OUR FIRST CLASS
I worked for Pharmacare for over two years, until around 2010. But there were several reasons why I thought it was not the right place. I was spending my entire time in a lab with only one other person, and I realized more and more that I wanted to work with people. And what does a Ph.D. do with people, other than teach, right? When I was nineteen years old, my adviser Thomas Ruttledge told me that I would end up in teaching, and I thought he just didn’t know me. He said that I had it in me.
So in 2010, I applied to Al-Quds University and Birzeit University for teaching positions. Al-Quds had recently developed a partnership with Bard College in the U.S., where Bard would establish a liberal arts degree program within Al-Quds.16 And Bard thought I was the perfect candidate to teach for them—I was a liberal arts college graduate. I would understand the concepts and the teaching methods of liberal arts education.
Originally, it was a part-time position for a semester, so I only taught one class. After that first semester, Al-Quds and Bard immediately offered me a full-time position. They kind of took me in. They didn’t care that I didn’t have an extensive publication history or anything like that. It wasn’t an old boys’ club like Birzeit University.
I became a core faculty member and one of the founding faculty members. We had no program—only thirty students—and I remember running these internal transfer campaigns, where we encouraged students from Al-Quds University to give it a try for one semester. We basically opened it up for everybody, so good students and bad students were applying, and we accepted all of them just to be able to run a program. Then I started building the science program, and now we have the largest and most successful division in the entire college. I have sixty students who are hoping to complete their degree in either biology or chemistry right now. This year, at the end of June 2014, we were able to graduate our second class and my first class of chemistry majors.
I WORE A HEADPIECE THAT’S 200 YEARS OLD AND MADE OF GOLD LIRAS
In the spring of 2009, I met a man named Ahmad through a friend of mine who works with him in the municipal government. We saw each other occasionally for a year and a half, but I wouldn’t say we were dating, really. I saw him once or twice, and I think we were both busy with our careers, and so it kind of just took its time.
We would send each other messages every now and then, check on each other. Then it took a more serious turn in the fall of 2010, in September. We started seeing each other among groups of friends so that we could keep it on the down-low, so no one would really catch who was dating whom.
Then in the end of December, we decided that we wanted to be together. He invited me to dinner on December 30 at his family’s home. He said that after dinner he’d love to go to my parents’ home—he wanted to meet them. From there, things developed really quickly. On Friday morning, New Year’s Eve, he called me and he said that his older brother would like to talk to my father and that he’d like to make this official, which is the culturally correct way of doing things. And so they set a date to talk to my parents officially and ask for my hand in marriage.
The night of New Year’s Eve, Ahmad surprised me by proposing in front of 360 guests at the Mövenpick Hotel New Year’s Eve party.17 So, by the next morning, the entire city knew that we were engaged.
It was right at the beginning of the second semester for me, so it was a little bit hard to think about getting married during the semester, but semesters at Al-Quds University are never properly planned, because there are strikes, and there are closures and political reasons not to go to school. So we thought about April for a wedding date, and then it didn’t work with one of his brothers, whose daughter was expecting a child, and they wanted to be with her when she had the child. We decided that it would have to be pushed till June, but his mother was not willing to see that happen. She felt like she was old, and you never know what happens, and she wanted to be there for the wedding. And so we actually ended up getting married in March 2011, on a very cold, rainy day.
We had a full-on traditional Palestinian wedding. I wore a traditional dress, and I also wore a headpiece that’s 200 years old and made of gold liras—Ottoman liras. The wedding party was huge. There were over 700 guests. I should have known that my life would be loud after that. After the big wedding, we had a smaller wedding reception for the family and close friends.
Within less than a year, I went from being single and career-oriented to a wife, a pregnant woman, then a mother of two. I had my twins on November 10, 2011. I came from a small, nuclear family where everybody’s educated, and we had a very quiet breakfast every Friday morning, and suddenly I shifted from that into this huge, clan-like family, with a whole lot of brothers and sisters who are all married with children, whose children were having children. Life with my husband’s family was loud and lively, and I learned how to cook for forty people—while pregnant. And I found myself completely entrenched in Palestinian life in a way I hadn’t been before.
I DISCOVERED THE WRITER IN ME
My husband worked as the mayor of Ramallah’s right-hand man. When we married, in a way, I thought I was marrying Ramallah. My friends actually nicknamed me “Lady Ramallah,” because I was everywhere, I would go to all the cultural events, always out in the city.
