Bethlehem University

So I'm actually in Turkey now, but I have several posts that I want to finish. And it just won't be the same thing when I get back. So I'll post about my trek through Europe later.

Today's post is about Bethlehem University. Somewhere in the middle of my less-than-wonderful Arabic experience at Hebrew University, I realized that I could waste my money going to classes in English that weren't going to count for anything, or I could spend my money on a bunch of random classes in different languages all over that wouldn't count for anything. Can you guess what I decided to do? The second semester of my time at Hebrew University I dropped to half-time, took only 3 classes (all in Hebrew) at the university, and then took a class at Bethlehem University, one at the Polis Institute, an intensive Hebrew course at Ulpan Or (more to come about that later), and in addition to my internship at ICCI, I travelled to several different places in the West Bank to conduct research.

It was, to say the least, much, much better than wasting my money on classes in English with Americans like I did my first semester.

Classes at Bethlehem University and classes at Hebrew University were completely different. The whole atmosphere was different. The only things that overlapped, I think, was the smoking and, well, probably the smoking.

While most students at Hebrew University are between the ages of 22-30 (because of the army, travel, and other things Israelis do before going to college), most students were 22 or younger at Bethlehem University. It actually reminded me a lot of the University of Jordan, but on a much smaller scale. Bethlehem University is a Catholic university, and the only Christian-run and -funded university in the West Bank. (But Muslims are welcome and make up more than 50% of the student body.) It is quite a small campus in Bethlehem, with several buildings and large outdoor areas where students can sit and chat.

Did I mention that in both the University of Jordan and Bethlehem University, the students like to sit and chat? Like for hours?

I decided to take a class here for several reasons. First of all, I wanted to improve my Arabic by listening to lectures in Arabic. Secondly, I was intensely curious to see how a Christian-Palestinian university and a Jewish-Israeli university differ. And third (and this is perhaps the most important), I wanted to be surrounded by students who like to sit and talk. Because I wasn't speaking Arabic enough every day. And all of those students were just sitting there, waiting for me to go up and talk to them.

My class was interesting enough--it was an introduction to Islam and Christianity, with half the class about Islam and taught by a Muslim teacher, while the other half on Christianity was taught by a Christian teacher. I mostly just sat in class and tried not to make waves. I was thrilled to realize halfway through the semester that I could finally understand what the teacher was saying, but I'm sure that had a lot more to do with subject matter than my Arabic ability improving! (The Christianity half was the second half...)

My classroom

However, what really changed my life and my experience this past year was what I did each Thursday and Friday before class. I bit the bullet and went out into the courtyards to talk to the female students sitting around chatting.

To understand what a feat this was for me, you have to understand how I felt about junior high. I hated junior high. Absolutely hated it. Walking down the halls, it was like everyone was judging you because you weren't popular enough or your clothes weren't fancy or you walked funny or you were just different. It seems like junior high is a time to fall down the stairs in the hall and forget where your classroom is and sit alone in a corner at lunchtime trying to eat as fast as you could. And the worst thing about junior high was the GOSSIP. Or maybe the fact that friends were your best friends one day and your worst enemies the next (and the next and the next).

Now, Arab universities and American junior highs are very different places. But when I walked around the campuses of the University of Jordan and Bethlehem University, I felt like I was in junior high again. Those same feelings of are people looking at me? Why is everyone staring at me? Can I just sit in the back of the classroom and not say anything? Where's a bathroom that I can hide in? Why do students sit around every door into the building? Can't I just walk for five minutes without having to walk past people? plagued me every day. Especially because I'm a foreigner and I walk around alone. I always felt like people were staring at me (not just at the university, but all the time actually!).

But, I moved to the West Bank so that I could improve my Arabic, and I had to talk to people if I wanted to improve my Arabic. So with a lot of help from Elad and my Arabic class, I would walk on campus, see the throngs of people sitting around talking, walk into a building and find a bathroom, take deep breaths and remind myself how much I needed to speak Arabic, go back outside, walk around campus looking for my next victims, and then walk up to them and strike.

