Pink Floyd in Galilee (“Us and Them”)

19 Mar

Do you remember these lyrics from Pink Floyd?  “Us and Them – And after all we’re only ordinary men – Me, and you – God only knows it’s not what we would choose to do.”

It’s obvious that given a choice, Jews (us) and Arabs (them) would opt to live apart.  The Galilee is 50% Jewish, 50% Arab.  Somehow the fractions do not make a whole.  The towns and villages here are segregated.  There are no Arabs in Kfar Tavor, where we live.  There are no Jews in Shibli or Daburiyyah, the neighboring Arab villages.  Yet, not a day goes by without “us” bumping into “them.”  The Arabs talk about us.  We talk about them.  When we’re in mixed company –  at the local store, a restaurant, construction site – we each speak our own secret language.  It’s mostly gestures, raised eyebrows, a whisper, a snicker, a jab of the elbow to call someone’s attention.  Below are a few snippets of how we communicate in our neck of the woods:

Undressing you without words:

Pnina, my twin daughters and I are sitting at the best falafel and hummus joint in Nein, an Arab village some fifteen minutes away.  Army generals, day laborers, farmers, Jews and Arabs come from far and wide to eat here.  The place is small, a handful of tables and an outdoor patio under sun umbrellas.  It’s anything but fancy; it shares space with a gas station.  The noise level is high.  Arab waiters carry plates of chicken skewers and eggplant dip.  Across from us are two Arab women, young and old.  Their faces are pleasant even though black hijabs (headscarves) veil their hair.  They’re undressing us with their eyes.  They eavesdrop on our every word, yet they pick up nothing since we’re speaking English to our daughters.  At every opportunity they smile, nod.  They must have said and thought a million things about us, the “Yahudi,” Jews in Arabic, but they share nothing.  We pay for our meal and leave.  They head us off by our car.  “Your daughters are so pretty, so well-mannered,” the younger woman says in perfect Hebrew.  It turns out they live in Daburiyyah.  The conversation quickly veers to food, cooking.  Pnina asks them about fresh goat cheese and where to get it.  Minutes later they exchange phone numbers and hugs.  “I’ll deliver the shepherd’s cheese to your house,” the older woman promises.  We get in the car and drive off.  They do the same.  We each return to our separate ways, to Arabic, to Hebrew, to our secluded communities.

Steimatzsky Bookstore - Tiberias

Name-Dropping is Optional:

A couple of weeks later Pnina and I drive to Tiberias to shop for winter clothes, boots.  The Sea of Galilee is gray, as is the sky.  It’s a great day to go into a Steimatzky bookstore.  I decide to check out the latest Hebrew publications, for a a change.  An eager young saleslady offers assistance.  She escorts me to the bestseller section.  While I browse she asks me where I’m from.  It’s a loaded question.  Am I from Los Angeles or Kfar Tavor?  I choose the latter.  “Wow,” she says, “we’re neighbors.  I live in Shadmot Devorah.”  Shadmot is a village just five minutes away, known for its vineyards.  It also has a well-maintained swimming pool and green lawns.  I tell her, “I brought my daughters to swim in your beautiful pool.”  She leans over the counter and whispers, “Were there many of them?”  “Them” is code word for Arabs.  Without missing a beat, and never having being coached in this secret language, I say, “Yes, there were quire a few of ‘them.'”

The Shadmot pool is public, open to all with the price of admission.  Arabs come in droves during the summer to dip in the water, to escape the scorching heat.  But not in 2011.  Why?  In 2011 the Moslem holy month of Ramadan fell during the month of August, peak summer season.  “It was wonderful, not one of ‘them’ in sight,” she said.

This year, 2012, we’re expecting another “good” year.  The Moslem lunar calendar lags 11 days behind the Gregorian calendar.  This July the Arabs will not Eat, Pray, Love. They will not splash in the water nor toss beach balls.  They will fast and sweat in their traditional suffocating garb.  “Was it that bad?” I ask the bookstore saleslady.  She frowns.  “The entire tribe comes to the pool, they set up camp for the day, the women wade in the water with their black clothes, loud screams and trash everywhere.”  She hands me the latest prize-winning novel.  “At least in Kfar Tavor you don’t have to deal with ‘them.'”

The Kfar Tavor pool is old and cracked.  A new one, slated for summer 2013, is being built up the road next to a planned shopping and dining center.  Unlike the pool in Shadmot, this one will be “members only.”  Residents of the Kfar will be given a magnetic card along with membership.  The locals pay property tax, therefore it’s owned by the village to the exclusion of others, Jews and Arabs alike.

Invisible in Plain Sight:

Several months ago we went on an organized bus tour to Nazareth in the footsteps of Jesus.  Our homemade sandwiches long gone, Pnina volunteers to get falafel for the hungry travelers from a famous Arab eatery.  Fifteen minutes later and no falafel balls in sight, I go to check on her at the bottom of the hill.  The restaurant that doubles as a hummus bar to foreign tourists and Arab locals is packed.  Pnina has made it to the front of the line.  I stand ten yards out and observe.  She’s talking to the Arab vendor, putting in her to-go order.  The vendor behind the counter talks to his Arab brethren and takes their order first, instead.  Pnina nudges forward, holds out her Shekel notes.  Arab patrons speak above her head, pick up their lunch, give her as much attention as a house plant.  Pnina insists.  Soon she realizes she’s outmaneuvered on two fronts: she’s a woman, and she’s a woman in Arab territory.  No need for Strike Three here.  She’s out.  The crowd thins finally.  The vendor takes her money, fills her order.  No words spoken, it’s how it is.

