, the fact that people are dressed as clowns gives the impression that the cause itself is something for amusement. The people in the car had never viewed their presence in that manner before.

Left behind was a town filled with Palestinians who have to live the side effects of occupation every day. Every Friday, their children have to breathe the gas fumes from these interactions and they watch tourists and demonstrators fulfill some personal need to feel engaged in the Palestinian movement. The press arrives and provokes an escalation- either through their presence alone, or deliberately as the filmmaker demonstrated- the mass media picks up a few photos of angry protesters and people watching the news gain incorrect perceptions of the reality that exists in the West Bank.

Most journalists wage a constant struggle with the ethical ramifications of their presence in the situations they document. At what point does my presence effect the situation and at what point does my presence introduce an element of falsity? Would this child be throwing stones and provoking soldiers to respond with bullets if my camera was not documenting the process? Am I misleading the news consumer by selecting the ‘intense emotional’ moments of a weekly protest and placing them into the mass media for consumption; while leaving out the clown with the point and shoot camera and the Japanese teenager eating ice cream after he’s gathered the gas canisters for the Palestinians to place in front of the camera for a perfectly emotional photo opportunity?

At what point do the peace protests and demonstrations become completely futile? The ease of showing up every Friday, getting gassed, taking some snapshots, yelling slogans of peace and provoking IDF soldiers seems to be a simple escape from becoming engaged in a diplomatic peace process. Seeking an education and work experience in conflict resolution; working on diplomatic levels to enact a broader level of change for a country or for individual people; documenting the actual issues in a manner that has a purpose and is framed in the context of reality are all methods for those seeking solutions to truly be engaged with the peace process. Some people at these protests have genuine intentions and are engaged in the process on a level that will promote a viable outcome on some level; but I must question the motivations from most, not all, of the people I interacted with on that day.

If you’re interested, you can see this demonstration on you tube, clowns and all! Mom, it is not as bad as it looks.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=dwRu9YOBe28

A Different Perspective

2007-08-19T07:32:00.000-04:00

This series of photos were taken at a demonstration in Bil'in, Palestine on Friday, August 17, 2007. This entry is tied to the previous post, Filtering the News and I will present the event to you using two different filters.

The Black and White series is my edit for the event if I were a staff photographer or freelancer sent to cover the event with the premise that my editor needs emotional images of a demonstration in the West Bank. The color series shows a more rounded perspective, my actual interpretation of the events that unfolded. My point is obvious, and the pictures are nothing to write home about, but it will give you a perspective not normally seen in a 'news event.'

While the need to voice their opposition against Israeli occupation is justified, the purpose of this weekly planned demonstration has accomplished little documented progress towards a peaceful resolution of the conflict in this region.

I have written more regarding the actual event in the post a 'Futile Protest?'

A protester from Bil'in, Palestine walks towards an Israeli roadblock to voice his dissent on the occupation of the land surrounding Bil'in.

Protesters reach the roadblock preventing them from entering the Israeli portion of the land. International protesters will place themselves between Palestinian demonstrators and IDF soldiers to prevent the harm of the locals.

Once the barrier is breached, IDF soldiers will begin to disperse the unarmed protesters using rubber bullets, tear gas and sound grenades.

A local Bil'in resident holds empty teargas canisters and shouts at the cameras in Arabic regarding his beliefs of the Israeli occupation of his homeland.

Now for a more rounded view of the events.

Filtering the News

2007-08-19T06:28:00.001-04:00

Filtering the News

While walking back from a day of sightseeing in the Old City of Jerusalem, I bumped into a friend on the street and he asked if I had heard about the shooting in the Old City today.

My first callous thought- I missed the news again! And I spent all afternoon in the Old City, how did I miss something of such significance! My mind immediately jumped to a scenario repeated often on the nightly news; a scene of protests, clashes between soldiers and rebels with waves flying high and angry shouts filling the air; and my inadequacies as a budding news professional began to sink in.

My friend stated that someone shot an IDF soldier and there was a gun battle and the soldiers killed the gunman after injuring lots of tourists. According to my source, Jerusalem remained free of shooting deaths for the past three years. The details at this point are vague and the scope of the incident was unclear. After hearing additional word of mouth versions, I went to the internet to seek some facts.

The BBC was running the story on the front page, stating that an Arab gunman had shot an IDF soldier and several tourists were injured in the crossfire as the soldiers shot the gunman. Eye-witness accounts stated that the soldiers continued to shoot the gunman after he was on the ground and they did not see any weapons. I then went to Al-Jazeera English to read the version with the Middle Eastern filter and the story was quite similar. The site stated that the gunman was likely Palestinian and the Old City was currently shut down as soldiers went door to door trying to identify the gunman. Finally, I searched the New York Times to check the American filter on the story. Buried within the World section was the headline, “Terrorist attacks soldier in Jerusalem,” or something similar. Terrorist? What caused the Times to make such a conclusion? The article stated the same assertion that the ‘terrorist’ was Arab and lacked identification. They also stated that the IDF placed the body in a bag and spray painted the word ‘terrorist’ in Hebrew.

My fellow travelers, young and full of curiosity, decided it would be a great idea to head to the Old City and see if we could find the story. So, we headed out into the night to seek some version of the truth.

The first group of young Palestinian men knew a scant amount of details but stated that the gunman was not local. We headed towards the Holy Church of the Sepulchre, and my colleague spotted one lonely store with a sliver of light leaking from the door. She asked the man if he knew anything about the shooting or where it happened.

“Yes, it happened right there,” he pointed to just outside his door. The man’s children were playing in front of the store when it happened. He described how the gunman grabbed the gun from the soldier’s belt and then shot the soldier in the shoulder. He explained how he and his son helped some of the wounded and stated that he had seen the gunman walking around the Old City in the past month looking for work. When asked if he was Arab, the eye witness said no, and claimed he was Russian.

Well, we were late for the story, again, but we did find an interesting interpretation of the event that was not available in the mainstream media. So, the question that must be asked is how do we know what’s the truth and what is one person’s questionable interpretation? Why are there three different interpretations of this event and why is the identity assumed to be Arab? Was the eye witness wrong or was the media wrong? Did the media get their information from Israeli sources only? Or were people afraid or unwilling to offer eye-witness accounts?
Caption: A toy gun rests on the steps of a shop, close to the sight of an attack on an Israeli soldier in the Old City of Jerusalem.

What is even more fascinating is to see how the story entered the media cycle. I often follow stories throughout the media circus trying to guess who will spin the story in what manner and to achieve what agenda. I am unsure why I do this; curiosity, dismay with the media system, an attempt at understanding the system a little better, who knows? So, I was not shocked to see the New York Times emphasize the terrorist aspect and see the more balanced coverage of the BBC and Al Jazeera. What was somewhat surprising was to see the headlined changed from terrorist to gunman in the NYT the next day, after the initial misinterpretation had been presented to the news consumer.

The fact remains that the truth was not conveyed and the story is free for interpretation or manipulation. The next morning, my friend who first spoke of the story stated that both Hammas and Fathah are claiming that the act was carried out by their soldiers.

What do we believe? Should we not demand that our news sources do the public and the story justice through accurate reporting free from predetermined filters of interpretation from the journalist or the editor? Or is that simply too much to ask of today’s media rushing to fulfill a 24 hour news cycle? Staying informed in our society takes a multitude of time and effort; every story must be traced through several outlets, its sources questioned and its outlet analyzed for its corporate and political affiliations. And even then, the truth must be questioned. We base policies and our perceptions of the world we live in according to the information that our media presents us, and unfortunately, as a whole, we expend minute amounts of energy and commit little diligence to this news that we consume. Should we not devote more diligence to following the events of our world (on any level-local, state, national and international) and demand better of the people presenting the world to us?

Al Gore recently wrote about such issues in his book, Assault on Reason. He makes a very valid point that I often return to when I analyze the content of the media and its presentation to the public. A democracy needs an informed electorate to function properly. And if our outside perception of the world is framed and presented to us after circulating through the current filtration system of the mass media, how can we make informed assessment of the issues our politicians are basing policy upon? How can we make a balanced and educated decision to further our democracy if our sources of information and reflections of the outside world are false or misleading interpretations of events?

And as journalists, we must always remember that the way present the news can affect the way individuals in society perceive the world and the role within the world. So we had better be careful in how we cover the news and in how we present the news. And we must strive to get the story right!

Two Days Late...

2007-08-12T08:06:00.000-04:00

Two Days Late…

The flow of information in Jerusalem is somewhat slow and censored, generated mostly from word of mouth. At times, I feel as though I’m staying in a small bubble, and engaging in the outside world is an effort. So when news of Jewish settlers being forcibly removed from the homes they were illegally occupying in Hebron hit the Times and the BBC, I figured we should make an effort to seek some breaking news. One note, western media is seven hours behind my current reality- a point that seems obvious, but not so for this ‘journalist.’

While sitting on a packed local bus with people smoking and yelling into cell phones, I think to myself there is a reason that journalists have expense accounts, translators and drivers. Oh, what luxuries! After an hour long trip, we hop off the bus while stuck in traffic and head off to the market to find our news. We meet a local Arab shop owner who graciously volunteers to act as our guide. Weaving our way through the bustling old Arab market of Hebron, we enter yet another Israeli check point. After passing the first checkpoint, we make our way to another gate with an armed guard and our gracious guide says he can go no farther. Arabs are not allowed entry into certain streets and neighborhoods, despite the fact that Arabs have lived in Hebron for hundreds, even thousands of years.

We walk the empty streets and ask people where the house is located; some look at us as though we have three heads, others tell us to be careful because of the IDF guards and the large number of journalists. Arabs were forced to abandon the buildings and homes they owned in this area when the IDF blocked the streets; yet the Jewish settlers have no legal right to be in these dwellings. Blocks of homes and shops sit empty and abandoned, giving Hebron the feel of a modern day ghost town.

A Quiet Anger

An IDF soldier is standing watch outside the homes which two days ago were plastered about the news as though a major pullout of the West Banks had begun. Two small, two story homes adjoined by one wall look as though their guts have been ripped out in haste just moments before we arrived. Inside the first home, bottles of shampoo sit open on the sink, the windows are missing, a child’s drawing decorates the hallway and two holes speckle the wall in the room adjacent to the other home. Peering through the holes I can see the damage done to the other home where soldiers knocked down the door to reach the settlers. The holes were created to reach the settlers who had built a pillbox to barricade themselves within on the other side of the wall.

The soldier then takes us to the other home and we see the pillbox. He explains how the squatters built the box, filled much of it with cement and fashioned a large metal pipe to receive oxygen. The box is quite small, and off to the side there is a tiny entry hole. The soldier then states that the squatters had taken a baby into the box with them to participate in their protest. Such a statement takes a moment to digest. Who in there right mind would build a tiny wooden box, fill it with cement, use a 10 inch diameter metal pipe for air in order to hide from heavily armed soldiers and then bring an infant into the box as well? What would possess someone to do such a thing? Particularly in a home which is not owned by them and which an Israeli court ordered the Jewish settlers to vacate.

I notice a number of settlers stopping by the site of the extraction to view the carnage of the home. I wonder what is going through their minds. I can see the dismay and the anger on their faces. To them the IDF committed a crime against their own people and the squatters had a right to the home and the land because of some divine reasoning and due to various creative assertions of property rights. As I look through the holes from the other home, I notice a young Jewish boy looking at the pillbox and I can see the look of curiosity turn to a quiet anger as his elders talk about the situation. The boy can not be much older than ten and his impression of the Jewish right to this Arab land is being cemented in his mind. Misunderstandings and misinterpretations are being formulated as he stares at a box where his neighbors barricaded themselves to make a stand against the IDF and the property rights of these buildings.

Stoned Soldiers

After lunch we decide to visit Abraham’s tomb. Christians, Jews and Muslims all refer to Abraham as a major part of their religious beliefs and the relevance is not lost on the security measures. There is an extensive check point to enter; passports or Palestinian papers, statements of religious affiliation and the justification of camera equipment. In 1994, a Jewish man opened fire on the Arab side of the tomb, killing 29 Arabs and wounding over one hundred. The tomb is now separated by bullet-proof glass and the extensive security is understandable, to a point.

