On numbers

I have heard quite a bit of snarky chatter on the subject of the 1,027 Palestinian prisoners being traded for Gilad Shalit.

If you are reading this, I know that this story has already been hemmed or patched or molded to fit into your preexisting political worldview. Be it about the bullying brutality of Hamas, the relative value of human life based on nationality or what have you, you have already decided what this story means. I don't intend to change your mind.

Here is what it means to me:

Israelis are people. Palestinians are numbers. I have noticed this (and written indignant research papers about it) since I was old enough to know why it mattered. Israelis have names and grieving families to be interviewed. Palestinians are body counts, anonymous numbers without background story.

This is not the whole truth; occasionally Palestinians are names, particularly when they are terrorists. Occasionally Palestinians are photos, particularly when they are carrying weapons or when they are old women grieving and surrounded by rubble.

You will hear (or, rather, I have heard) people saying that Israel has released one thousand terrorists, bombers who target night clubs and public busses, just to save one boy. Because they understand the value of life.

What you will not hear are many of the names of these thousand, or that many of them were arrested as boys for throwing stones at tanks, that many of them were arrested for their political activities, that many of them have been in jail, cut off just like Shalit, with grieving families at home given no assurance if they live at all. You will not hear that, unlike Shalit, they were not wearing military uniforms when they were taken, they were often not even holding guns. Many were held without charges. Many were tried without a right to defend themselves.

In the weeks to come, you will hear one name and one number. These 1027 are not just numbers. They have names as well. Not just the infamous ones, all of them. We will never know their stories the way we have been told Shalit's.

I can only think of all 1028 of them as victims of this occupation. 

Christian Fernandez

"Because of his age, Fernandez will not face the death penalty."

His age, in case you are not going to read the entire article, is 12.

A 12 year old, facing life in prison without parole, charged as an adult. A 12-year old born to a 12-year old mother (no, I'm not joking) who watched his abusive stepfather commit suicide rather than be taken into custody for abusing him.

This is the "man" they are charging with the death of his 2 year old brother, who might have been saved had his mother not waited 4 hours to seek medical attention after returning home to find him unconscious. 

Beating your 2 year old little brother is not ok, it's certainly a criminal act but it is not first degree murder. Christian Fernandez is not an adult and should not be tried as one. 

This is just wrong. Also it's escaping the notice of the national media entirely so I'm blogging about it. Tell your friends. Post on facebook. Please sign the petition (useful or not it's worth a try:)

http://www.change.org/petitions/reverse-decision-to-try-12-yo-cristian-fernandez-as-an-adult?utm_medium=email&utm_source=action_alert&utm_source=action_alert&utm_medium=email&alert_id=EUajlIhDIm_PuvYQzxVdS

Are we happy?

I don't think it is a particularly unusual thing to notice, when travelling abroad and particularly to countries that are poorer than the United States, how much happier much of the rest of the world seems. I think many travelers (and particularly travel writers) arrive at this conclusion as though it is their own precious jewel of revelation, carefully mined from the dark earth of their own experience. And maybe it is, but I've heard it too often to think that I'm the first person who noticed it. But notice it I did. And bowl me over, it did. Even as I went into my travels prepared by so many writers to be enlightened by the simplicity of life in poor countries and the happiness such living brings, I was SHOCKED (in a distinctly all-caps way) by how happy people seem.

Happy in places without running water or electricity. Happy without fancy restaurants or TV or shopping malls or dentists. Happy even though they lose children and loved ones to completely treatable diseases. Happy doesn't even cover it.

I'm not being didactic here. I'm not preaching that we should give up all modern conveniences (or dentists) or that living in mud huts will make every one happier. But the biggest single shock I faced upon my return to America was not cars or English or grocery stores (though all three were confusing and kind of stressful) but the fact that every one seemed to be in such a bad mood. Grumpy. Stressed out. Impatient. These are things I often was (and still often am) but things I no longer see as a necessary part of my life.

So as I sit in Starbucks waiting for my mom to finish up at the dentist so we can go to the mall and go shopping, I have to wonder at the people around me. Are any of them happy? They don't smile. Most look bored, a few look angry, two are gossiping loudly and expressing their disapproval of another woman's life choices and despite the expensive clothes, the impeccable dental work and the abundance of highlighted hair, I have to say that I don't see a whole lot of beauty- I see instead the exhaustion of trying to appear beautiful, the high-strung desperation and even fear of youth slipping through fingers that were never meant to contain it.

