I was spending the night as a guest in a refugee camp in Palestine, an area filled with sad eyes and stories of destruction and personal loss. Many of the people living in this camp have had their homes destroyed by the government’s failure to protect them, allowing corrupt government to take away everything they worked so hard to have. They fled after the homes were destroyed, to different areas throughout Palestinian territory: friends, family, and refugee camps like the one I was at that night. Images of the homes left destroyed, demolished, and ruined by Hurricane Katrina flashed in my head as I sat on Miss Eman’s make-shift front porch, a place where she welcomed friends and guests and they talked about their lives and sometimes they didn’t talk about anything at all and just sat in silence. The plywood and tin shacks that these families now live in were the Palestinian FEMA trailers that so many found refuge in after they had nothing left at all. As Eman offered me a glass a tea, a sign of love and culture for Palestinians, I smiled. I thought back to my first glass of sweet tea in New Orleans, made by Miss Dorothy, the 80-year-old woman who lived beside us.
Besides the king of mint, Palestinian tea was just like the sweet tea from back home. While I was observing everything around me with a heavy heart, it felt nice to be sitting out on the front porch drinking sweet tea. A bit of home in a country thousands of miles away, struggling, facing unspeakable odds every day. It was then I decided that the phrase, “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?” could apply to Palestine, offering reminiscence of a time when life wasn’t so controlled, so difficult, so full of destruction and strong spirits that would have been broken anywhere else. New Orleans has a sister out there in the world, that sister is Palestina.
Eman is a single mother, left so when her husband was killed by settlers as we was returning home from working in his fields. Eman’s family never got justice for her husband’s death, too often the case in an area where settlers are often given special treatment of military police and often times inhumane prison conditions, physical violence, and corruption among staff are not exceptions, but the rules. Human rights organizations have investigated these claims, much like the current situation happening at Orleans Parish Prison in New Orleans right now. The Department of Justice hasn’t come in to intervene on behalf of the Palestinian people, however, and the treatment has become expected, almost excused, because it is so widely-known to happen, what really can they do against a system that looks out for itself, not people.
Eman had seen many terrible things in her life, particularly during the second Intifada, a Palestinian uprising that led to many protests, demonstrations, and death. She wasn’t afforded the luxury of therapy – mental health services were nearly non-existent in her area – so she dealt with her troubles by using her hands. Some of her neighbors created clay pots to deal with their difficulties. Others wrote the most beautiful and depressing poetry I ever had the honor of reading. Eman cooked. I had told her about some of the dishes that New Orleans was famous for, surprised to find Palestinian equivalents. Qidra was the Palestinian answer to jambalaya, a dish with rice, meat, vegetables, and spices cooked in large quantities, often served at happy occasions and while surrounded by friends and family. Bandoora maqliya is tomato slices fried in olive oil with garlic and chopped basil, the Palestinian fried green tomatoes. They have their gumbo, too, often made with lamb. Their sweets include pastries with combinations of sugars and spices and nuts. Just as it is in New Orleans, cooking for loved ones and sharing food is an expression of love, a time to come together and enjoy one another’s company, to drink in all the blessings one has, even when it feels like the rest of the world has offered nothing but abandonment and looking the other way at the tragedy that has struck.
After visiting with Eman, I wandered a bit and found an old man surrounded by men much younger than him, all sitting on the beach. It reminded me of the men I often saw sitting on neutral ground while driving around the city. I was invited over to join them, the elder telling me stories about his Palestinian heritage, the resentment felt towards Palestinians by the rest of the Arab world, and gave me an oral history peppered with personal narratives. Occasionally I would look up and see a carriage pulled by a donkey pass, making me smile and think of the French Quarter. He went into detail about the Palestinian arts and the many wonderful artists that came from Palestine, too far ahead of their time to ever be awarded any real acclaim outside of Palestine, but important to the expression of the Palestinian people. He told me about authors I needed to read, boasting about which ones he saw writing outside a cafe in the city or while sitting alone on that very beach. He sang a song, lyrics unknown to me, that had the sadness, despair, and celebration that St. James Infirmary had – invoking in me the same emotions, the same deep thoughts.
Education was a problem in Palestine, not enough schools, not enough school supplies, not enough staff. It felt bizarre, being surrounded by another culture in another land and finding so many similarities between Palestine and New Orleans. It challenged my internal thoughts, being raised in the West and quite ignorant to Palestinian issues – not discussed on the news unless it portrayed Palestinians or Palestine in a bad light, talking heads saying Palestinians should just move away and stop the suffering.
New Orleans shouldn’t rebuild. Who cares about New Orleans. I am so sick of hearing about New Orleans and Hurricane Katrina. It has been four years, they need to stop whining. You have all heard phrases like this. You have all heard phrases like this and felt ire and spite and sadness as another part of the country called to take away your right to exist in the place that you love.
As I returned home, I reflected on what I had experienced. From sharing the sounds of Paul Sanchez with twenty-something Palestinians while they shared with me Palestinian hip hop, all from their front porch, to sharing stories of the culture and Palestinian heritage, to having their right to exist questioned, and choosing to exist despite a ruling system of corruption, crime and injustice.
Palestine and New Orleans, we aren’t that different after all.