My entry to the mosque and tomb is denied due to my cameras, so I wait for my friends just outside the guard stand. Every five minutes or so, some young boy with a large AK-47 asks why I am standing there and I point to the other soldiers and say ask him. My patience for these soldiers is at a low-point and watching American tax money being pissed away so a cocky 21 year-old soldier can harass me about my cameras and flirt with me as he denies my entry into a tomb is just beyond my threshold of tolerance. As I wait, I notice the fumes of marijuana coming from nearby, a point my friend made repeatedly every time we passed this spot. Confirmation that these soldiers were getting stoned came a few minutes later as my friend talked with one of the soldiers and he could tell the soldier was wasted. (College students have an astute ability to make such assertions).

Our guide takes us around the city pointing out the locations where Arab families recently left and Jewish settlers moved into empty homes. The streets are empty except for the IDF trucks and police cars, stores are locked and kids wave at us from barred windows over the empty stores. Our guide takes us close to a major Jewish settlement but states he can go no further. He warns of guards and electric fences that can kill you when touched. We thank him and tell him we hope to see him soon.

You Want a Rose from Me?

As we are walking up the street towards the settlement, a man working outside his home asks if we would like to join him for coffee. Another man walks up at the same time, and invites himself in as well. We tell them we are journalism students and want to ask some questions about living in Hebron as a Palestinian. Our host’s home is beautiful, large spacious rooms filled with marble and ornate furniture and the rooms echo with the sounds of kids running throughout the halls. We enter a living room and our host’s son serves the best Arabic coffee I have tasted on this journey. One of the men is eager to practice his English and answers our questions with passion and emotion.

(His story deserves its own entry, so I will elaborate soon about this conversation, but some of his words are relevant to the present topic of discussion.)

“I have many Jewish friends, is good people, when alone. But when dressed as Army, is not person, is without feeling, is without respect,” our visitor emphasizes his words by pressing his finger on the table and lighting his cigarette. He chain smokes as his emotions intensify. “IDF closed the road and take which places they wanted, said [Arabs] killed 4-5 people. Said to the press, they killed our children. Both Arab and Jewish people have children, why destroy the world when one person dies. When Arabs die, they are dogs, is no problem. Why I give you respect? They close everything, say Arabs are terrorists. They kill my wife, kill my father, take my land- and you want rose from me?”

Our friend goes on to explain that only IDF vehicles are allowed on the streets, Arabs have to use donkeys if they want to haul goods. His eyes begin to water and his voice waivers as he speaks of his wife and two children- ages 5 and 7. They live in Haifa, an hour and a half away, and the three of them have Israeli papers, meaning they can travel freely throughout Israel. Our visitor does not have such papers. He is confined to the borders of Hebron and claims the IDF has turned Hebron into a prison. He has not seen his family in three months and each time he goes to the IDF to get permission to visit Haifa, they deny him the proper paperwork. I feel a pang of guilt when I realize that Haifa is one of the locations I hoped to visit before leaving Israel and I am free to visit when I please.

We eventually make our way to the bus station, which is located inside a large and beautiful Jewish settlement. The guard asks us our religion and looks at our passports and asks if we know any Arabic. He then pulls aside my colleague; she was born in Pakistan but has an American passport. After five minutes of notifying everyone within range of his radio that a Muslim was stepping through the gates, he allowed us to enter. A car filled with soldiers slowly followed us to the bus stop, making several loops around the block to see that we were not straying from our declared path of travel.

Adopt a Soldier

Later that evening, our fellow travelers that separated for lunch show us some literature they gathered at the pizza shop in the Jewish section of Hebron. An “adopt-a-soldier” placemat asks patrons to offer their support of the soldiers who keep them safe by donating $15 to buy them lunch. I can not help but think that a stoned soldier came up with a method to cure his case of the munchies and asked the store owner to create the program. Several fliers state the justification to the property rights of Hebron for the Jewish stem from the fact that Abraham purchased this land over 3400 years ago at “fair market value.” What exactly is the fair market value during that time period; two chickens, a goat and several camels?

The flier also complains that the separation of the tomb after 1994 is unfair because it gives the Arab side more space and better scenery, yet fails to mention the reason for the division in the first place. A multitude of mis-staments and falsities were stated throughout the fliers and I can not help but think of all the people who have read this literature and believed it. For if words are printed and if the paper has the guise of professionalism, people tend to believe the words are true.

A Distant Hope

I can only hope that people actually seek to verify what they read. I can only hope that visitors to Hebron and Israel can see the disparity between the two populations living here and the strain that living with such a separation causes for both populations. I can only hope that the mass media will stop playing with peoples lives and manipulating reality to create a perception of terrorists lurking in the shadows waiting to kill you while you are safe within the walls of your home. I can only hope that the media will begin to tell all sides of a story, to tell the side that people don’t want to hear, and stop using these people to promote the political agendas of our leaders.

When I see the human cost of our political agendas in the face of a man separated from his family or in the hunched shoulders of a young man who can not cross the road because he is Arab or I see the look of quiet anger on the face of young Jewish boy who is formulating an ingrained perception of his neighbor; I harbor little hope for the current paths of society. I do hold hope that one day, the powers that control the media and our leadership will be discarded by people who will demand better for their world. People who will demand that citizens of countries in distant lands will cease to be used as pawns for someone else’s agenda; people who will demand that their tax dollars be used to fund American inner city schools and health care for every US citizen and not have their money fund the oppression and destruction of citizens in other countries. People who will demand that their leadership use their power to benefit the greater good, not the minority of corporate leadership using politics to reap society of its natural resources and strip people of their dignity and identity. I harbor a hope that one day people will seek to control their destiny once again, as the founders of America once did, but the more I witness throughout the world, the more distant that hope becomes.

The Love of a Mother

2007-08-07T10:13:00.000-04:00

The Love of a Mother

Tucked away on the Mount of Olives lives Ibrahim. His home is open to anyone, for any reason. He embraces travelers, spiritual pilgrims, volunteers, students (and a multitude of stray cats) regardless of their race, religion or nationality. This is my home for the next two weeks.