When I finally got to know my husband’s family well, I realized that I didn’t marry the city, I married Abu Shusha and Zakariyya, which were the two villages that his parents had left in 1948.18 I suddenly found myself completely entrenched in Palestinian culture that I’ve only read about—the diaspora refugee culture. Now, my kids are descendants of refugees. It’s been a total switch for me. And it was more eye-opening to me—there’s real suffering in Palestine, there’s real heartbreak. And it’s a lot more than what people think it is. When I began to see these things, that’s when the writing happened.
In July 2010, Bard sent me to the U.S. to do this writing workshop called “Language and Thinking,” which is part of our core program for all of our students, and all faculty from all fields are encouraged to teach the course. And that’s where I discovered the writer in me. At the Bard workshop, I discovered how much I love human beings and that I like to learn from them. That is when I started to write in earnest. Before long I had started a blog about Palestine called The Big Olive.
I started it with a woman I met at a wedding named Tala. I met Tala exactly two weeks before I went to that writing workshop, so all these things started to come together at the same time. Initially, the blog was supposed to be about Ramallah and about my return to the city, and how the city helped me really adjust. But it became more about growing close to this big Palestinian family of my husband’s as well.
Another reason I felt I needed to write about the real Palestine was that I was traveling a lot through the West Bank doing school recruitment. I spent a lot of time traveling to the Abu Dis campus near Jerusalem, visiting Bethlehem, going from checkpoint to checkpoint. The blog became a place where I could examine what it was like to live in this growing, cosmopolitan city—Ramallah—and then going out and observing a culture that you don’t see within the city.
Back when I was living in the U.S., I used to get asked about life in Palestine quite a lot by my friends there. I would tell them to imagine that you are commuting from New York City to a small town in New Jersey, which should be an hour drive. But in order to get there, you can’t take the regular highway, you have to take all these back roads. And even the back roads aren’t all open, and at any point in time, any of the state police might stop you and ask you questions for an hour or more without giving any reason. Suddenly most of your day, most of your work, has been commuting home. It’s exhausting. That’s what living in Palestine is like, and that’s what I wanted to capture in my blog.
I’d always tell my American friends, “You take your freedom to move too much for granted.” I remember being stuck in traffic going to JFK after my workshop with Bard in 2010. I was trying to get to the airport to go back to Palestine, and I was really getting antsy. I was with my friend, and I said something like, “Oh my God, I’m going to miss my plane, and I can’t understand this traffic.” And my friend looked at me and said, “What do you mean you can’t understand this traffic? You’re the one who lives it every day in Palestine.” But that’s the thing—we take gridlock for granted in Palestine. It’s possible to be surprised by terrible traffic in the United States. And so I think that’s the difference between traveling here and there.
As Palestinians, we can’t take any of our day-to-day plans for granted. I may plan to start my class at eleven o’clock, and on any day I could easily be fifteen minutes late, an hour late, no matter how early I left—for no reason other than a random pop-up checkpoint somewhere between home and school. There may not even be a tense situation or security reason for the pop-up checkpoint. It could be just because.
The stress of getting to work and then back home rules our lives. And now that I have children, I feel it’s even further compounded. I have to get to daycare to get my children, and to bring them home so that I can have an hour with them during the day, so then I can put them to bed on time. And that’s such a basic human want. That’s something that working mothers all over the world have to worry about. But I have to worry about it several times over. Every day I have to figure out how I might improvise if I can’t get to daycare to pick up my children on time.
This stress makes you age faster, I think. In certain areas of Palestine, you can cut the tension and serve it up on a platter. And it’s because people are not able to be regular human beings, because they’re completely controlled by these random obstacles that will stop life from happening.
When I was pregnant, I constantly feared that my water would break in Qalandiya and I’d be stuck. I had twins who were breech sideways, and so there was no room for them to come out. I couldn’t have natural birth. I knew that. And so, the last time I drove, I was about a week from giving birth. I went as far as making arrangements with a doctor in Bethlehem so that, should my water break, it would be easier to go to Bethlehem and give birth there than drive the few miles to my hospital. So I had a friend, and he agreed that he would have an ambulance on standby in Bethlehem that would come and pick me up at the drop of a hat and would take me right away to the French women’s hospital in Bethlehem. He would also make sure that he was in contact with my OB/GYN, who could explain to him on the phone the details of my pregnancy. That’s an extreme example, but the truth is that every time I leave the house, I have to have contingency plans. I never know how long it might take to run simple errands.
