Friday, March 30, 2012

Busy People Always Have Something To Do

I'm sure that all of you have noticed my recent lack of blog posts. It certainly isn't because I have nothing to blog about...oh no. I actually have more blogs to write than days I have left before I go back to the States. It's just because I'm so dang busy!

Busy with what, I'm sure you're all wondering. How busy can one person be? After all, none of my classes or life here even counts for anything in the real world!

So I thought I'd tell you.

September-October: This was my least busy time here. I was in class 5 hours a day, Sunday-Thursday, in September. I went to church once a week. I started teaching Chinese daily. I moved four times. I started a kickboxing class. I went hiking a couple of times. I explored Jerusalem a bit. Spent Rosh Hashanah with an Israeli family. Had a month-long dogsitting stint.

November-February: Classes started at the university. I was taking Hebrew, Arabic, two classes on politics, and started an 8 hour/week internship (free labor!!). I battled for more than a week with the university about my Arabic level. Won. Decided not to take the class anyway. Still teaching Chinese 4 days a week. Attending church twice, sometimes 3x a week. Started an Arabic class in the city, 3 hours each Wednesday night. Moved to Bethlehem. Commute time started taking 2.5-4 hours a day. Church callings in 3 different cities, two different languages. Visiting teaching in two different cities--I'm pretty sure we went more than once a week in order to get everyone in. Decided that crossing a checkpoint every day is a big pain.

February-March: The night I finished my last final I took a plane out for Spain. Spent a week in Spain at the temple, took a stint down to Morocco, almost missed my flight back. The day after I got back to Jerusalem, my sister came for a 9 day visit. We went all over Israel and the West Bank. The week after she left my friend Noelle came to visit. A week later, when she flew home, classes had already started.

March-June: I am taking 3 classes at Hebrew University. In Hebrew. One class at Bethlehem University. In Arabic. One Arabic class in Jerusalem (not at a university). One 2-week intensive Hebrew class during Passover break (not at a university). Teaching Chinese once a week. 2 hour Arabic lesson with a private tutor once a week. Commute still takes 2.5-4 hours a day (including checkpoint crossing time). Still visiting teaching in 2 different cities with several different companions. I recently got released from one of my church callings but still attend church twice a week. Still working 8 hours a week at my internship (more free labor!). Starting a project of interviewing women in the West Bank. Might use it for a future thesis or book. Tutoring students in an intensive Arabic program at Hebrew University once a week.

This might explain why I fell asleep last night at 7:30 pm and woke up at 8:30 am the next morning, still feeling like I had been run over by a truck...

The sunglasses help hide the bags under my eyes...

Monday, March 26, 2012

What's In A Name?

I know I still have several posts from Spain, Morocco, and Losaunne and Noelle's visit, but I was talking to my sister yesterday about the name of the place where I live/study and I thought it would be a helpful blog post.

This Sunday in the Bethlehem branch/group (more about that to come later), a letter from the First Presidency was read in sacrament meeting stating that the name of our district had been changed from the "Israel District" to the "Jerusalem District." The day before, I was visiting teaching at another West Bank member's house when we heard the announcement (via a phone call from another West Bank member).  When we heard the announcement, we were shocked and delighted. But why? Name changes don't usually elicit such rejoicing, especially since it is just the name of a district of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

But like everything else in Israel/Palestine, even names are complicated. Take the name of the place in which I live, for example. Where do you think I live? My mom recently made clocks for the different time zones of her children and put the names of the places we live on them: Utah, Texas, and Israel. I didn't tell her this (but I guess she'll know now!!) because she had already made the clock, but I don't actually live in Israeli territory, at least not according to the US government (as well as other countries and organizations). (It's ok, Mom, I still live in the same time zone :)

For those who don't know, Israel/Palestine is split politically, culturally, and ethnically. While many countries around the world have a large minority population that leads to political divisions, Israel/Palestine is different because in 1949 plans were drawn up that effectively split the country/territory (which had been under British Mandate before), giving the Israeli government control outside of the green line, the Jordanian government control inside of the green line/West Bank (it's called the West Bank because it's on the west bank of Jordan), and the Egyptian government/military somewhat in control of the Gaza strip (working with a Palestinian government there).