My housemates vary each day but their stories are nothing short of fascinating. Currently, this dwelling is home to a French gardener, a nun, two French travelers, one British peacemaker, a Belgian volunteer and ten college students from the United States (5 of whom are fellow Tar heels). Ibrahim believes that no one should want for food or shelter and spends many hours cooking for all his house guests. Large batches of rice and lentils, hummus and pita, pasta and potatoes decorate the large table which occupies much of the kitchen and the guests eat in small packs. We gather around to share stories, debate politics and listen to Ibrahim tell stories of traveling the world to spread his message of peace.

He works with religious and spiritual leaders from all religions and they gather often to work towards mending the divide that grows each day within the borders of Israel/Palestine.

His approach is simple.

‘If the money used to make walls and wars were given to the people in need, there would be no more fighting. If I have food and I don’t have to make work, I’m happy, I won’t fight you; what would we fight about? Why should one man make one million in a day when another man makes less than a dollar?’

Some may argue the economics and simplicity of this approach towards world peace, but at its roots, the theory makes a good deal of sense. If a man can provide for his family and has the ability to do so without interference from an occupying force or his own government, there remains little reason to fight. When young men are given a chance at a hopeful future and are allowed to engage in productive activities and are given a purpose and a means to support themselves, they have little reason to bear arms and engage in violence to achieve what they believe is a viable future.

Starve the youth of their future, force a man to watch his family face famine, separate a community with walls and check points, dehumanize the identity of a citizen in their homeland, withhold the ability to seek knowledge, deny the freedom of speech and dialogue and you will see violence, you will see conflict and you will see bloodshed.

Mother’s will see their children die for the glimmer of hope that a revolution may provide. Families will watch their loved ones die violently because a community is filled with hatred and misunderstanding. Children will be orphaned because the leaders of another country want to possess and control a resource within their lands. Wives will bury their husbands because their government wants to gain a profit from the military machine.

Ibrahim points to the younger listeners at the dinner table, ‘So it is up to you, the young people, to change these things. To stop this war, to stop the violence. It is up to the mothers to stand up to their leaders and say ‘don’t send my child so far away from me. Don’t send my son to a distant land to die.’ Soldiers should protect borders of countries; they should not go far away to a land where they do not know the language or the people and fight. It’s up to you, the young people, the mothers.’

And yes, it is up to us. We will carry the burden of correcting the faults of our leadership. The dangerous foreign policies that our governments implement will be ours to repair and we will have to answer for the pain and suffering our governments are causing throughout the world. And maybe it is time for the women of the world to stand up and say stop killing our children. Maybe the women of the world do bear the burden of repairing the damage done by the powerful men of leadership. For, as my host pointed out, every man has a connection to a women, they see them as their mother, as the nurturer as the one that provided both life and love.

Is it possible that the strong men of power can be reached through the gentle yet reinforcing hand of the mother?

2007-08-07T10:10:00.000-04:00

From the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

The Dome

2007-08-07T09:56:00.001-04:00

The Dome of the Rock as seen from the top of the Mount of Olives.

2007-08-07T09:52:00.001-04:00

A nun conducts her prayers at the site of Jesus' Tomb at the church of the Holy Sepulchre on Sunday evening. Her ritual was interrupted by a tourist who stopped to ask her a question.

Prayer at the Tomb

2007-08-07T09:49:00.001-04:00

A Saturday evening service at the church of the Holy Sepulchre the old city of Jerusalem.

Crossing

2007-08-07T09:45:00.000-04:00

Crossings

Leaving Jordan by land takes a large amount of creativity and luck. Our cab driver arrived at 7:30 am in a friend’s personal car because cabs are not allowed to approach the border of Jordan and Israel.

“Please don’t let the police see you handing money to me. That would not be good,” our cad driver says with a smile. He is wearing a Yankees cap and speaks fondly of Kansas, having spent several years in the state.

In order to cross into Israel from Jordan, we have to exit Jordan with stamps and x-ray checks of our baggage. We then board a charter bus which takes us across the Jordan River into Israel, about a mile altogether. The difference is stark and intense. Large amounts of barbed wire decorate any fence or wall. Young soldiers with large weapons and a maze of check points and barriers force the bus to weave a path towards the border station. Our driver leans out his window at every stop and yells to his fellow drivers in search of tea or Pepsi.

At the Border

A mass of people swarm in front of the first obstacle to enter Israel, handing passports and bags to Israeli soldiers. All luggage must be checked and enters the border crossing separate from its owner. People are then herded into a building through a system quite similar to airport security in the United States; X-ray machines, metal detectors and passport checks. Following the scans, we push our way into a “booth” which shoots jets of air all over your body to create a sort of image that searches for hidden weaponry, as if anything explosive would make it this far. Our photo is also taken at this point for posterity or merely to sit in a database on a hard drive for many years to come. An hour later, the true experience of crossing into Israel begins.

Crossing at the King Hussein Bridge is illegal for Israelis, forcing the Palestinians and Arab nationals to cross at this point. Around ten percent of the people entering are foreign visitors, leaving one to think that this part of the process shall be quick and painless. Not so, as we stand for almost 2 hours waiting to speak with the border agent, who might be 18 but looks as though she should be scooping ice cream on a boardwalk in New Jersey and not wearing a uniform that barely fits her tiny frame. We each rehearse our stories so as not to raise suspicion, forcing us to think we are committing a crime and lying to cover our tracks. We are merely going to see Jerusalem and try to conduct a photojournalism project that will show what living within Jerusalem is really like, yet any mention of a Palestinian territory, Ramallah, Bethlehem, East Jerusalem or anyone with the name Ibrahim or Mohammed would be an intstant red flag causing interrogation by a twenty-something soldier bearing multiple arms and holding the power of entry in his hands. An amazing way to utilize my American tax dollars.

My travel partner’s have recently visited Syria, causing the guard to flag their passports and keep the sacred documents in a tiny office for another 2-3 hours. For what purpose is not known, my assumption after observing the process for 7 hours, is to merely create a sense of power over people and further inflame tensions of those living and visiting Israel. The more difficult the entry, the less likely people are to return. Many of those crossing are visiting Palestinian family members living as refugees in Jordan. The right of return is not granted to thousands of these refugees, so their family must suffer through such humiliation and difficulties in order to visit.

Security or Dehumanization?

