If I were president....

Was the question I put to my students some time this week. Other topics have included the Wonders of the World, making up an Agatha Christie style murder and matching bizarre english idioms with their real meaning. I have no idea whether it holds any benefit for them, but it amuses me no end to watch them wrinkle their brows as they try to work out what exactly having a whale of a time entails. Whilst not preparing for classes (ever an uphill struggle against my inferrior intellect and apparent lack of ability to plan anything further ahead tha, er, tomorrow) I took advantage of the splendidly warm weather and journeyed to the boundaries of Dheishe across to Ertas, a small village which, as Dheisheh residents will readily tell you with an air of superiority, is full of stupid sub-species of the human race. Despite, or perhaps because of this, at the bottom of the hills on the edge of the village lies a peaceful little nunnery founded obviously by some 19th century south american priest who had nothing much better to do for whatever reason. It has a small but pleasant chapel and after we looked around, Helene (the french german girl researching memory of the nakba through 3 generations) and Ahmed S(no, NOT oud ahmed, another one with whom Helene is living, one of about 20 ahmeds I know here) and I headed to the local pools of Barak Suleiman. DAVID THE DUBLINER (catchy name) was with us at the nunnery, but sadly departed in a taxi back to the centre to prepare paint or whatever one does for children's activities and so did not see the joy of our next destination. But he was certainly there before. Oh yes most definitely. We both took a picture of a donkey.

The steep road down from the camp was something I was not looking forward to re-tracing, so I was strangely relieved when we headed further away from the camp along a road that felt extremely long due to the powerful sun beating down on my unassuming european complexion. We walked to Barak Suleiman, or Solomon's pools, essentially two really big swimming pools used by a sultan long ago to store water along a stream that runs between Bethlehem and Jerusalem. It turned out that Ahmed S (not oud player Ahmed, but Ahmed S with whose family Helene is living. Who is Helene? The french german girl doing her research on memory and the nakba in three generations, really do keep up) needn't have informed me about it being a popular picnic site as my powers of deduction worked that out for me. The place was deserted but the ground was strewn with litter and detritus and the vast pools that had been constructed by some sultan or other for the storage of water were surrounded by a high wire fence. It was a rather depressing place I thought to have a picnic, the whole air being somewhat of a post-apocalyptic disaster. However each to his own.

We then carried on up the path and found opposite the pools a seemingly half finished building that looked really impressive, though I had no idea what it was for. At the top of the road we turned right and discovered that the large modern structures we had been baffled by were actually part of a vast conference centre. Slightly more than somewhat intrigued we invited ourselves in to have a nosy round this spanking new place. Inside through the huge glass doors was a large airy atrium, and straight ahead was the piece de resistance. Oh yes....

A THEATRE!!!!!!!!!

All right, as stages go, twas in fact far too large to use realistically for a proper play, but perfect for dances, musical and that sort of thing. And frankly a hall like this ws not the most obvious thing one expects to find next to old stagnant pools garnished with plastic bags. Slightly overwhelmed, helene and I watched Ahmed S give a speech from the podium (he really has an uncanny resemblance to Barak Obama) before being told by one of the curators that we had overstayed our welcome.

Last week was pretty dicey politically due to the wisdom of the Israeli Government in adding the tomb of Rachel and the Ibrahim mosque in Hebron to their list of heritage sights. There was a strike and many problems in Hebron itself and Jerusalem aswell. Helene and I took this opportunity to wander round a completely abandoned bethlehem. Very very quiet. It is the latest in an unending war of provocation on Israel's part, poking and poking whilst eating away slowly at the land and culture of the West Bank through settlements and acts like it. That night Israeli soldiers entered Dheisheh camp. They choose around three o'clock in the morning because that is when they know that most people will be asleep, so as to cause as much disruption as possible. The next day people at the centre were joking about it. i suppose that is all you can do when your hands are tied as much as they are here. Palestine is not even permitted its own army to defend itslelf from the Israelis who can come and go as they please. It is a cowardly country that represses a people that have only stones and martyrdom to fight back with. Talks of a third intifada are rife, even though the last one caused so much loss of life, as attested by the posters and murals on the walls of the camps. Most of the people I speak to say they are not ready for another intifada and all its destruction, but they feel frustrated with stagnant politics which is completely reliant on Israel wanting to come to an agreement, which it is of course not in its interest to do. As long as Israel can keep building slowly on the west bank thereby taking more and more land, control Palestine and protect itself sufficiently from any violence thanks to generous financial assistance from the West (alas the US is the big problem here) it does not need a settlement.

