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ajnabieh(My iPod, which is my number-one research tool [I should write a post on this], recently had to be reformatted, so I sent myself a bunch of old notes off it. I found this draft blog post from September, was amused, and thought I should share. A little lighthearted note from the life of the ethnographer.)
I attended a screening of Bil'in Habibti/Bil'in My Love hosted by Adalah-NY and Salam Lutheran Arabic Church in Bay Ridge on Wednesday [September 30, 2009]. The film is very emotionally affecting; I certainly recommend it to anyone looking to spark a conversation about the wall Israel is building in the West Bank, variously called the separation fence, separation wall, security wall, or apartheid wall, depending on one's political preferences. Perhaps the film hit me particularly hard because it was filmed in 2005, which is when I attended an international protest in Bil'in. I kept half expecting to see our signs and flags; alas, we didn't make the cut.
But I want to comment on an amusing exchange in the film. Mohammad, one of the leaders of the popular committee against the wall [who I think, now, with more knowledge, is Mohammad Khatib] is speaking in a lighthearted moment to Shai, the filmmaker, who is a member of Anarchists against the Wall. "When you first came," he said in Hebrew, "we saw you anarchists. You seemed strange to us [strange was in English], you didn't seem to care about your clothes, your hair. But you've been coming here for a year, and, now, I'm with you. I haven't bathed in a week." He then turned to the organizer next to him, and said, "You're always wearing a new suit." The other man said, with great and slightly annoyed dignity, "I have to. I'm a teacher."
Now, this got laughs from the crowd, and probably anyone who has ever organized with anarchists or, really, young leftists anywhere. (Oh, college, I remember you well.) But what struck me, looking around the room at that moment, was that if you lined up all the women's purses and bags in a row, I'd be able to guess which belonged to white American leftists and which belonged to the Arab women activists. Is the bag in question metallic or patent leather, does it have rhinestones, is it a designer name, does it contain any makeup, and does it match the carriers' shoes? 'Arabi. Is it a backpack or canvas bag, could it use a wash, is a metal water bottle clipped to the outside with a carabiner, does it contain a Powerbar, a laptop, and/or a leather-bound notebook? Inglizi.
We are always teaching each other about how we perform gender and proper public behavior. And we can always recognize each other through those practices. Norms vary in predictable ways; there are many femininities; and it matters who's performing them.
At least I left my Kleen Kanteen at home. But I had the Powerbar.
I attended a screening of Bil'in Habibti/Bil'in My Love hosted by Adalah-NY and Salam Lutheran Arabic Church in Bay Ridge on Wednesday [September 30, 2009]. The film is very emotionally affecting; I certainly recommend it to anyone looking to spark a conversation about the wall Israel is building in the West Bank, variously called the separation fence, separation wall, security wall, or apartheid wall, depending on one's political preferences. Perhaps the film hit me particularly hard because it was filmed in 2005, which is when I attended an international protest in Bil'in. I kept half expecting to see our signs and flags; alas, we didn't make the cut.
But I want to comment on an amusing exchange in the film. Mohammad, one of the leaders of the popular committee against the wall [who I think, now, with more knowledge, is Mohammad Khatib] is speaking in a lighthearted moment to Shai, the filmmaker, who is a member of Anarchists against the Wall. "When you first came," he said in Hebrew, "we saw you anarchists. You seemed strange to us [strange was in English], you didn't seem to care about your clothes, your hair. But you've been coming here for a year, and, now, I'm with you. I haven't bathed in a week." He then turned to the organizer next to him, and said, "You're always wearing a new suit." The other man said, with great and slightly annoyed dignity, "I have to. I'm a teacher."
Now, this got laughs from the crowd, and probably anyone who has ever organized with anarchists or, really, young leftists anywhere. (Oh, college, I remember you well.) But what struck me, looking around the room at that moment, was that if you lined up all the women's purses and bags in a row, I'd be able to guess which belonged to white American leftists and which belonged to the Arab women activists. Is the bag in question metallic or patent leather, does it have rhinestones, is it a designer name, does it contain any makeup, and does it match the carriers' shoes? 'Arabi. Is it a backpack or canvas bag, could it use a wash, is a metal water bottle clipped to the outside with a carabiner, does it contain a Powerbar, a laptop, and/or a leather-bound notebook? Inglizi.
We are always teaching each other about how we perform gender and proper public behavior. And we can always recognize each other through those practices. Norms vary in predictable ways; there are many femininities; and it matters who's performing them.
At least I left my Kleen Kanteen at home. But I had the Powerbar.