What does this process mean, what are its ramifications for the people living through this on a daily basis? It provides security, you may say. The Israelis are keeping their people safe, you might argue. What I witnessed was not security. An 18-year old asking me to fill out a form she hand wrote minutes before stating where I am traveling to and to whom I am visiting is not security. Asking my grandfather’s name is not security. Asking for my cell phone number in the United States and email address is not security. Making a man who just underwent open heart surgery stand in line for 5 hours is not security. Separating families and loved ones for hours of humiliating interrogation is not security. Watching people leave the interrogation room in tears, bewildered and lost, searching for their loved ones waiting on the other side of the checkpoint is not security.

It’s a means of creating a second class citizen. It is one more method of dehumanizing a population whose homeland is occupied and whose presence is no longer desired. When an elderly Palestinian woman has to argue with a teenager sucking on a lollipop and cursing her with immense disrespect in order to enter her homeland something is not right, something is profoundly incorrect. That woman is old enough to have witnessed the creation of Israel, the death of thousands and numerous wars over the land she calls home.

I look at the office where the soldiers take a break from their duties. The young girls flirt with their older superiors, gossiping and carrying on in ways that are universal to their age. It’s a scene played out in every fast food restaurant and retail shop around the world; young adults flirting with their peers and experiencing the first tastes of adulthood. The only difference is that they are soldiers. Their uniforms bear the flags of their country, not the golden arches of their employers. They carry automatic weapons, not spatulas. These young adults make decisions that effect peoples lives and the perceptions of their identity; they do not decide if you get packets of ketchup or mustard in your order. These soldiers have no choice; they must serve their country for a certain period of time when they reach adulthood. What effect does this service have upon their outlook on life, on the role of their country in the Middle East and in the world? What does this service do to their identity and their view of the role they play in the world?

These soldiers learn power and elitism at a young age. For some, their positions give them a power that is intoxicating, a position that gives them a sense of purpose to their country and an immediate distaste and distrust of people who are of another race and religion. Such a process instills the belief that, as an Israeli they are superior to the people they are allowing to enter the country. While not every soldier embodies this assessment, you can see the implications in their interactions with the people around them, in how they treat people with a disregard and indifference.

I’ve entered several Middle Eastern countries and developing countries that also bear the burden of securing their people in an unstable environment with violent tendencies. Yet I have never witnessed such a process. Such an attack on identity made be an entire demographic of young people who should be experiencing adulthood, not further inflaming tensions in a country slowly drowning in conflict and hatred.

Sorry to end on a cliché but, I guess we are not in Kansas anymore.

A Little Housekeeping...

2007-08-07T09:44:00.001-04:00

Hello from Jerusalem,

I apologize for the gap in entries, but finding an accessible internet connection has been a little challenge.

My intention was to keep the postings short, but I'm finding that these issues can not be addressed or even briefly touched upon without words, so I will try to use subheadings throughout the larger columns to make them easier to digest. And please feel free to leave comments!

Thanks for the patience and enjoy!

2007-08-02T16:00:00.001-04:00

Main street in Madaba

2007-08-02T15:56:00.001-04:00

Election posters decorate a wall surrounding the St. George's Church in Madaba, Jordan. Election day was marred by demonstrations and small riots with troops from Amman entering the small town of Madaba to restore order. Many tourists and locals refused to enter the streets during the election.

We are all Citizens

2007-08-02T15:53:00.000-04:00

We are all Citizens

After a day of sightseeing, my new Jordanian friend invited me into her home for coffee and a traditional lunch. The den was a welcome change from the hotel and possessed the personal touches which make a dwelling a home. Pictures of family decorate the tabletops, paintings occupy the wall and treasures passed about from generation to generation and carefully placed throughout the home.

While sharing coffee my host’s sister, who lives in the Gulf and her nieces stopped over to say hello. Her husband, a local doctor, also came home for a long lunch break. The young daughters speak perfect English and luckily for me, prefer to communicate in this language. My host’s sister also speaks perfect English, yet she, my host and her brother-in-law communicate in Arabic intertwined with the occasional English phrase. The doctor prefers to speak only in Arabic

The den was alive with various dialects, laughter, sharing of You Tube video clips on cell phones, questions of each other’s homelands and comparisons of fashion trends between countries.

“We are all citizens,” says the doctor with a chuckle. I glance about the room and each person here carries a US passport and has such a diverse and interesting story of living in the States. At that moment, the true value of my American passport hits me. Such a simple document has broadened the lives of every person in the room, including myself. I am often reminded of this as I enter a country and have no problems obtaining a Visa and never receive a second glance.

The next day I visit my friend again and her best friend joins us for coffee. She is a second generation Palestinian refugee whose parents fled the 1947 conflict into Jordan and are not able to return to their homeland. Traveling to Israel for her family is difficult and due to her refugee status, she has no passport of any kind. She has applied for Visas to enter her homeland to visit her sister but the 2 hour journey is not a possibility as Israel will not allow her to return. Nor will the United States permit her to enter for a visit.

She shrugs and smiles, “I’d just like to go see my sister, she lives just over there,” and she points towards Israel. I feel a pang of guilt for leaving tomorrow for Jerusalem. “But she comes to see me, so it is OK.”

Those living in exile face this problem often, no papers, no passport and no country to issue the necessary papers to travel freely. I met many Tibetans living in India last summer who have little opportunity, short of marrying a western tourist to explore the world as they also have no passport.

As Americans we should embrace our abilities to travel, to obtain a passport with some simple paperwork, to step on a plane and land in a foreign country. If only for a few days, we should see the world which so many are denied access to because they were born in a certain country or were forced to flee their homeland. Ours is a luxury that is afforded to few and we should utilize this gift to its fullest.

Mt Nebo, Jordan

2007-08-01T17:07:00.000-04:00

A Stone

2007-08-01T16:58:00.001-04:00

A Stone…

After visiting some ancient ruins from the dawn of documented history, my friend and I drove throughout the hills surrounding Madaba. The vast openness reminds me of the Badlands in South Dakota, but the signs showing the baptism sight of Jesus and the spot where Moses saw the promise land quickly indicate the history of this landscape.