"Hi, I'm Breanne and I'm studying Palestinian accents," I'd say (which is true). "Do you mind if I ask you some questions and record your answers?" They were almost all totally willing and excited to talk to me about Palestinian weddings, Islam, the university, the relationship between Muslims and Christians, etc. So I would talk to them for 15-30 minutes, recording the conversation, and then thank them and leave.

It sounds easy, but it was, for reasons beyond my understanding, incredibly difficult for me. Perhaps because I was in a position of disadvantage (because I don't speak Arabic perfectly and I was the foreigner and I was asking them for help), but it was really hard to do this each week. Plus, I had to find the perfect people to talk to: no less than two girls and no more than three (otherwise it's overwhelming to them or to me), no boys could be with the group, they couldn't be too close to the fountain or other loud noises, and as the summer wore on they had to be in the shade since it was way too hot in the sun.

And guess what? I only chickened out a couple of times. Most days that I went to class I found at least one group of girls to talk to. And it was always a good experience. You'd think that it would get easier because of all the good experiences I had, but guess what? It was still pretty hard.

The most important thing, however, was that I recorded lots of conversations in colloquial Arabic about lots and lots of different topics, and lots of the same topics, and it gave me the courage to work on my graduate research interviewing women from all over the West Bank.

And yep, my Arabic improved a lot. So I guess it was all worth it. And I'd probably even do it again if I had to!

My Grandma, My Hero

My grandma, Lois Tolley Campbell, was one tough woman. I will never forget the story my mom often told about her. A hardworking farm woman living in Rigby, Idaho, my grandma always had chores that had to be done, whether she felt like it or not. One day my mom, a young girl at the time, was playing out in the yard. When she heard that there had been a terrible accident and her mom's leg had been run over by the hay baler. She ran inside to see if she could do anything to help and was shocked to see her mother in the kitchen, her leg, swollen and black and purple with bruises, propped up on a chair while she made sandwiches for the men working outside. "Mom!" my mom said. "What are you doing?"

Lois looked up like it was the most obvious answer in the world: "I'm making sandwiches for the men." As in, how else will they eat if I don't make sandwiches? It's lunch time! I'm obviously not dead, so I'm well enough to keep working.

This was how Lois lived her life. I think she must have lived by the motto, "If there's work that needs to be done, do it. And if there isn't work that needs to be done, get off your couch and find something that needs to be done. And then do it." 

My mom often told me another story, usually in an effort to inspire me to do something hard. As a child, if she woke up in the morning and felt "too sick to go to school," her mom would tell her to go out and feed the chickens (my mother's least favorite chore, by the way). If she was well enough to feed the chickens, she was well enough to go to school. If, however, she passed out or threw up on the way, well, obviously she was too sick to go to school. There were very few times, if any, that my mom was actually too sick to feed the chickens. Once she got up and started working, she usually felt much better. And that's how we were raised, too, but minus the chickens (thank goodness!).

I remember many long weekend and summer trips up to grandma's house. She had one of the most amazing houses that a kid could ask for--a huge, impossible-to-open bathroom drawer full of old toys, a wood-burning stove to heat the house, the best dog in the world appropriately named Harry (Hairy?) Barker, a huge yard with trees to climb, a creepy old playhouse that was actually (from what I heard) the great-whoever grandparents who first lived on this property's house, an irrigation stream with a bridge over it in which we could float the boats from the toy drawer, a huge farm with 3-wheelers and old farm equipment and horses and huge stacks of hay bales to climb, a treehouse 10 minutes away from the house, a huge tire swing made from an old tractor tire, and a creepy cement basement that I was sure was full of rats. Every time my grandmother or mom asked me to go down there and get something out of the food storage, I tried desperately to find a way out of it. We thought we were brave if we went down more than the first three steps!