During the Six Day War in 1967, Israel took back the Gaza Strip and the Sinai Peninsula, the West Bank and East Jerusalem (Jerusalem had been divided in half by the green line), and the Golan Heights. Several UN resolutions, the Oslo Accords, and numerous political and diplomatic decisions later (if you want a brief overview, I suggest you read the Wikipedia article about the West Bank), the West Bank is now divided into three sections: Area C (under complete Israeli control and administration, meaning that if the Palestinians who live in Area C want to build onto their house or dig a well or anything they have to get permission from the Israeli army; Israelis are also allowed to travel freely in Area C), Area B (Israeli military control and Palestinian civil control), and Area A (full Palestinian Authority control; Israelis are forbidden to enter). I live in Area A, but just a 5 minute drive from my home to the east Area A ends and Area C begins.


So what is the legal status of the West Bank and East Jerusalem? Since 1979, the UN, the US, the EU, and other international organizations have referred to the West Bank and East Jerusalem as Palestinian territory occupied by Israel. Israel considers Jerusalem its capital, but most embassies (including the US) are located in Tel Aviv, the internationally recognized capital of Israel (because of the disputed status of Jerusalem). Jerusalem is its own entity, according to the US government, and is written "Jerusalem" on their documents and not "Jerusalem, Israel." 

So when I say where I study, I say Jerusalem. Where do I live? The West Bank, Beit Sahour, a little town near Bethlehem. I talk about the West Bank, Palestinian territory, Israeli territory, Jerusalem, the Gaza Strip, etc, but the area is complicated enough to make it impossible to assign just one name to it.

So what does all of this have to do with the Bethlehem church group and renaming the district? Well, there are about 28 people from the Bethlehem "group" (not quite a branch, but not part of any other branch--this includes children and family members who are not baptized but who attend church with their baptized spouse) that live in the West Bank. There are branches of the church in Jerusalem, Tel-Aviv, and Tiberias. These four areas constitute the district. And the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve Apostles cares enough about us to recognize the fact that not all of the members and not all of the branches are in Israeli territory. And the most neutral term that can describe us is the "Jerusalem District": even though it's not just Jerusalem members who are in the district, and not even all of the members of the district can go to Jerusalem, the status of the city is complicated and divided, just like everything else here, and therefore is pretty representative of the situation here.

So what's in a name? Apparently, despite what Shakespeare thinks, a name means quite a bit, at least here in the Middle East. And I hope you enjoyed this little history lesson.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

The Vacation's Over


Well, the vacation's over. After my trip to Spain and Morocco, my sister came and visited. And a few days after she left, my friend Noelle came for a week. But I guess the vacation's over--classes have started again, and I'm not taking any classes in English. Yep, they're all in either Hebrew or Arabic. I figure I learn best through the "swim or drown" method.

Let's hope I don't drown...

I have more posts about Spain and of course some from Losaunne and Noelle's visits. Hopefully those will come soon. For now, this picture just makes me want to say, peace out.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Life as a Lone Traveller

A few weeks ago I took a trip to Spain and Morocco. Alone. The thought of travelling alone in two countries I had never been before was a bit terrifying at first. But then a week before I left I was talking to my mother on Skype, and I realized, "I live in the West Bank. ALONE. I always travel alone. I think I'll be ok."

However, travelling alone always brings with it the hilarious, the creepy, and the wow-these-people-are-so-nice-did-they-really-just-go-out-of-their-way-to-help-me. So here you are: life as a lone traveller in Spain and Morocco.