A boy picks up a stone as our car drives by and acts as though he’s going to throw the rock at his friend. He sees us approaching, turns to us and pulls his arm back. I see the stone; it’s large and would do quite a bit of damage. I hold my breath, curiously wondering if he will actually throw it. As time slowed and I quickly assessed the situation the boy seemed to make eye contact and calculate the same assessment. He pulls back and my heart races as I wonder what would happen if he did it, if he just let that stone fly at our windshield. He stops at the last minute and laughs at his friend. I ask my Jordanian friend with the Chicago accent what would have happened if he had thrown the stone at us.

“I would have kicked his ass.” Though she said it with a quick laugh, I have no doubt that she would have done just that, done a quick 180 degree turn and hunted that boy down.

Where does the violence stem from? At what point does the action of causing destruction become inherent? We have all participated in some degree of violence during our lifetime, even mimicking the larger acts of war. I remember spending hours playing war games in the woods behind my church as a child. At church! At what point does a society embrace violence as a means of problem solving and at what age does a child distinguish between the playful act of throwing a stone at his friend and hurling a rock at the windshield of a speeding vehicle? What elements within that child’s environment cause him to act violently towards the presence of strangers? Is he taught by his elders; does he mimic the images seen on television; is violence emphasized during his religious interactions and education? Are the violent tendencies merely the ramifications of living in a certain type of environment, with little opportunity of advancement for a sustainable future?

I pondered these questions as we drove through the Muslim villages outside Madaba and into the Christian sections of the town. For centuries man has resorted to violent acts in the name of his god. Can religious communities continue to coexist in this era of emerging fundamentalism? Or will nationalism remain a stronger tie than religion to help keep peace between such differing religious communities? I will continue to revisit this theme throughout the project, as I search for a deeper understanding of the elements which make this ability to coexist possible, or not. I do not expect to find answers, merely a better understanding.

Election Day

2007-07-31T18:28:00.000-04:00

Election Day
Quiet and calm nestle within the streets of Madaba as the town awakes for Election Day. The nation has a two day holiday, yes-two whole days off in order to vote, and Jordanians are approaching their duties with diligence and a degree of excitement. I wander the streets for the visitor’s center, hidden well from the visitors and after several failed attempts; I head back towards the haven of my hotel. A car speeds by and honks repeatedly as an arm waves frantically from the window. I look around and realize the flailing arm and erratic horn serve to gain my attention. The car whips to the side of the road and my driver from the airport jumps out of the car and dodges the traffic to cross the street. He greets me with a warm smile and shakes my hand. His excitement is contagious and I can’t help but laugh with him for a moment.

“Today is very busy, very busy with election!” He exclaims.

He clutches both cell phones in his hand and I point to the mobile devices. He says that the election is today and his cousin is involved. I am unsure if his cousin is running for office, or merely involved in the process, but after several more moments runs back across traffic to his car and drives off in a fury.

As I head back to the hotel, I notice the streets are waking for the day. A soldier and a man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth are working to snap a deadlock on the exchange office, one on each arm of the massive bolt cutters, pushing furiously and laughing at one another. A van speeds by covered with election posters and the words freedom written on the windows.

While preparing for a trip to the pool, (I find it hard to avoid working on something, so I use jet lag as an excuse for engaging in the art of relaxation) I hear shouting, as though from a large group, coming from the window. I see nothing, and just assume it’s a common occurrence.

Several hours later, a new friend from Jordan (complete with a Chicago accent) tells me of the demonstrations happening throughout the town due to the elections. Throughout the day we hear sirens and helicopters and I fight the journalistic urges to enter the streets and photograph the process. We notice people on the rooftops pointing, so we also make our way to a higher vantage point to see tanks filled with soldiers making their way up the main street into the city.

Here I am, one day in Jordan and riots and demonstrations are occurring just down the road. Do I photograph? Do I participate in this Election Day process? The journalist in me says yes, the practical side-which weighs the calculated risks of such situations says no- much to my professor’s dismay, I’m sure. Not knowing the language, not knowing the climate of the local political and religious sects and simply not knowing my way around town make this an illogical choice.

Curious, I ask my local friend what is the source of these demonstrations. She heard that the government was trying to interfere in the election process and many of the young men from the rural villages were protesting this interference. I pause and think of all the issues we have in America when it comes to voting- disenfranchisement, vote caging, unsecured electronic voting machines, etc., and how calm our streets remain on Election Day.

Should our streets be calm when the government interferes with our ability to vote? Should we cause a riot, make a scene, force the government to send in troops to quell the dissatisfaction at our own election process? I am not condoning rioting, but merely saying a strong voice of opposition is needed at times, particularly when our ability to vote is at stake. Would this balance our democracy, help force more of our votes to count? Or should we engage in more active civil disobedience to achieve such means; particularly when our media is unable or unwilling to help us voice our dissent? Maybe civil disobedience would be effective if the people had a stronger voice. And where do we derive such strength in voice?

Amidst the chaos of the day, the evening returns the town of Madaba to normalcy. As the sun set and both the political and actual temperature cooled and the streets came back to life. A car pulled away from the hotel covered in flowers and carrying a bride and groom towards their celebration of union. Tourists entered the streets to dine at the local restaurants, people launched fireworks in honor of several weddings and an almost full moon rose over Madaba.

News on the election day in Jordan: http://english.aljazeera.net/NR/exeres/C27980A9-903A-43DA-B334-12CF4191B11D.htm

Moon Over Madaba

2007-07-31T18:27:00.000-04:00

Moon over Madaba

Jordan remains a country of beauty and relative calm nestled between two of the most volatile regions in the Middle East. Landing in Amman, one is fully aware of their surroundings, as men holding Blackwater signs and drivers looking for groups of western tourists await their new arrivals. I pause to look out the vast windows of the airport and ponder the proximity of such pain and despair which I read about in the paper. Over a few hills to the East lies Baghdad, to the West lies Israel.

Quite a surreal drive into the little town of Madaba, Bedouin tents scattered amongst the arid landscape with flocks of sheep and groves of olive trees woven through the desert landscape and street signs with arrows pointing towards Iraq. My driver proudly tell me of his family in Ohio and how he hopes to obtain a visa soon to return for a visit. He lived in Ohio for sometime, but returned to care for his family farm. Pride fills his voice as he tells of the olive trees and livestock that his brother is now caring for just outside of town. The Jordanian flag hangs from his mirror and posters of politicians are taped to his rear window. Local music plays from a cassette tape as we travel the roads into Madaba.