She had these awesome gadgets all around the house--a balanced metal fisherman-fish combo that would rock back and forth on the shelf, the yellow "people feeder" that you could put a penny in his hand, push down, and he would lift up his hand to his mouth and eat the penny, individual-serving Jello cups that we had almost every Sunday we were up there, a spinning easy chair that provided hours of entertainment to bored children, an ironing board that folded out from the wall, and a wood-burning stove that heated the house, making the room it was in 100 degrees while the rest of the house stayed freezing cold. I remember when my dad put a shower head in the bathtub, finally making showers possible, and when the electric heaters were installed around the house, making the wood-burning stove (and the prerequisite chopping of wood and hauling it to the house) no longer necessary. And I can't forget the "sugar drawer," another huge drawer filled with sugar and sugary treats--usually with about 5-6 different packages of cookies sitting on top of the sugar. And at Christmastime she would always make something like 2,000 different kinds of candies. At least that is what is what it seemed like to me. Chocolate covered cinnamon Santas, chocolate almond balls, caramel turtles, taffy, and her famous mints. Grandma's candy was one of the best things about Christmastime (in addition to the huge mini-village she had under the Christmas tree with the train that would go around and around!).

Seven years ago, Grandma Campbell decided to go on a mission with her sister, my great-aunt Clea, also a widow. They went to Nauvoo and spent a year telling visitors about the history of Nauvoo, the pioneers, and the truths of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. A few years later, I went on a mission. Missions are hard. Many days it was miserable. 100 degrees. 400 percent humidity. Wearing a skirt and riding a bike. Sweat dripping down my face and into my eyes. Riding a bike in the rain for half of the year. And some days I would think of my grandma. 82 years old on her mission, she had arthritis, a bad back, and the myriad of other problems that come with being 82 years old after a long life working on a farm. And I never, ever heard her complain about her mission. She loved her mission and the other missionaries she served with and talked about it all of the time. And when I remembered her joy in serving the Lord, it was a little easier to go out in the rain another day.

Grandma, on the left, with her sister Clea after one of the Nauvoo missionary performances

A few years ago my grandma moved into my parents' house--at first into a small room on the first floor, and then, when she came back from her mission, into a small apartment built by my dad that was attached to the house with her own entrance, a bedroom, livingroom, bathroom, and kitchen. Although it was hard for her to leave her house and her independence, she quickly made new friends in the ward, often attending the not-so-young single adult family home evenings, going to the temple, volunteering with the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers, working on family history, and of course keeping up with her mission friends. 

After several years of college busyness, I realized that in my hurry to save the world I still had a lot to learn from my grandma. The few times I escaped from my responsibilities and visited my parents, I would make sure to go in and talk to grandma. I thought my busyness was pretty important--I was finishing college, had several jobs, was working on important papers and projects, and was interested in saving the world. US international policy, starving children in Africa, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Puritan graveyard theology, John Donne's poetry, etc etc--these were all things that I was passionate about. And I would go in to talk to Grandma, and she would show me some hats that she had crocheted for some of her great-grandchildren, or tell me about this great book from Deseret Book that she had just read, or talk about a recent mission reunion. And my priorities in life would slowly fall back into place, helping me to see that a busy life does not always equal a successful life.

Grandma Campbell recently had a massive stroke that completely paralyzed the left side of her body. Several years before, both she and my grandpa had written living wills, asking that they never be kept alive by means of an IV administering food and drink. With the paralyzation as a result of the stroke, she was no longer to eat or drink. We knew that it would only be a few days until she would pass to the other side, so my parents brought her home from the hospital and waited. Every day I would call. "How's Grandma?" I would ask. And each time the answer was the same. "Well, she's still awake, still responsive, still able to hear and respond to what we say." Even in her final days Grandma Campbell accomplished the impossible. It really isn't possible for an 89-year-old woman to live for 12 days without food or water. But she didn't ask anyone if it was possible or not. When we were talking about why she was able to keep going for so long, my mom said that Grandma's body just didn't know how to stop working, because she'd never stopped in her life.

This past Wednesday, after slipping into a coma the day before, my grandma passed peacefully on to the adventures and responsibilities that awaited her in the next life. I'm sure it was a beautiful reunion on the other side as she was reunited with her husband and two of her sons that have passed on, along with many other relatives and friends that have been eagerly awaiting her arrival. 