*First, you have to know that I speak very little Spanish. Very, very little. I can count to ten, nod my head yes or no, and say tu hable Ingles?" I think we've seen in a previous post, however, that my Spanish skills were unfortunately more useful than my English, Arabic, Chinese, or Hebrew skills in Spain. One day I was trying to find an internet cafe. I was planning on leaving for Morocco the next day and I wanted to compare flight and plane prices, connect with my friends in Casablanca about church on Sunday, and try and find a place to stay. Basically, I was desperate for internet. I was staying in the Madrid temple's patron housing, so I asked the person at the front desk (who, thankfully, spoke excellent English) where an internet cafe was. He looked up the closest ones on his phone, printed me off a map, and wished me luck. Unfortunately, I needed more than luck (I realized several hours later that he had given me the wrong map!)--I needed a miracle. After getting off at two different metro stops and consulting my map for at least 20 minutes to try and figure out where I was, I finally walked into a pharmacy. Surely pharmacists speak English, as the medical world converses in English, I thought to myself. "Tu hable Ingles?" I asked. No. Not at all. Not even enough to understand "What's the name of this street? Nombre? Calle?" The pharmacist wanted so badly to help that she kept speaking to me rapidly in Spanish and gesturing at the map while I looked at her helplessly. Finally she turned to one of the several customers that had accumulated since I had entered the store. "Excuse me," she asked in Spanish, "do any of you speak English?" One of them did and, as everyone in the store looked on encouragingly, translated the pharmacist's directions: "This is the wrong metro stop. You need to get back on the metro and go in the opposite direction." (It was at this point that I realized the map was wrong.) "Gracias," I said as I left the store. Thank you, thank you, thank you for wanting to help enough to ask your other customers to translate, I thought as I walked back toward the metro. (By the way, after another hour of searching, I discovered that the internet cafe had closed. Fail.)

*I took a day trip to Toledo to visit the Christian/Muslim/Jewish sites there and see a place where, at one time, all of them had lived together in a relative peace. While I was there I stopped in at the Santa Maria la Blanca synagogue, which was, according to my Triposo ipod app, "constructed under the Christian Kingdom of Castile by Islamic architects for Jewish use" and is owned and preserved by the Catholic church. I was a little overwhelmed at the mix of religion, architecture, and tradition, and stopped by the table of the nun who was selling some of the art on display in the former synagogue. "I live here," I said, pointing at a picture of Jerusalem. "You do?" she asked excitedly and then, in Hebrew, "Do you speak Hebrew?" Shocked, I asked her why a Catholic nun in Spain would speak Hebrew. "Our order's founder was born in Israel...he converted to Christianity and started this order. We want to be a bridge between the Jewish and Christian communities, so he is teaching us Hebrew and we celebrate all the Jewish holidays here, in celebrations that are open to the public." And this, my friends, is the odd story of a Mormon girl from Utah and a Catholic nun conversing in Hebrew in the middle of Spain.

 
*A little later in the day, I stopped by the mosque of Cristo de la Luz in Toledo, which is one of the oldest mosques in Europe (and which was later converted into a cathedral). After examining the Arabic graffiti on the walls, I sat in a corner to give my feet a rest for a minute. "I wonder what the Arabic graffiti says," I heard someone say IN ENGLISH. Finally, someone I could understand! "It says God is the merciful one," I offered. Turns out this family was from Toledo, Ohio, just visiting their daughter who was studying in Switzerland and taking a side trip to the other Toledo. OHIO. People, this family was from the very state that I am planning on moving to next year, and their daughter has some good friends at THE Ohio State University. The only people who speak English in the whole town, and they're from Ohio.


*A lot of my stories are from Toledo. I got on a bus to go back to the train station, and since the sun had gone down and it was dark I got a little disoriented. I was trying to figure out which stop to get off at, and I looked out the window and saw a train. But just as I was about to get off, I saw a bridge and remembered that we had passed over a bridge just after the train station, so I settled back in my seat, deciding that maybe the train was up the tracks a little way instead of sitting at the station. And then suddenly, before the bus driver could close the doors (we were 2 bus stops past where I had seen the train by now), a woman came up to me and started speaking excitedly in Spanish. Seeing that I understood nothing, she finally said, "Train?" When I said "si, si," she shouted to the bus driver to reopen the doors and, pointing back the way we had come, said, "Train, train." I got off and yep, sure enough, the train I had seen was indeed sitting at the station. I have no idea how that woman knew I wanted to go to the train station, but I thank her and divine intervention for helping me get off when I did.

*After several days in Spain, I attended one last temple session before going to Madrid. Spain was wonderful and the temple was spectacular, but I really missed speaking to people in English. Or even Arabic or Chinese or Hebrew. Basically I missed understanding and being understood by people. Friday evening, as I was at the temple, one of the workers started speaking to me in (native) English. Turns out she and her husband were from KAYSVILLE, Utah and were missionaries at the Madrid temple. People. My PARENTS live in Kaysville. It just happened that I ran into one of the only English speakers in the temple, and it just happened that she was from the same small city in Utah that my parents live in. It was a huge sign to me that God loves me and is very aware of me.

