February 11, 2011

It is 8:00 a.m. on a dark Seattle Friday morning. As my recent wake-up ritual has mandated in the last two weeks, I reach out for my laptop before leaving bed or fueling with the first cup of coffee. I need to see the latest news and status updates on/from Egypt. Six windows of online newspapers, Al-Jazeera live (in Arabic and English), Facebook, Skype and chat pages pop up simultaneously on my blue notebook screen. Al-Jazeera live is broadcasting the thrilling echoes of millions from Tahrir Square. Big bold white prints in Arabic appear on the wide red banner that underlines the four video frames showing live images from Cairo and Alexandria. The first two words read: "Mubarak resigns." The news` anchor is silent and the screen vibrates loudly with the collective chants of the joyful people in both sites.  I rub my eyes to make myself believe the scenes and sounds I am seeing. My tongue reaches my upper lip leashing out a spontaneous Zaghrotta, while tears pour down quietly on my cheek. "Jum‘aa Mubaraka without Mubarak!" I whisper greeting myself. Even saying the words "Have a blessed Friday" tastes differently this morning. It is sweeter in the mouth. I touch the screen to capture the triumphant energy of the enormous masses of jubilant and proud Egyptians. I examine the few faces that make it into the close-up frame feeling a strong urge to hug everyone of them. I stare at their ecstatic expressions wishing I could be in Tahrir Square with them to celebrate this grand freedom festival. I could feel my heart beating with envy and affection. But there is also a very unsettling pang. This pang carries the pain of ancient yearning for freedom and the growing torment of alienation. I stare at the images of these victorious Egyptians in Tahrir Square and think about Rabin`s Square in downtown Tel-Aviv. I wish to own it like these Egyptians are owning Tahrir Square rightnow. The realization that I am excluded from owning Rabin`s Square is unbearable. In this historical moment Tahrir Square crystallizes all the moments of chronic alienation that I suffered from since I was born thirty-five years ago as a native-Palestinian in Israel. Never has my alienation and hunger for freedom felt so visceral. I could feel my heart trembling. "How does it feel to own your country?" I wonder as my melancholic gaze continues to watch the multitude of thrilled Egyptians.

February 1, 2011

It is 8:00 p.m. on Basel Street downtown Tel-Aviv. Traffic is moving slowly in front of the Egyptian Embassy building and an unusual number of police are present in the area. Several large flags of Palestine, Egypt and Tunisia are being waved high above the heads of an enthusiastic crowd screaming in Arabic. A young man wearing a long sleeved cream coat puts both palms around his mouth. He shouts in colloquial Palestinian Arabic into this improvised mega phone: "We won’t tire, youth of Palestine." The crowd repeats after him passionately. His slogan is followed with more cheers by other members of the group. They mention in their cheers "Nasser", "Amreeka, the head of the snake,"  "the call came from Jaffa, uprising and victory," "freedom and dignity," "revolution of the people," and "topple the regime." They also recite together in classical Arabic the poem "If the People Will to Live" by the renowned Tunisian poet Abu Al-Qasem Al-Shabi. The scene looks like a Palestinian parody of Adel Imam`s 2005 comedy El Safara Fi El Emara, expect that this time, the angry crowd is not Egyptians marching in the streets of Cairo calling for the evacuation of the Israeli Embassy from a residential Cairo high rise . The crowd in this scene is a group of young and elderly Palestinians, men and women, some wrapped in white and black Kuffiyye, some in head scarves, and many others in jeans, shirts and hoodies. They are protesting in solidarity with the Egyptian revolution. And unlike the film, the crowd in this scene is surrounded by Jewish-Israelis. Some are watching curiously, while others are observing with hostility by shouting at the protests: "Go to the Arab countries!" Others are merely standing on the opposite sidewalk monitoring with suspicion and irritation what is taking place in front of their eyes. A young Jewish man comments to the person filming the demonstration that Palestinians in Israel should be grateful for their good fortune. He thinks that, after all, they are enjoying the fruits of Israeli democracy, which according to him, allows them to protest freely. An elderly Jewish woman expresses her intense anger against the sight of what she calls "PLO flags" being waved in downtown Tel-Aviv. In a commanding tone she concludes: "Let them scream for a while and then they can go home." Two Palestinian women respond in assertive Hebrew: "This is our home." They continue to raise their hands pushing back the words of a Russian woman who screams at them "be proud at home. This is not your home." In one voice they challenge her: "You arrived from Russia only yesterday! When did you arrive from Russia?" I look at the brave faces of both women that seem to glow despite the dark angle from which the video is being shot. I replay the video, which was posted by a friend on Facebook, several times as if I were replying a favorite song. As if the steadfast looks in the eyes of both women against the urgent calls to get out of Tel-Aviv were a profound source of reassurance, comfort and belonging. And with each replay, the assertions of both women "this is home" echoes deeper as if they were taking me closer to resolve a question that I have been struggling with all my life: "Can Tel-Aviv be home?" I play the video one more time wanting to hold the hands of both women and walk with them to Rabin`s Square. I know how to get there.