Often living abroad has its challenges. In the past few years in my journeys abroad, I have missed many family events: 2 baptisms, 2 weddings, 6 births of nieces and nephews, and many other things. When grandma first had the stoke, I told my mom that I didn't want to miss a funeral just a few weeks before I came home. She said that I was going to have to deal with it. My mom always has practical answers like that. What I really didn't want to do was come home to a house without Grandma. But with several vital things to finish up the last week I'm here and 7 flights already booked, not to mention my more-than depleted budget of living on nothing for a year abroad without a job and the cost of changing my flight plans, going back isn't an option. It's heartbreaking to be so far away for illnesses and funerals of loved ones. However, I am buoyed up by the knowledge of the plan of salvation--knowing that because of temple covenants that grandma and grandpa made, that my parents made, and that I have made, I will see her again. And I look forward to that reunion.

Just before Paul the Apostle died, he wrote, "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." I think that verse of scripture describes my grandma perfectly. She fought a good fight, finished her course, and stayed faithful to the end. And when I die, I hope that those who knew me can say the same thing about me. Thank you, Grandma, for your faith and example to me. And hopefully there won't be any chickens to feed in heaven, although I'm sure there will be plenty of things to keep her busy there!

Hebrew University

 I'm sure that you have all been dying to know what life is like at Hebrew University. One of my friends emailed me a while ago and said that because of my post about Hebrew Ulpan, she pictured me in cramped hot classrooms with people putting their arms on my desk.

Thankfully, it wasn't that bad all year long, but my time at Hebrew University has certainly been interesting, to say the least.

The most important thing you need to know about Hebrew University is that there are cats everywhere. A long time ago there was a rat problem in Jerusalem. And what do you do about rat problems? You import cats. But what do you do about cat problems? That, my friends, was a problem that on one thought of the answer to. But at least half of the cats in the city, it seems like, have found a home in the university. They are EVERYWHERE--on the counters, sitting in the chairs, walking through the halls, sitting on the microwaves...

   

Some mornings when I get to the university, there are more cats there than people. Seriously. One day I saw a woman feeding the cats. No joke. And I wanted to run up and shout, Don't feed the cats! Don't you know that they have germs? And probably rabies? And worms? And they're filthy! They don't need any encouragement to stay at the university! But I couldn't figure out how to say all that in Hebrew, so I just kept walking.

I'm going to apologize right now for the bad picture quality. I took these pictures with my ipod, but they're better than nothing, right? Hebrew University isn't always filled with this creepy green light.

These next few pictures are of the Humanities building, where I had my Ulpan. It is seriously the most confusing building on campus (and that's saying a lot!). Each classroom and office is four numbers long--the first number is the section, the second number is the floor, and the third and fourth numbers are where it is supposedly located in relation to the other classrooms. Or is the first number the floor and the second number the section? I can't ever keep those two straight.

It sounds simple enough, but the 3-5 floors are a maze of offices and random sitting areas. I can never find the stairs down or up and often have to just take the elevator (which is not, contrary to common sense, next to the stairs--it's usually next to the bathrooms).

At the start of second semester, I was looking for my classes. I had decided to take classes only in Hebrew, so I was on main campus, with the rest of the Israelis. And guess what? I couldn't find my classrooms. I also couldn't find the administration offices. I finally found some office and asked, in my painfully inadequate Hebrew, where to find this classroom, feeling nervous the whole time that the woman would say, "What in the heck are you taking classes in Hebrew for? You can't even ask for directions!" But instead, she said, "That's not my department. You have to go to another floor and another hall and ask them."

Seriously, woman? Can't you just look it up on your computer? So I finally found the other office and asked them where this room number was. "It doesn't exist." Well, yes. I kind of figured that out, thanks. "What's the class?" I told them the teacher's name and they looked it up. "Oh, looks like you've got the room number backwards. It's actually 4273, not 3724."

ME? I've got the room number backward? No. Nope, that's exactly what they put on my schedule. So here I was being worried about my inadequate Hebrew, but feeling much better about myself because these people obviously have an inadequate system. I might not be able to ask for directions in Hebrew, but at least I can write my numbers the right way!!!

  

 

 
This is the inside of my classroom that I had during Ulpan. Imagine: 95 degrees, filled with students, stuffy room, neighbor's arm is on your desk, and you have to sit here for 5 hours a day learning Hebrew. Torture. Also, those desks aren't even big enough to hold a piece of paper, in case you were wondering. I guess they figure that we take notes on sticky notes?