As we enter town, I reminded of such vast differences in our world. At home, the local parks and recreation department is tearing down a wonderful little spot of woods and natural habitat near my home to fill the land with playing fields and parking lots. A multi-million dollar project to “better the community.” I look out the window and see young boys kicking a worn and tattered soccer ball through a dusty patch of empty space between three story concrete buildings, laughing and playing amongst the debris and rocks that litter their ‘field.’ Their joy and love of the sport is no different than in the States, only the surroundings. Does a community need such millions dollar structures for its children to play and engage in the act of being a child? Instead of building such a structure for children to play, might we just provide the simple tools needed so everyone could play, a round ball and a pair of shoes?

Calls to prayer fill the air as I sip on Arabic coffee and watch the moon rise over the hotel. The call is distinct and beautiful, a strong reminder the vast distance which lies between me and my home.

Taking you on a little journey...

2007-07-31T13:00:00.000-04:00

This shall be the first of many entries regarding the cultural interactions that occur while traveling throughout the world. My intention is two fold, as many deliberate actions have several differing but equal purposes. Often times I am asked about the places I travel; is it safe, are the people friendly, what does the country look like, would you return? I intend to place the reader in the situations I encounter in the hopes of expanding his or her own perception of the world beyond their daily lives. Secondly, I hope to create a dialogue that will spread amongst the viewers of this site and the people they interact with on a daily basis. The latter being the more important element of the intentions, though one does not exist without the other’s presence. A dialogue that goes beyond what the mass media claims is reality. A dialogue that may create a feeling of human empathy that bears no cultural biases or prejudices. A dialogue that may broaden or reverse the preconceived notions that people harbor. Notions gained from a mass media which has evolved from its origin as a “watchdog of the government” into, at times, a mouth piece for the motivations of partisan politics filled with exhaustible talking points which stifle healthy dialogue and debate. For without a realistic, empathetic and passionate dialogue about the world beyond our borders and within, we can not maintain the complex and amazing machinery that is our democracy.

As the author of this column, I promise to not bog the reader down with trifling statements of mundane activities; what I ordered from a samosa stand in Nepal; how I rode a camel around the great pyramids of Giza, and how the bed I slept in last night had questionable microscopic critters living within its fibers. I promise to tell you of the conversation I had with the owner of the samosa stand who fled his homeland in the Himalayans to avoid a civil war, or the woman I shared a beer with by a pool in Jordan who remains a Palestinian refugee after decades of living in displacement, or the camel handler wearing a Las Vegas Police Department sweatshirt who asked if I could be his second wife in order to come to America and visit. I promise to keep the entries short and digestible (present entry excluded, of course) and I will show you with images of the world I am witnessing. I will work towards leaving blatant political statements out of this blog as well, though that is not an absolute statement. Many of you are aware of my political leanings and there is no need to muddle the heart of this column with politics. My politics will be apparent in my actions, in my subjects and the things I choose to write about and that which I leave out.
“It seems to me nonsense, in a period like our own, to think that one can avoid such subjects. Everyone writes of them in one guise or another, it is simply a question of which side one takes and what approach one follows. ” ~ G. Orwell

As the reader, I ask that you comment on what you read, to myself, to your neighbor or your colleagues standing around the water cooler. I ask that you elevate and initiate a dialogue with your friends and family that questions our role as Americans, both at home and abroad, and question that which you perceive to be true. A dialogue that is mutual and well intended, without the deviation into partisan bickering which happens so often in our country. For in questioning our own reality and bearing witness to the realities of others, the tools that democracy affords us; freedoms of choice, speech and the power to demand better of our government, may be utilized to their fullest to truly make the world in which we live a sustainable place for raising the next generation, and the ones to follow.

I ask that you spend some time with these writings and forward them to your circle of friends and loved ones. The subscription button on the sidebar will send an email to your mailbox each time this column is updated, making life a little simpler. My intention is to see how far and wide we can spread a little conversation. Turn off the television, step away from the internet (after reading this, of course) and engage those around you in the art of conversation!

And if nothing else, you may learn something, or see something that you had no idea existed. And remember that questioning your world, your reality and at times your identity is a healthy and positive action.

to india...

2006-07-05T02:45:00.002-04:00

Blog entries

July 1, 2006

The blog entries from this trip will be combination of personal tales and professional reflections on all that I've seen and that which I've learned in interacting with the cultures I'm submerged within. I'll bring everyone up to speed briefly and go from there—the images from these adventures can be seen at www.capture-media.com/gallery -- please excuse the crudity of the website, it’s a work in progress! Enjoy!!

I spent a large portion of the month of June in India, working in McLeod Ganj with the Tibetan exile community. My intentions are to document the various aspects of cultural preservation that the Tibetan government in exile has instituted to maintain identity while living in exile and a non-violent stance towards achieving autonomy in Tibet. While I had many preconceived notions and thoughts prior to arrival, many questions have risen regarding the state of exile, the relevance of cultural identity and heritage and the proponents of non-violent action. Many of these questions will be posted here, so feel free to participate in this debate; for other's ideas are more efficient and more exciting than just my own meanderings…

My journey began in Delhi and wow- what an experience. Then I headed into the Himalayan foothills to Dharamshala/McLeod Ganj, the location of the largest Tibetan exile community and the government in exile. I hired a car, against my better judgment, and the journey was quite an experience. While the 12 hour return bus ride was almost as hair-raising, the small size of the car and the ambitious and over-zealous 20 year-old driver were a test of nerves. For those of you who know the type of backseat driver I am, rest assured those habits of mashing the non-existent break on the passenger side floor of the car have ceased to exist. I managed to find a beautiful room, with an amazing view, meet an interesting and very wonderful group of friends from both America and Indian. The Americans I met were also working within the Tibetan community trying to provide the basic necessities and educational opportunities for both exiles and Tibetans living in the TAR (Tibetan Autonomous Region—China). They are passionate about their work and the opportunity to chat, eat good food and trek up into the hills was priceless.

