'Open the Mic'

Saturday 26th July

Its 6.30pm and I'm currently sat on the balcony of my apartment. The view from here always manages to silence me (which is quite an achievement in itself) and never fails to leave me in a state of awe. It's a place I'm sure where many a volunteer and activist has sat and pondered over the years. I can't even imagine what it must've been like for those who were here during the last intifada. As I sit watching the traffic go by and the children from next door playing football on the street, previous volunteers were watching tanks take aim and fighter jets drop bombs. Those crys and moans in the night from the starving children of the 3 month long total curfew have thank God (should he exist) been replaced with the occasional bouts of beeping cars from local weddings parties.


 Night time naturally offers quite unbelievable views also. The lights from the buildings and street lamps illuminate up the valley and the spot lights from the Israeli military base at the top of the mountain are reminiscent from a scene of the War of the Worlds. The Fatah forces retreat to there night time hiding places leaving the streets in the capable hands of the Israeli Defence Force. From the base at the top of the hill one can see the Israeli Hummers and Military vehicles descending down the mountain roads with there orange lights flashing most likely heading for the Old city or one of the more troublesome refugee camps. So it's here that I sit telling you stories of my week leaning on the back two legs of my chair in a satisfying balance.


I'd just like to state how delighted I was to read my Guest Book page a few days ago. It reassures me greatly that my efforts here are being appreciated by some back home, not least  by some the teaching staff of my boyhood school who I personally hold much respect and admiration for. I don't know how reply to your messages personally but I send my finest regards to you and all the staff at QEGS. In response to Jim, any help would be dearly appreciated.


I co-organised what was another successful open 'mic' night on Thursday but this time in the Dar al Fanun music centre in Askar refugee camp. (One of the centres where I teach) I say 'open mic', but it turned out to be more of a mixed concert with all acts performing on stage in front of a full crowd of Internationals and Palestinians. In the audience there were also local children and the proud parents of the children who were performing. From the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish and Robert Burns to Irish Polkas and Palestinian break dancing it was an eventful night. It started with 9 or so 12 – 14 years old Palestinians from the centre singing and playing traditional songs on guitar, violin and percussion and ended with an impressive show of break dancing by the premire (only!) dance troop of the West Bank.

I presented the night with Boustami, a Palestinian volunteer helping me translate.  Again, many emotions and thoughts ran through my head as I watched the acts. Mainly the thought, only in Palestine ! I sat on the front row watching children being flung into the air in the midst of extremely complex dance routines to the music of 50 cent booming out of the sound system. I laughed, I could have been Simon Cowell had it not been for the shameful moustache and pair of odd socks.It was touch or go whether or not I was going to able to
make it though. I had been unable to teach all day due to painful stomach cramps and sickness. I was glad when I got off stage at the end having not been sick or worse . .  there were a few close moments. I rode the pain like pony through the desert though (a fine simile I know) and it was definitely worth it. A personal highlight of the night was singing the 'Star of the County Down' with an extremely talented 12 year old Palestinian kid called Muhammad accompanying me on his darbuka (Arabic drum). 

It was a the best possible start to the weekend followed by a good sleep in Friday morning (Friday and Saturday are the weekends over here).   I spent the best part of the weekend at a friends house in a village in the outskirts of Nablus. This guy is nothing short of a legend and though he doesn't mean to be, he's one of the funniest guys I've met. We were greeted with a full meal and a tour of the village where it seems every guy there is  his uncle or a cousin. We sat and drank tea in the Olive groves over looking the miles of fertile scenery having competitions with him, his brother and cousins to who could throw a rock the furthest. Needless to say, they all had good arms and would put any of my friends back home to shame (Mitch Rhodes would like these guys). But then again they'd all had a lot of practise over the years. His younger brother, a fresh faced 19 year old university student who was buried in his revision books when we entered the house had the best arm. He had also incidentally just got out of prison 3 months prior. He was detained for over a year and a half for reportedly throwing rocks. No trial though as per usual and no visits permitted in Prison. He had just turned 17 when Israeli special units shot down the door (as my friend was opening the door) and arrested him. The bullet holes in the door-way are testament to what must have been a traumatic night for his family.He was also a champion Dabke dancer with a fair few moves. He showed me and Sam a few in the house later. There we were, after being pressured into getting up and getting involved, 4 grown men gyrating there hips, vibrating our shoulders and clicking our fingers to the sound of music. Only in Palestine.

This is the great paradox of some of the Palestinian men. At times they the definition of macho manliness, brute hard ripped units hurling rocks 500 yards. Seconds later they've become the  macho man from the village people song. I am however basing this on my own narrowly formulated vision of gender and sexuality which has been sculptured by my own social upbringing. There is obviously nothing wring with grown men dancing in a small room. Its just not something we're not accustomed to. In the house there was also 'Mahmoudi', a one an' a half old little boy who I could truthfully say is the most adorable toddler I've seen. Big brown eyes and a massive smile, mischief personified. He woke us this morning shuffling,crawling and walking past our mattresses in the living room banging an empty sprite bottle and smiling his face off. The innocence of his youth was refreshing to witness, it seems like an awful long time since I was around such a young child and myself and Sam were automatically reduced to his playmates, jumping around in an attempt to make him laugh. Is there a better sound than a toddler laughing ?

It is depressing that it's children like 'Mahmoudi' which the leaders of out great democratic world ignore when they are being counted in the mortuary's of Gaza. I could not help think that his face could be any one the roughly 400 young children killed during operation 'Cast Lead' which started on Boxing Day 2008. A war which was in the grand scale of things just another branch of this ever evolving tree of bloodshed and war.

Tomorrow is Sunday so its back to the grind after a good weekend. Plenty more lessons to plan, rehearsals to be had, nights to organise and musicians to recruit. I would also like to ask all who read this blog to watch what you buy in your supermarkets and shopping centres. Say No to occupation. Boycott Israeli products.