These next few pictures are priceless. I guess someone had the brilliant idea to paint some of the pillars in the Humanities building, but then the project run out of money and they just decided to leave them like that. Or something.

 

  

 
What the weird. It's been like that all year.

My main complaint about Hebrew University is that they have RIDICULOUS library hours. Seriously, these people must never study. The library opens at 9 am every day (9 am!! Classes start at 8:30!), closes at 7:45 on Thursday nights, and is CLOSED Friday and Saturday. Ok. I can understand the library being closed on the Jewish Shabbat. The BYU library is closed on Sunday. But can you imagine if the BYU library was closed on Saturday and Sunday, and then closed at 7:45 on Friday nights? When would you ever do your research? And I think it closes at 10 pm or some other early hour the rest of the week.

The next few pictures will take you on a short tour of the north side of campus--where the international students' building, Rothberg, is located.

Looking east from Rothberg toward the Dead Sea.

The Hebrew University communications tower, visible from most parts of the city.

 
The view from Rothberg--an Arab neighborhood/village in East Jerusalem and a nice view of the separation wall.

Rothberg--the building for the international students.

It says "Shalom L-Israel" in Paleo-Hebrew.

 
The outside stairs of Rothberg.

Does that green door lead to some creepy garbage dumpster spot? Nope, that's an entrance into the building...the only one on this side!

What's inside those creepy doors (located inside the creepy green doors), the back of a kitchen?

Nope, guess it's just a hallway.

The Rothberg international building has its own library, although it's quite small. It has 5 computers and I am sitting on the far side of the room looking at the whole library.

Anyway, expect another post about Hebrew University. But now you at least have some context for my stories!

How Arabic Became the Best Thing in My Life

I never, ever thought I would write a post with this title. My previous experience with studying Arabic in the Middle East was quite a disaster, and I never, ever, ever in a million years wanted to hear Arabic or speak Arabic or even think about the Middle East. Even though I tried to be positive on my blog while I was in Jordan, the truth is that most days I would break down crying and go and hide in a corner of the university instead of going to class. I remember when my parents flew into Amman at the end of my program so I could give them a tour of Jordan, Israel, and the West Bank. Their flight was a little late, and as I stood there at the airport waiting for them, fearing that maybe they weren't really coming, and maybe I would never get home, and I just wanted out of this country (I stop thinking rationally when I'm waiting for late flights at the airport), I started weeping and cried until I saw them walk out of the terminal, relieved that I only had to stay for another week.

I was terrified to come back to the Middle East. I was terrified to touch the dead carcass of Arabic that I had so gladly left by the roadside on my way out of misery and anger. Because I not only had to touch that carcass, I had to resurrect it and live with it and somehow be happy about it.

When I first tried out the Arabic program at Hebrew University, I was very much less than happy with it. Taught in English, it was very much a focus on grammar. We opened up the dictionary every five minutes. The people in the highest level taught here couldn't form sentences in Arabic. And so, after fighting with the administration to get into the highest level, I dropped it after a couple of weeks. I didn't need any more incentives to be miserable in Arabic.

I hope you can understand at least a little bit of what I felt at this point. I had just spent a large amount of money to come to study in Jerusalem for a year because I felt very strongly that this was what God wanted me to do. I knew I needed to improve my Arabic. And now I had just walked away from my Arabic class (which was one of the best decisions I have ever made and the only regret that I had was that I had stayed there for so long). The only option I thought I had was studying on my own.

And then, I saw a sign at the university. "Learn Arabic in Arabic," it boasted. I emailed them the same day. Taught through the Polis Institute, a Catholic institution in Jerusalem, and one of several language options there, the Arabic program is taught completely in Arabic, patterned after the Hebrew Ulpan program here.