I also met a freelance writer from India and we worked together trying to work our way through the many layers of the Tibetan community. She's also very passionate about her writing and addresses many social issues facing her country and the international community. She also offered me a place to stay in her home in Delhi, an adorable flat which reminds me of the Love Shack on the Outer Banks (those of you who have seen the shack will appreciate this!). She gave me a better taste of Delhi and I now look forward to returning to her city, if only I could get the cab drivers to stop overcharging me!!

While in Mcleod, I had the opportunity to experience so many wonderful things; photographing the Dalai Lama, having dinner cooked by monks while watching World Cup (they have a nicer TV than me!), teaching a monk some English (he associated America with Bush, so each time I had to correct him with "Bush, Bad" —yes-republican friends, I did impose my politics on the monastic community!!) trekking to amazing views and having fresh goat milk chai from a shack underneath the milky way, at 10,000-ish feet while listening to world cup on the radio, sharing a birthday breakfast and dinner with good friends, watching monks debate at the Temple during sunset, walking the Kora at sunrise…..

There were many intense moments as well; as previously mentioned—the journey itself, interviewing recent refugees arriving from Tibet and hearing of their journey and their lives in occupied Tibet, interviewing political prisoners, recent escapees and listening to stories from nuns of being tortured in prison, interviewing a leading political activist in the Tibetan's struggle for freedom, trying to find the media location for my shoot at the Dalai Lama's teachings—realizing that there was no media location as promised—and turning around to see His Holiness walking up the stairs where I was waiting, seeing the reaction to people as they saw His Holiness, photographing the Tibetan children's village and having a 3 year old Tibetan refugee trying to climb up my camera bag (and wiping my lenses with his little fingers) and looking at me with eyes that still tear at my heart—eyes that are asking me where his mother is and eyes that merely said, 'please pick me up, give me attention, and take me to my mother' and many more moments…

I have made the journey to Nepal and have started my internship with http://www.nepalhumanrightsnews.com/ . The Nepalese are refreshingly nice and my host family is so wonderful. I am now apart of the family, though I am close to the same age as the parents. I will be working with both the Tibetan communities and the Nepalese populations and will be covering human rights issues. And there are many here, ten years of conflict with the Maoists have affected the population in various ways and I will be working mainly on children's issues (child soldiering, children orphaned from war, homelessness and disabled children as a result of conflict as well as women's issues) It seems that most of my work will be in Kathmandu and the surrounding areas (so don't worry mom!) and maybe a few trips to the villages. I hope to explore a little as well while here, but there is a lot of work to do! Nepal is now restructuring its government and hopefully will be providing more opportunities for its people, for the country is one of the poorest in the world and at certain moments, teeters on the edges of state failure.

Well, I hope you made it this far! I'll try and update this regularly assuming I can find some fast internet access. Dial up is the norm in Nepal!

If you're still awake, I have posted some Mind Meanderings regarding the issues of an exiled community, the pursual of peace and autonomy through non-violence, the place of cultural identity within the context of modernization and so on. Please read and comment—open the debate. It could be more productive than actually working at your computer—that's no fun, or playing solitaire—Kelly!! And those of you who know me and my politics will understand that some of these have strong political opinions, though not directed at specific institutions or governments, these are merely questions based on my interpretations, nothing more, nothing less…

Thanks for reading and miss you all!! Can't wait to see everyone again!!!

c

2006-07-05T02:45:00.001-04:00

Can hope maintain peace?

Is it possible for the Tibetan people to initiate and maintain the last peaceful struggle to achieve autonomy to show that it can be done? And if such a goal is unattainable through non-violence, then is peace throughout the rest of the world merely an unattainable objective? Is mankind, as a whole, unable to accept the spiritual implications and requirements of non-violence? Can man simply not accept that peace is achievable through diplomacy and that profiting off of the deaths of others is not a viable solution to the evolution of mankind? Or does war and peace truly boil down to the pursual of commodities and natural resources coupled with the profiting from military mobilization and the peace-making process? Is war hidden behind the shroud of freedom and democracy for everyone whilst the true motivation for invasion is the commandeering of monetary gain and positions of power?

Historically, states have not bothered to hide the fact that they were invading to commandeer the resources of another. Today, states invade the sovereignty of another in order to retain the natural commodities desired by the aggressor and the intention is hidden beneath liberation and protection from dictatorships and autocratic regimes. This is acceptable to the general public, one can easily digest the notion of spreading the desirable conditions of human existence, opportunity, freedom, and the pursuit of further inalienable rights, but the travesty lies in the easy acceptance of a veiled truths- hidden at times by various avenues of media; a deceit that kills innocents and destroys the cultural strands woven over centuries of time. Are we so blind as to not see the tragedy that our own consumption and desires for material wealth bring to other societies? Or is that consumption merely the end product, or means of modernization and can that consumption help build poorer nations into a status of development that becomes self-sustaining? If that is the case, then are we as a society ready to embrace and accept the means of modernization and development through the spreading of consumption of cheap material goods and when this type of sustenance reaches a capacity breaking point (for truly, there is only so much physical space in this earth for cheap Chinese goods) and the resources needed for such production come at the cost of human lives and cultural heritages, will society accept that violence and war will be used to attain the power and control over such resources?

When does non-violence become as detrimental to a society as violence? Is the slow deterioration of a population who've existed for thousands of years an acceptable bi-product of pacifism or would the direct and indirect harm to non-combatants in a violent conflict situation be an acceptable outcome of a people's struggle to regain freedom, particularly if the autonomy they seek is of a questionable nature in the international community? If so, what constitutes the boundaries of acceptable collateral damage—and can cultural identity and heritage be considered under the definition of collateral damage, or does that merely apply to human lives and the ability to pursue the basic rights of life, such as breathing, shelter and eating? Is cultural identity quantified in the definitions that justify violent action and the situations for which war may be pursued? Or is it merely a secondary element to the harming of non-combatants? Yet, what if that cultural identity is the element which defines the non-combatant, that keeps the population of civilians alive, or is that merely overstating the relevance of cultural identity to a population of people, particularly in the era of modernization and globalization?

Is it better to whither slowly or expedite the demise in attempting to save what no longer exists?