We also visited the al-Rowwad centre in nearby Aida camp. This centre seem smaller than phoenix but even more vibrant, with a full time media team that work on films and documentaries, a recording room, a thriving theatre group and a whole section for women's embroidery which they then sell on for the women to help get extra money to support their families. It was very impressive , especially when speaking to the director about the vision of 'beautiful resistance.' It is this cultural flourishing and cohesion that strengthens the Palestinian community in the face of occupation. By forgetting their heritage and culture, Israel wins. The main wall of the camp is painted with murals depicting each of the original villages that the aida population orginated from. Palestine is not going to forget any time soon.

During my time here I fear i have spent at least a week addicted to that singular thing - the arab very sweet and very milky nescafe. Shocked enough that I had actually grown to like the taste of this thing I was alarmed When i found myself actively making one for the third time in a day. Panicked by this inadvertant addiction (addict is mudmin in arabic) I swore not to touch the stuff for at least, well, maybe a day. But on leaving the coffee I re-addicted myself to tea with marmia in it. I think there is no beating this thing.

On the gastronomic front I found myself shamefully fitting the stereotype of a palestinian house bound woman, preparing vast amounts of tabbouleh for a hoard of nurses staying in the centre whilst they do a three day course at the lunatic asylum down the road who expressed an interest. Even though they all knew what I was going to do, I got no help from anyone except Helene, even though they all ate it with alacrity. and washing up? The final straw came next day when I entered the kitchen to find Um Rami on the cusp of eating a bowlful of the stuff. However, upon taking one mouthful she contorted her expression into a hideous grimace, spat out the offending salad and hastily flung the rest into the bin saying that one should NEVER use Parsley in tabbouleh because it gets stuck in your throat (I assume that's what she meant by making choking sounds and grabbing her neck with both hands, either that or she thought I was trying to poison her) and instead use lettuce. Seeing as I thought that parsley was in fact THE most important ingredient in tabbouleh, her criticism threw me into confusion and general state of questioning any convictions I might have about the culinary world. does macaroni cheese even contain cheese? The arab attitude to food here is that only arab food is good. All the people who I know have been to france said that they found the food disgusting. I almost did an Abu Rami style choke when I heard them condemn the food of France, but it just seems to be the way here. Only sometimes will they venture away from what they know, and muttering under my breath and determindedly munching my own tabbouleh with a resolute chomp I swore revenge.

Another gastronomic adventure occurred when out of the blue I got a random call from Ahmed saying that we were going out. I walked out to meet him, only to be pushed into a small pick up truck, with plenty of space in the back for corpses. Without being told anything we headed out of the camp. I asked Ahmed where we were going, and he said bethlehem, just as we turned the opposite way. One of the guys in the van reminded me of the photo he had shown me a few days ago with him and some mates eating sheep's head, then pointed out that every one of them was present with me in the truck. After several stops and chats with random men, who I had the distinct feeling were discussing the best way to cook me, we arrived at what they claimed was a bakers. Inside there was the trappings of a baker's - a little bread and a large mixing device. What was also present was a huge oven, remiscent of a crematorium and certainly large enough for a person and a strange wooden crate of sawdust that smelled of apples. Amongst the sawdust were eggs, warm as if they were in an incubation chamber and I wondered if they were trying to breed dinosaurs in some form of strange rudimentary arab take on Jurassic park. My thoughts flitted from the idea of them forcing me to eat sheep's head straight to cannibalism, and then, as we drove away, me still intact in the back, I was feeling relieved until the driver started careering around the road in a frenzied attempt to hit one of the ferral dogs. I sincerely hoped the space in the van was not for collecting road kill.