 
*I took a train from Madrid to Algeciras, where I wanted to catch a bus to Tarifa and then take a ferry to the port in Tangier. However, when I got to the bus station, no one could confirm my guidebook's directive that there was actually a port in Tarifa and ferries actually did depart from there to get to Tangier. When the bus came, I tried to ask the driver. "Tarifa? Ferry in Tarifa? Ferry to Tangier?" I tried. He finally nodded, and I knew that at least this bus was going to Tarifa, if nothing else! But then as I was walking to the back of the bus a Moroccan woman asked me, "Are you taking the ferry to Tangier from Tarifa? My husband and I are also taking the ferry...when we get to Tarifa maybe we can split a taxi to get to the port." And it was a good thing that I had them to follow, because the bus dropped us off almost a mile from the port and there were no taxis. Luckily I had them to follow, rolling our suitcases all the way!

*I have lived in the Middle East for more than 14 months now, and I have been all over Egypt, Jordan, and the West Bank. I thought I was used to the cat calls and harassment that girls with white skin, red hair, and blue eyes experience in the Middle East. But dang, the men in Morocco were like nothing I have ever encountered. I got in to Rabat around 10 at night and got off the train to try and find my hotel. Within seconds of leaving the train station, young shabab (young men between the ages of 14-28) surrounded me. Some of them offered to help me pull my one small piece of luggage, others of them told me I was beautiful in French, Arabic, and English, and one of them was so persistent that he followed me to my hotel (a mere block and a half away from the train station, thankfully!). "Excuse me," he said, "Have I seen you before?" "No," I stated emphatically. "No really, I think I know you. Didn't I meet you at..." he left it hanging and I waited, expectantly, to see where he thought he knew me from. "Nope," I stated, knowing full well that we had never met before. As I got to my hotel door, he said, "What I really mean is, will you go out for coffee with me?" Guys, I've never seen the men so over-the-top pushy. I probably could have gotten married within the hour if I wanted to! I'm pretty sure in 3 days in Morocco I was asked on more dates than I had in 6 years at BYU. And no, this is not a reflection on my pathetic social life in college. :)

*I stayed in this totally sketch hotel in Rabat. It was only 15 dollars a night for a private room with a shower in the room (although there were only two toilets per floor, in separate rooms in the hall). But hey, it was only a block and a half from the train station, it was super cheap, and I didn't have to go wandering far in the streets of Morocco to find a hotel (and be attacked by the shabab all along the way). I had absolutely no desire to touch anything on the bed or the floor, though, so I pulled out a sheet I had brought for this very purpose and rolled up in it before I got on the bed, moving the pillow out of the way and instead sleeping on my dirty laundry bag. It was freezing in the room, though, so I put on several shirts from my dirty clothes pile and tried not to die in my thin sheet. I woke up several times in the middle of the night, certain that I would freeze to death, but I finally got up at 6, grateful to have survived the night (and hopeful that I hadn't contracted any worms or diseases from the room). I realized that I had forgotten my flip flops, but there was no way I was going to stand barefoot on that shower floor. I put a plastic bag on the floor, turned on the water, and tried to step in. BAM. Naturally sloped shower floor + wet plastic bag + mid-calf-high step into the shower = big bruise on my calf from falling. Thankfully I didn't touch the floor and the water was even warm.


When I saw the room I thought to myself, "My father would die before staying at this hotel. But hey. $15 a night."