I can (and do) go on for hours about how amazing my Arabic teacher at Polis is. Although he is Jewish Israeli, he speaks Arabic like a native and knows so many random things about Palestinians and the West Bank. He learned Arabic by talking to the natives, all the time and all over, so he often tells about different accents all over the West Bank, Jerusalem, and even Jordan, Egypt, Syria, and Morocco. Somehow everything about Arabic is an absolute joy and delight to him, and he loves speaking and teaching Arabic. The best part is that he doesn't speak much English at all and all of the other students in the class are Israeli, so if he has to explain something in another language he will speak a few words in Hebrew, which helps both of my languages.

After half a semester in his class (I had joined halfway through), I was excited and thrilled about Arabic. I was starting to understand so much more colloquial (my MSA had been dominant when I was in Jordan), and I was stoked every time I heard something new so I could ask my teacher about it. I had this urge to travel all over the West Bank and see how they spoke in each city, and even politically frustrating things became interesting because I could talk about them in class (since it is very difficult for the other members of my class to enter many parts of the West Bank). I was on fire. I lived for Wednesdays--on difficult Fridays, or Mondays, or Sundays, I would think to myself, today was horrible...but just a few more days until Wednesday!

This was a huge transformation for me. Not only had I resurrected that Arabic carcass, but now it had become one of the most exciting things in my life. The dead carcass had become a beautiful steed that I could ride all over, exploring the wonderful world of Arabic. Maybe I have taken the metaphor a little far, but I hope you get the picture. :)

At the end of the semester, I said my goodbyes to everyone. They were continuing, but unfortunately I didn't have enough money to pay for another semester. I was in a very good place with my Arabic and felt confident that I could continue with the other classes and programs that I had in place.

A few days later, I was in Morocco. I was so excited about everything I heard--how they spoke, the words they used, how similar it was to Egyptian, and how I could tell my class and my teacher what I heard and saw in Morocco. I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn't in the class anymore. During my extensive time sitting on trains in Morocco, I stared out the window and thought about the next few months without my Arabic class. I suddenly realized that this Arabic class was seriously one of the best things that had ever happened to me and it would be absolutely ridiculous to give it up. Since I was less than happy with my classes at Hebrew University anyway, I decided to drop to half-time status and use some of the extra tuition for another semester at Polis.

The second semester of Arabic has been even better than the first. Somehow the excitement and joy that I get from my Arabic class on Wednesdays gives me the strength and the energy to do all sorts of difficult things during the rest of the week. Since my classmates have few opportunities to speak with Arabs in Arabic (due to the complicated political situation here), I offered to record conversations I had with girls at Bethlehem University and give them to Elad, my teacher, to share them with the class. I hate going up to random people and talking to them. Even though I served a mission. And even though I did it for 2 hours a day in Jordan. I still hate it. And I would go to the university before my class started, look around at all of the girls just sitting around chatting with each other, and go inside and sit in my classroom for 30 minutes instead of talking to them. I just couldn't find the motivation to do it.

Just because I thought this door was cool.

But after I offered to record conversations for my class, I had new inspiration. As I walked onto campus, I would think to myself, I have to talk to these girls. First of all it will help me improve my Arabic, but more importantly, I can give these recordings to my class! And when I would walk up to groups of chatting girls, introduce myself, and ask if I could record their answers to some of my questions about Palestinian weddings, funerals, the relationship between Muslims and Christians, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, etc, their willingness was, I'm sure, in part due to my excitement about talking with them and learning more Arabic. I listen to the recordings over and over on my ipod, gleaning new words and phrases and improving my Arabic exponentially. Recording the conversations was great both for my Arabic and for my graduate school research, since I now have all these language samples in colloquial Palestinian Arabic.

I recently started a project of interviewing women all over the West Bank for my MA research. And each time I go and record our interviews, I get excited about how much I am learning and what I can tell my class about what I heard and saw. Refugee camps, villages, big cities, checkpoints, areas of conflict, cultural experiences--they all have become exciting and inspiring. Even days without water in my apartment have become bearable.

I never thought I would be excited by Arabic. I definitely never thought it would be the best thing ever in my life. I am shocked and amazed by the transformation that my mind and my emotions, in addition to my language ability, has gone through. I am eternally indebted and grateful to my teacher Elad. And if I ever teach Arabic or any other teacher, I hope to be even half as inspiring to my students as he has been to me.