If you’re in much of the U.S., you’re pregnant with twins, and you work a few miles away from home and the hospital, you can get to any hospital at any time, no matter when your water breaks, no matter if your twins are breech, or both pointing downward with their heads and ready to be delivered naturally. You have that access. Here, you don’t.
The only access from one city to the other is roads, and when those roads are blocked, then life stops. And that’s how women end up giving birth at checkpoints. I wrote about giving birth at a checkpoint on my blog, and I was writing about my own fears. It was something that kept coming at me. And even when I was driving, I kept thinking, “What if I get stuck in this crazy traffic, and someone hits me, rear-ends me, and then I lose one of the babies because of the shock?”
For anyone who doesn’t know the road Wadi Nar—actually, it’s a little better now that the roads are a little bigger—but it’s this winding, uphill road between Ramallah and the cities southeast of Jerusalem where trucks of all kinds and sizes and cars of all kinds and sizes are traveling two ways. There are no clear two lanes, and literally, when you are going up, if you look to your right, you’re practically on the edge of a cliff. If your car gets hit, there’s nowhere to go except down the valley.
I tell my friends that it’s only by the grace of God that I make it from sunrise to sunset every day, and I go to Abu Dis, and I still have the energy to take care of two kids every day. The only way for me to deal with this stress is to write. I’ve gotten such positive responses to the blog from everyone who reads it, but I’m not sure if I’m actually a good writer, or if people just want to be nice to me. And this is where one of my fears exists. It’s not a fear, it’s maybe that I’m not willing to believe that I’m good at something else other than science.
On the other hand, I found this open-armed place with this community where anything you write is up for discussion, and it’s up for editing and up for improvement, and people are willing to read what you write. Because every time you write, you’re putting yourself on that paper. And I’m always submitting pieces to an online magazine called This Week in Palestine, or just putting work up on the blog, and thinking, Dear God, please have mercy on me. There’s a piece of me within those words. So don’t let them batter it because it would break my heart. And so I’m in between, as a writer, I’m still searching for the voice. I don’t know what narrative I’m going to take, I don’t know what I am trying, I don’t even know what story I’m telling.
So I’m still trying to find my voice. I’m not ready to give up science completely and just do writing. And at the same time, I can’t just let the science take over, because I’m so extremely happy to finally have that part of me alive again.
THERE IS REAL SUFFERING OUTSIDE OF RAMALLAH
When the Bard program at Al-Quds was just getting started, we didn’t have enough students to fill the classes. Besides teaching, I worked as a recruiter and traveled all around the West Bank to meet students. I traveled a lot in Bethlehem and recruited a lot of students from the refugee camps there. I also recruited quite a lot from around Hebron. Those trips were so valuable to me, because they reminded me that there is real suffering outside of Ramallah, beyond the day-to-day obstacles of checkpoints and uncertainty that I faced in moving around the West Bank.
I’ve seen that suffering touch my students. We recruited quite a lot from the refugee camps, and so I taught many of the young people I was recruiting. I remember one student took an intro organic chemistry class with me—I always had to tell him to be quiet so I could get on with the lecture, because he was always asking questions. He was funny, sweet, handsome. One of the leaders in the program. Then in the middle of summer break, he disappeared for two weeks. His parents had no idea where he was—they just found his car abandoned in the street one day. He’d been arrested. And then when he returned to school in the fall, he was a completely changed person. He didn’t say a single word all fall semester.
But I think the liberal arts approach here is valuable. The students really take to it—they flourish. We have students reading Greek philosophy, drama. And writing as well. I remember one assignment where students read the “to be or not to be” soliloquy from Hamlet and recast it from a Palestinian perspective. The students shared their work in class, and the results were chilling and powerful.
I hope my students will have an easier time than my generation has had. I hope they make the Palestinian cause the way they see it and not simply follow leaders whose ideas have expired. And I hope they stay alive. For my children, I hope they find liberation through education, and I hope that they choose the pen and the book before anything else. For myself, I want to continue to write, though my hopes for Palestine feel more and more crushed. I hope to never forget for a moment that whatever peace and prosperity I have in Ramallah is temporary—an illusion.
1 For more of Riyam’s writing, see Appendix VI, page 341.
2 Amman, the capital of Jordan, is a city of over 2 million residents.
3 Abu Dis is a city of around 12,000 people just east of Jerusalem and the location of one of Al-Quds University’s campuses.
4 Al-Quds is a university system with three campuses—one in Jerusalem, one in Abu Dis just outside of Jerusalem, and one in Al-Bireh, adjacent to Ramallah. The system currently serves over 13,000 undergraduates.