I don't think Americans are happy. I don't think we know what makes us happy. I don't know that I do, either, but I am grateful for at least having learned that stressing about time, appearance, money or status doesn't make me happy, has and will never make me happy. I'm not going to do it any more. Or, I should say I'm going to try not to do it any more. Some habits can't be helped and I have spent too long conditioned to care about these things. Lately whenever I find myself getting consumed by stress I close my eyes and think about my trip and I just say "ok." This will happen. Or this will not happen. I have time for this. Or I don't. I care about this. Or I don't. Laisa Muskela.

I know that much of the world aspires to be more like this- Rich. Developed. Powerful. Globally significant. I'm not one to credibly say what is best for any one, but I hope that we figure out what makes us happy and I hope that other societies aren't so quick to emulate what we have that they lose sight of their own value, or the drawbacks of our own system.

I don't know what the answer is- is it possible to have a society where people don't die easily of preventable diseases without a Starbucks on every corner? I hope so. 

Don't worry-

I didn't get brave.

I didn't tell you that I get that tingling feeling every time you look at me or that sometimes the air goes out of the room when you walk in it.

I didn't tell you that you make me calmer and braver and more hopeful.

(I did cry, a little.)

I don't know what happens next. I suppose I am harboring two fugitive feelings: hope that it will change at all and fear that it will only change for the worst.

But as the good Count tells us:

Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words, -'Wait and hope.'

I didn't get brave enough to divorce my hope from my fears but I didn't let it go yet, either. 

On the train back to Fes from Asilah

Content in air-conditioned train cars

I am still shedding skin to Atlantic salt and Moroccan sand

not yet feeling the linger of the African sun on my red red limbs. 

Night has fallen and we are miles away yet but morning was spent in the surf

letting the waves tangle and untangle and re-tangle my hair

smiling at the familiar feel of riptide around my legs

the undertow I nearly called by your name

the dangerous and demanding pull to deeper waters. 

Rushing in and tempting me gracelessly, irresistibly on. 

I can feel the echos of those waves on my skin even now.

As clearly as I see the mile-long stare you hide with a smile.

I know better than to provoke the wrath of such an angry sea.

You'd drag me out and down and be done with me 

broken, sea- and sand-polished smooth

I would wash ashore alone

harder and more beautiful for your destructive ways,

perhaps, 

skin-smoothed and eye-bright

but I would spend my life lying in wait

for a hand to skip me back out to sea

and never again walk into your waves,

a provocation on two unsteady feet. 

There will come a time, you'll see

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears


Sorry for all the ambiguity here of late. I'm having feelings I don't like about a person I should know better than to feel them for. Cut off from my usual therapy (ie telling every single person I work or live with and collecting their advice on the matter) I felt the need to journal about it.

Don't worry. I'm actually right about this being a terrible idea (and also not having the potential to go anywhere.) I'm just not used to being Mr. Darcy about these things. It's frustrating how much of my mind is not only happy but EAGER to be taken up with romantic thoughts. (Also, I'm not rich & powerful like Darcy, which, if I recall correctly, were rather key elements to his eventual success.) Right now I should be writing in Arabic about Khubz and I am daydreaming instead.

I blame the muzak version of "my heart will go on" blaring inside the cafe.

I really want to believe that one day falling in love will be easy and painless and not stressful and largely humiliating. I don't know if that's how it works, but I do know today is not that day. 

THIS IS A REALLY BAD IDEA

I very much dislike the ease with which I ignore my inner sensible person. My inner sensible person will say things like "you've been here before, it didn't end so well. Maybe you don't want to go back?" And I will say "hush, you. I know what I'm doing."

I don't know what I am doing. I make decisions and then promptly ignore them. I make grand declarations about things I Absolutely Will Not Do and then do them.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I know a bad idea when I see one and I somehow can't help myself.


I'm going to tell myself these petty little emotions I've been having lately don't mean anything. I'm going to tell myself that trouble is not two eyes grinning, long-lashed, in my direction.

I'm not going to give in.