There are different ways to get to Rabin`s Square from Basel Street. Iben Gevirol would be the shorter route to take, but the busy traffic and the many traffic lights can be a hassle. If we want to follow a more urban vibe and window-shopping track, we can come through the back way by heading West first to take Dizengoff South. There are many designers` shops and boutiques on both sides of the street and we might as well take a look as we walk to get some ideas for clothes that we would wear for a freedom party. After crossing Dizengoff, we will take Left on Ben Gurion Ave. and walk all the way up until we hit Rabin`s Square. As I navigate the road that would lead us to Rabin`s Square, I remember all the streets, ins-and outs and the back roads of Tel-Aviv and my intimate familiarity with this city that I frequented weekly since my childhood. I think about the location of Basel Street in relation to my family`s mapping of Tel-Aviv. Basel Street is to the northwest of Hahashmonaa`im Street where souq siddi as we used to call it stood until a few years ago. Before the construction of a new high rise in its center, Hahashmonaa`im Street was well known for the Central Farmers Market.  My late maternal grandfather and uncles used to work nightshifts as accountants and agricultural traders since they stopped being farmers after the confiscation of many farming lands in 1948. Basel Street is also northwest of Beit Alpha Street in the Industrial Area of central Tel-Aviv.  My father and brothers often go there to purchase high pressure pipes, O-rings and hydraulic equipments for the trucks they fix in our family`s mechanic shop. Basel Street is a few blocks East of Hayarqon Street, a little bit north of Tal Hotel where my cousin and many young women from my home town Al-Taybeh worked as waiters, custodians and maids. Because my cousin used to be late for work, the driver of the shuttle that came to pick him everyday at 5:30 a.m. would honk non-stop, disturbing the sleeping neighborhood. Hoping to seize a few hours more of sleep before it was time for school, I would (like all the children in the neighborhood) curse the driver, my cousin and the founder of Tal Hotel. The Hayarqon Street is also where my family passed every other Thursday night.  Shopping at Al-Carmel Market and hanging out afterwards at Yaffa`s beach was a family tradition. I was only ten years old when my mother told me and my siblings sitting in the backseat to stop making fun of the women who stood at the corner of Hayarqon Street and Gordon Street. They were wearing mini-skirts, heavy make up, high leather boots, and spandex leggings. From the front seat my mother instructed: "It is inappropriate to look at these bad women. Turn your heads to the other side. Look at the architecture of the hotels or the flags of the embassies along the street. To which country does this red and white flag belong? What is the capital of the country?"

I look at the video one more time thinking about the next time I will pass through Hayarqon Street. Between traffic lights, I will probably repeat the names of foreign countries as I learned from the flag jeopardy game that my mother created twenty five years ago to facilitate our drive along the street. The brave spirit of a Palestinian crowd waving the flag of Palestine in Basel Street, despite the discomfort it causes the inhabitants of Tel-Aviv who view them as "transient protestors," will guide me to my destination across the city.