*The next morning, after my freezing night at the hotel, I was supposed to meet my friends Brooke and Max at the train station, where they would take me to church. I was super excited to go to church in Morocco, but even more I think I was excited to see someone I knew and speak English. Imagine my dismay when they didn't show up at the appointed time. 8:20 came and went. 8:30. 8:40. I'm pretty sure she said church starts at 9...did I miss them? Did they forget about me? Did they get in an accident? Did Brooke send me an email changing the plan and I just didn't get it? Before I panicked, I realized I had Brooke's number. But every pay phone was phone-card only, not cash. I finally walked up to a group of chatty girls. "Excuse me," I asked in Arabic. "Do you know where there are pay phones where you can use cash and not a card?" "Just use my phone," one of the girls said, in English. "Welcome to Morocco!" I called twice to no avail. And then the nice girl tried to call. "It says this is an invalid number," she said. Invalid number? Can I panic yet? I don't have the address of the church...I don't even have Max's number! I thought to myself. Trying not to cry (it had been a long night, ok?!), I walked back in the train station to try and find another phone. The most beautiful thing I have ever heard was someone shouting "Breanne!" as I wandered through the station. Turns out there are two train stations in Rabat, and Brooke and Max had been waiting at the other one. I almost kissed them, I was so happy to not be abandoned at a train station in Morocco! And church was wonderful.

*And finally, although I had many, many more adventures, I will end with this one (although my layover in Rome and a crazy experience on the train in Morocco deserve their own posts, which are forthcoming). The train stations in Morocco are kind of wild. Some of them are in the middle of big cities, and some of them are in the middle of nowhere. Literally. After my stint in Rabat, I took the train to Assilah. By the time we got there, it was after dark. I got off the train and saw everyone walking to the edge of the platform and disappearing into the darkness. My guidebook said that you had to walk a few kilometers from the train station to the town, so I grabbed my suitcase and walked off into the darkness. Wanting to make sure I was walking the right way, however, I turned back and asked an older woman (in Arabic), "Is this the way to get to Assilah?" And just like everyone else in Morocco, she responded to me in French. "Please, speak Arabic," I said. "I don't speak French." "Arabic? You speak Arabic? Come. Come with me. My son is waiting on the road. You can ride with us. Where do you need to go?" They drove me right to my hotel (which was much less sketch than my one the night before and only $10 a night, by the way) and, when I asked if I could pay, she just laughed and closed the door. Thank you, dear woman, for giving me a ride so I didn't have to walk down a dark highway alone! (But the next morning, when I was walking back to the train station and two shabab asked me if I wanted a ride, I politely said no. Don't worry, I only take rides if there is a woman in the car!)

The Assilah train station, situated in the middle of nowhere.

So that's it, my friends. Travelling alone certainly gave me some crazy stories, but above all, I realized that people are so willing to help. So, anybody want to join me on my next adventure?

*PS (can I put a PS on a blog post?): my sister just reminded me that I forgot to tell the story of when I pretended I could only speak Chinese. I was getting pretty sick of people harassing me in English, French, and Spanish. When I got to Assilah, I went for a walk around the town, but it was dark and as has been seen, the creepers come out in the dark. I was walking around the Old City, just heading back go my hotel, and suddenly I see this guy out of the corner of my eye making a beeline for me and speaking at me in English. I shook my head. "我不會將," I said in Chinese. I don't speak that language. He tried Spanish and French. I kept shaking my head and repeating in Chinese, "I don't speak that." BAM. Less than 15 seconds of refusing in Chinese, and he walked away. Success. I think I'm safe with Chinese as my "native" language all over the Middle East...

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Assilah, Morocco

After two very long posts, I think a post of pictures is in order. I spent one of my nights in Morocco in Assilah, an enchanting little town on the coast. I'll save the crazy stories that happened on the way to Assilah for another post, but naturally as a single foreign female travelling alone in Morocco I ran into some interesting situations. But I survived, no worse for the wear, and I even once pretended I spoke nothing but Chinese to get this guy to leave me alone. It worked. I love Chinese!

Anyway, for some reason Assilah has these beautiful paintings by famous (?) artists all over their buildings and houses. In addition to that, their doors are also a work of art. If you don't like looking at lots and lots of pictures of doors and locks, skip this post.









(It says "There is no god but God" in Arabic)














The men wore these long hooded cloaky things, and every time I glanced over I got creeped out and thought "KKK! Oh wait. Just Berber."









Hey, I guess I'm not the only one in these parts that knows Chinese...












It was literally right next to the ocean. And there was this crazy moss-like substance all over the rocks. I've never seen such awesome moss before--blue, green, orange, white, and black. It was pretty sweet.


Kind of looks like snow...but it's moss!

Three kinds of vehicles in Assilah: trucks, horse-drawn carts, and people.

Case in point.