Outsider looking in:

Arab-only school in Shfar'am

I recently taught English to Arab young adults in Shfar’am, a densely-populated Arab town on the way to Haifa.  The decision to teach “them” created ire and heated opinions among my extended family and friends.  “Why don’t you teach Israelis instead?” they insist.  Some Jews here don’t make the distinction that Arabs living here are also Israelis but I leave this topic to future writings.  “I will teach ‘Israelis’ the moment I’m offered a job,” I say.  In the meantime I take the part-time job and trek to Shfar’am, a forty minute drive.  If the road to heaven is paved with good intentions, the road to Shfar’am is paved with 39 (!) giant speed bumps – I counted them.  After my car suspension is ruined, after my nerves are shot, after my teeth fillings stopped rattling, I arrive at the school.  It’s a vocational college that offers young Arabs a trade.  They learn automotive electronics, mechanics, alarm systems.  To better prepare the youth to the 21st century labor market, the students are offered “Spoken English” courses.  This is where I come in.  To the students I’m a novelty on two levels:  I’m an “Israeli” – no Jewish teacher has set foot in the school to teach English.  Secondly, I’m an Israeli from America.

Apparently these two criteria set me apart, grant me an air of respectability in their Arab eyes.  By the third or fourth meeting this respectability fizzles.  Barriers fall.  And if familiarity doesn’t quite breed contempt, it breeds a language only they know.  It’s not long that they start to gossip about me.  They are Arabs; they are the majority in class.  I’m on their turf.  They signal each other with gestures, a wink here and there.  They begin to crack jokes.  Only they don’t know I understand some of what’s being said.  I don’t speak Arabic well, but I’m blown away by how much I understand.  I owe this to my days working as a bricklayer assistant with my father some 40 years ago, when I was in high school.  During summer vacations I worked with my father in building construction sites near Tel Aviv.  In the early 70s Arabs from the West Bank and Gaza were welcomed to work in Israel.  It was during those years that I picked up much of my Arabic, much of which stayed with me to this day.  During class, turning to face the blackboard, I can hear them talking about me, about Jews.  I feel like a spy in their midst, but I don’t let on.  I realize under different circumstances I’d be talking about them.  It’s a game we play.

Is that rain or spit?

SuperSal Grocery Store in Kfar TAvor

One afternoon Pnina gets in her car and drives three minutes to SuperSal, our local supermarket.  The parking lot is congested.  She spots a car backing out and waits.  A truck passes her quickly and occupies the vacated spot.  She honks.  The driver and his family spill out of the truck and head to the supermarket entrance, oblivious to the car horn.  Pnina’s upset.  She slams the door and chases after him.  “Didn’t you see me waiting?  Why did you take my space?”  The moment he opens his mouth she realizes he’s Arab.  He says in Hebrew,”What’s the big deal.  Get over it.”  He then rejoins his teenage daughter and wife inside the store.  Between the food aisles Pnina confronts him.  “You Arabs have no respect for women.  Had I been a man you wouldn’t dare cut me off.  Your conduct is disgusting.”  The Arab is insulted but he’s on “Israeli” turf.  Yet unlike Jews who feel apprehensive in Arab settings, Arabs feel right at home in Jewish areas.  It’s not long before the man’s teenage daughter appears with her mother.  As if on cue from the father, the daughter spits in Pnina’s direction.  In their eyes, the father’s honor has been restored.  Once home, Pnina is advised to phone the store manager and file a complaint.  The manager, an Arab, washes his hands clean of the whole thing.  “We can’t control what goes on in the parking lot,” he says.  Pnina says, “Your security guard saw it all.  You should not let that man in the store.”  The manager doesn’t want trouble but promises nothing.  We’re tribal; we’ll each go home and tell “our” story.

It’s a case of “Us and Them.”  Take a listen:


5 Responses to “Pink Floyd in Galilee (“Us and Them”)”

  1. Pnina March 20, 2012 at 8:39 am #

    Yes , I liked it…

  2. Adi Harari March 20, 2012 at 8:00 pm #

    Maurice, Some forty years ago when you learn your Arabic and worked alongside “Them” we chanted Eric Einstein lyrics “You and I will change the world” with youthful optimism.
    It’s sad how the political dialog has changed, the optimism has largely gone and the discussion was replaced with US and Them. And I don’t think it’s because we grayed.

    • Maurice Labi March 21, 2012 at 6:18 am #

      Hi Adi,

      I’m glad you’re following my blogs and are participating. Good comments made by you, I’ll respond on the blog itself.

      Kol Toov,

      Maurice Labi

    • Maurice Labi March 21, 2012 at 6:22 am #

      As humans, we want answers and solutions in our lifetime. WE want to leave a mark, to have made a change. History proves otherwise. Conflicts are resolved after decades and centuries, if ever.

  3. Avi March 22, 2012 at 12:59 pm #

    In the Middle East, as in the Middle East, changes don’t come easy. In fact, for many Israeli Arabs, change came the opposite direction. In the last 20 years the radicalization has become more apparent than before. They are the living proof that a full stomach does not necessarily lead to love.

Let me know what you think

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: