Report from Palestine, Part Two
The orphan boy in the back of the room stood up to give his answer. How did listening to the Sarabande of the Bach d minor Suite
make him feel? Others had said: sadness, like the sea, calm. His answer was translated to me as “It makes me feel like I’ve just
come home”. It’s the last day of my month long visit to Palestine west bank and I’m playing in an orphanage for young boys 6 to 12
called Home of Good Hope in Assyria, a town just east of Jerusalem. I feel that my trip is a success to have given that boy that
feeling even for a short while.
In 22 days of concerts I’ve given 37 performances, played in every major city, logged countless hours on bad roads in vans, played in
six refugee camps, reached almost 1500 children and 500 adults and sadly; been questioned and searched at 29 check points.
Traveling is really difficult in the west bank. Most of the main roads are either closed to all, open only to Israeli citizens, or are open
only to public transportation i.e. taxis or licensed vans. There are checkpoints between every city and flying checkpoints where ever
and whenever. Many checkpoints close at night so that no travel of any kind is permitted. In addition the logical routes of travel from
north to south all lie through Jerusalem where no vehicle without Israeli plates is allowed, such that a trip from Ramallah to Bethlehem
which would take 30 minutes if you could drive straight now takes 3 hours mostly on back roads not designed for any thing but local
traffic and demands a huge round about circle around Jerusalem. Hebron is a whopping 4 hours. I did it with some luck at the check
point straight through Jerusalem in an hour and a half. I was in a van with Israeli plates but when we got to Hebron all the roads into
the city had been closed because of a bombing somewhere in Israel. After passing all the normal possibilities, my driver spotted a
trash can fire on a hillside above a small cut in the guard rail of the fine American style highway we were on, and after checking the
route cursorily, plunged down a ten foot embankment as I hung on to my bass, creamed the underside of the van on rocks at the
bottom and clawed his way up the other side onto a narrow donkey road between rock walls. (It was his brothers’ van and he got his
the next day). At the fire we paid a five shekel fee to a couple of boys and after 15 minutes of wandering along farm roads with
several dead ends found our way into Hebron. The rest of the group had come the long way around from Ramallah and had taken
another route through a rocky field into town.
On another occasion traveling to Jenin to play at schools in the refugee camp, we were stopped angrily at a check point and not
allowed to go forward or back. We waited for 20 minutes while our passports and ID card numbers were checked through some
security network. After 20 minutes a different soldier retrieved our documents and let us through. “Open and close the gate yourself,
please” he said. On the way back the soldiers would not let us pass. “But we crossed this way this morning” we said. “You couldn’t
have” they countered. This went on for about 15 minutes and finally they wanted us to describe the soldier who had let us though.
We did that and finally because they didn’t know what to do and because it was clear we were from Ramallah and not Jenin they said.
“Get back in the van and drive as fast as you can out of here”. I didn’t like the sound of that but it was no problem for our driver
Shaidy who always drives as fast as he can and we passed out of there.
For most Palestinians the solution to the difficulty of travel is not to go anywhere, so when people in Ramallah learned we had been to
play concerts in Nablus and Jenin their amazed reaction was, “How are things there?” For Ramzi and Al Kamanjati it’s just the price
of doing business and plans to offer lessons in camps in all the major cities are progressing. There are already 10 students from the
camp in Bethlehem studying at the conservatory in a deal that Ramzi made with them to insure that he would continue teaching their
students with 20 more to start soon. Nablus, Jenin, and Hebron will follow. My hope is that some of the children I played for will
step forward and sign up for lessons as they become available.
I’ve met some unforgettable characters here. Ramzi’s grandfather is a refugee from somewhere near the Israeli international airport.
If only he could see it now. He and Ramzi’s grandmother have lived in the Al Amari camp since 1948. They left everything they had
and ended up camped in a field near Ramallah living in a tent expecting to stay a few weeks. He and his wife are tiny and almost
toothless. He thinks he is somewhere between 75 and 80 years old. Starting with nothing he has made a life here and raised children
and grandchildren. Ramzi and a cousin with his family still live with them in the house their grandfather built. The paths between
tents became paths between tin shacks and now narrow walk ways between houses. Ramzi’s grandfather doesn’t have
conversations mostly he gives speeches but they are worth listening to, wise and often very funny. Ramzi simul translates into
English unless he’s out of the room in which case his grandfather plows on even though I am not able to understand what he’s
saying. It makes me want to study Arabic. He doesn’t like doctors. He says “I went to a doctor once and he had me lie down on a
table he touched me here and here” touches both sides of his chest “and then said , give me money”. He remembers his home in
Palestine “Oh Palestine very good , very good “(this in English) “not like here” dismissively in Arabic. Ramzi interjects “He means
what is now Israel”. “In Palestine it was warm. You could sleep outside with just a blanket, and eat oranges off the trees. We got
along fine with the Jews. The British were --so so (this again in English,) Churchill very good. Eisenhower very good. Jacques
Chiraq very good. Bush very bad. What you do in Iraq? What? It’s Haram”(unclean something bad). I tell him that there are good
people in the US and not everyone supports the war. Of course says Ramzi he just means the government he doesn’t like any
governments. Later he tells a story of a young boy shot and killed by soldiers in the tiny street where we were sitting in front of his
house. He makes the sound effects of the gun. Then says, “ haram, haram”. During dinner he points to Samuel, the 26 year old
French percussionist, and says, “He can’t understand anything about life. He’s too young. What could he understand.?” Everyone
looks at Samuel and laughs. “But you and I, we are old . We understand about life.” I nod sagely and look around the room.
Everyone laughs. At one point he begins talking about terrorism and he gestures to the room we’re sitting in. “If they filled this room
and out in the hall”, points, “and the whole first floor of the house”. He’s very specific and finally “the whole house upstairs too. If
they filled the whole house with money and asked me to kill someone I wouldn’t do it.” I ask Ramzi if his grandfather ever comes to
concerts to hear him play, and he says “No he would just start talking. You can’t control him.” Another evening my stomach is a
little unsettled and he has his wife, Ramzi’s grandmother, fix me tea of marabia (a kind of sage) “Marabia tea is very very good. “ He
adds that Arafat would still be alive if he had drunk marabia tea.
Kamal is a driver. He picked me up at the airport with his van. He has Israeli plates. As we approach Ramallah on the main road he
points to a village just off the road to the north. “That is my village. It’s a very nice village. “There used to be a road right to his
house. “Two minutes.” Now he has to cross the checkpoint, drive through Ramallah and all the way around. “They are crazy” he
laughs. I’m horrified by my first sight of the wall. It reminds me of something out of Lord of the Rings but Kamal just laughs and
says “crazy” again. As we drive though the Qalandia camp just past the check point, 5 or 6 people call out to him to say hello. He
greets every one and smiles. “I was born in this camp”. Over the next four weeks I see a lot of Kamal. He is the first driver called
when we have to cross into east Jerusalem. One Sunday morning he picks me up at the center to take me to the Shufat refugee
camp. I’m just learning my way around Ramallah but it seems to me we’re almost to the Qalandia checkpoint. “Are we going to
Jerusalem? I don¹t have my passport.” ”Oh Dobbs, Dobbs you need your passport”. No one had told me we we’re crossing the
checkpoint. We’re not crossing the border. It’s very confusing. We race back to the flat where I’m staying. I’m worried about
being late because someone from the American Consulate is coming to see a show. We pass the checkpoint and find the school after
crawling through garbage strewn streets with smoldering toxic fires everywhere. Up above on top of a hill is a west Jerusalem
neighborhood. You can see the trees and gardens and the red tile roofs. At the school it turns out they were expecting us on
Monday. It’s a Muslim school so of course they’re open on Sunday. The woman from the consulate doesn’t come. She’s at home
because it’s Sunday. None of this seems to matter and I do three performances for the girls at the school. I could have gone on
indefinitely but we have to get back for an evening concert in Jerusalem. While I’m playing for the kids, Kamal listens and smiles,
and translates for me. I don’t realize it but I¹m making a good impression on him. That night as we’re driving into Jerusalem and
have brazened our way past the second checkpoint and everyone but me is smoking madly in relief, he calls out: “Dobbs I love you.
Do you love me?” “Yes I love you Kamal” everyone is laughing. From then on whenever I see him he says “Dobbs I still love you.
Do you love me?” He tells me “You are the first American person that I like. I’m sorry. I tell the truth”. A week later on the long
ride to Nazareth we pass a prison. He says “That is a prison for Palestinians” and then adds, “I was there for six months.” “Why”, I
say.” He mimes talking too much. I tell him that in the states I perform in prisons. “I would like to play in there”. “That’s a good
idea but the Israelis would not agree”. I say that six months is a long time and he says “Yes and no. In a life no, but it’s a long time.
I had good friends there”. After a while he adds “In all I was four and one half years in Israeli prisons.” Several days later he picks
me up in Nazareth and we take the long way around through the unbearable traffic of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem to drop me at the home
of an Israeli pianist, Lena Nemirovsky, for a rehearsal for a Brahms sonata I’ll be playing with her on my final day. We pass a kibbutz
where I spent some time doing workshops. At his home for dinner one night he had shown me his books. Karl Marks. “I used to be
a communist” he had said. I mention that kibitzes are communist. “Yes” he says “they are economic communist”. Clearly not the
important part to him. “Dobbs when I was young I was a communist but it is a (searches for the word) fantasia. In the reality it
does not work”. He shrugs. Just past the airport he says look there at the end of the stone wall. He slows down and drives onto the
verge. Just to the left of the highway on a hill is a long wall. At it’s end a beautiful old stone house of two stories appears. “That is
my grandfathers house”, he says. “My house.” This was the only time I ever saw a trace of bitterness on his face. “The Israelis are
always crying about the Germans. I was not there. My grandfather was not there. Every year they get millions of dollars from
banks in Switzerland. They took my grandfather’s house and they don’t give him, or my father, or me anything.” On my last day I
play a concert with Lena at a music school in the German colony in west Jerusalem. Kamal had told me “Dobbs that’s a very rich
place the president lives there.” I am hoping that my friends from Al Kamanjati will come, but I don’t expect it. They would have to
sneak in and Kamal would be risking his job and being sent back to prison, but at one minute to eight they arrive; Ramzi, Marie, who
is French the director of the center, and Kamal -- beaming. After the concert we walk around the corner to a restaurant for food and
beer with some Israeli friends. I tell Kamal to keep a look out for the president. “Oh yes I have some things to tell him “. At the
restaurant, Kamal after some thought, finally orders a beer. He has been keeping Ramadan faithfully with only two days to go. “This
is a special night so I will drink beer with Dobbs. He is the only American I like. I’m sorry. It is true.”
I met many wonderful people: Tareq the percussionist. Samuel the marimba player, Basam the husband of one of the board members
of Al Kamanjati. He works in the election commission with people from the Carter institute preparing for the municipal elections in
January. One night at dinner he told the story of the lions in Ramallah square, a place familiar to TV viewers during the two intifadas.
The lions were designed by an Italian designer and he was sending the final drawings to the municipality of Ramallah or who ever had
commissioned them, and since the payment was late he penciled in a watch on one of the lion’s paws as a reminder to send the
check. Inadvertently the drawings were sent on to China without anyone thinking to erase the penciled on watch, so when the lions
arrived in Palestine, one came complete with wristwatch. The next day I made the pilgrimage to the square (it’s called square on all
the maps but it’s round). There was the watch on the lion facing north, set permanently at quarter past six. Their tails were cut off
by the Israeli soldiers a few years ago and they are covered with graffiti but there is something about a stone lion that just works.
The night after I heard the story I wrote this poem and then set it to music and sang it at a concert in Ramallah with accompaniment
from Ramzi on Bazouk, Tareq on Arabic percussion and Samuel on marimba.
In Ramallah square where six roads meet
in circle round four lions stand,
dreamt in Palestine, drawn in Italy
and made in China’s mainland.
And
(swing) One of them wears a wrist watch, wrist watch, wrist watch,
one of them wears a wristwatch.
Their faces stone. Their eyes see not,
yet nothing escapes their gaze.
And all they see, is all there is
in that square so round amid the haze.
And
One of them wears a wrist watch, wrist watch, wrist watch,
one of them wears a wristwatch.
Tanks and guns and CNN and children throwing stones
bullets of rubber, bullets of lead
gun ships, rockets, people lying dead.
Somewhere mercy groans.
The lions look, each grieving for his
And
One lion knows what time it is, time it is, time it is,
one lion knows what time it is.
The soldiers are angry. Their restraint fails.
Like Alice’s queen they shout “Off with their tails!”
Now the soldiers have left. The lions bereft,
tailless they watch , where their tails were a notch.
Still
One of them has his wrist watch, wrist watch, wristwatch,
one of them has his wrist watch.
After the concert Basam comes up to me nodding his head and says “Still, one of them has his wrist watch”. “It’s not much” I say.
“But it’s something” he answers.
Dobbs
Nelson, NH
United States
November 6, 2005
Tour of Palestine West Bank October 3rd to October 31st summary:
Fri 7 - Gathering at the home of the director of the French cultural center, 15 people
Mon 10 – Al Hallyah School in Ramallah, 65 kids
Tues. 11 - Al Amari refugee camp community center, 25 kids
Wed 12 - Nablus refugee camp community center, 40 kids
Evening concert for adults, 100 people
Thurs 13 - Qalandia camp community center, 35 kids
Sun 16 - Three performances at Shufat refugee camp girls school, 120 kids
Evening performance in Suk Al Quatani at Qods University in the Old City of Jerusalem, 50 people
Mon 17 - Two performances for music appreciation classes for very young children at the Al Kamanjati center, 17 kids
Tues. 18 - Evening performance at the Sakakini Center in Ramallah, 65 people
Wed 19 - Latin school and high school in Taibeh , 75 kids
Master class and performance at the National Conservatory in Ramallah, 15 kids.
Fri 21 - Two performances at an elementary school in Nazareth, 65 kids
Sat 22 - Four performances at two elementary schools in Nazareth, 120 kids
Evening performance with and for teachers and students at Beit el Music music school in Shafar’am, 30 parents and students
Mon 24 - Friends School Ramallah, 100 kids
Center for Children's Blood Diseases, parents and children, 40 people
Tues. 25 - Jenin number one refugee camp girls’ school 80 kids, boys school 80 kids
Jenin American school 60 kids
Wed 26 - Refugee camp in Bethlehem girls school 80 kids , boys school 80 kids, private school after school program 15 kids,
master class at National Conservatory
Bethlehem with performance 2 kids , evening concert 45 people
Thus 27 - Master class and performance at National Conservatory East Jerusalem, 5 kids
Evening performance in Hebron 150 kids 100 adults
Fri 28 - Two performances at the orphanage of Home of Good Hope Assyria, 60 kids. Evening performance at the National Theater
of Palestine in East Jerusalem sponsored by the American Consulate, 65 people
kids 1324
adults 475
performances 37
check point searches
The orphan boy in the back of the room stood up to give his answer. How did listening to the Sarabande of the Bach d minor Suite
make him feel? Others had said: sadness, like the sea, calm. His answer was translated to me as “It makes me feel like I’ve just
come home”. It’s the last day of my month long visit to Palestine west bank and I’m playing in an orphanage for young boys 6 to 12
called Home of Good Hope in Assyria, a town just east of Jerusalem. I feel that my trip is a success to have given that boy that
feeling even for a short while.
In 22 days of concerts I’ve given 37 performances, played in every major city, logged countless hours on bad roads in vans, played in
six refugee camps, reached almost 1500 children and 500 adults and sadly; been questioned and searched at 29 check points.
Traveling is really difficult in the west bank. Most of the main roads are either closed to all, open only to Israeli citizens, or are open
only to public transportation i.e. taxis or licensed vans. There are checkpoints between every city and flying checkpoints where ever
and whenever. Many checkpoints close at night so that no travel of any kind is permitted. In addition the logical routes of travel from
north to south all lie through Jerusalem where no vehicle without Israeli plates is allowed, such that a trip from Ramallah to Bethlehem
which would take 30 minutes if you could drive straight now takes 3 hours mostly on back roads not designed for any thing but local
traffic and demands a huge round about circle around Jerusalem. Hebron is a whopping 4 hours. I did it with some luck at the check
point straight through Jerusalem in an hour and a half. I was in a van with Israeli plates but when we got to Hebron all the roads into
the city had been closed because of a bombing somewhere in Israel. After passing all the normal possibilities, my driver spotted a
trash can fire on a hillside above a small cut in the guard rail of the fine American style highway we were on, and after checking the
route cursorily, plunged down a ten foot embankment as I hung on to my bass, creamed the underside of the van on rocks at the
bottom and clawed his way up the other side onto a narrow donkey road between rock walls. (It was his brothers’ van and he got his
the next day). At the fire we paid a five shekel fee to a couple of boys and after 15 minutes of wandering along farm roads with
several dead ends found our way into Hebron. The rest of the group had come the long way around from Ramallah and had taken
another route through a rocky field into town.
On another occasion traveling to Jenin to play at schools in the refugee camp, we were stopped angrily at a check point and not
allowed to go forward or back. We waited for 20 minutes while our passports and ID card numbers were checked through some
security network. After 20 minutes a different soldier retrieved our documents and let us through. “Open and close the gate yourself,
please” he said. On the way back the soldiers would not let us pass. “But we crossed this way this morning” we said. “You couldn’t
have” they countered. This went on for about 15 minutes and finally they wanted us to describe the soldier who had let us though.
We did that and finally because they didn’t know what to do and because it was clear we were from Ramallah and not Jenin they said.
“Get back in the van and drive as fast as you can out of here”. I didn’t like the sound of that but it was no problem for our driver
Shaidy who always drives as fast as he can and we passed out of there.
For most Palestinians the solution to the difficulty of travel is not to go anywhere, so when people in Ramallah learned we had been to
play concerts in Nablus and Jenin their amazed reaction was, “How are things there?” For Ramzi and Al Kamanjati it’s just the price
of doing business and plans to offer lessons in camps in all the major cities are progressing. There are already 10 students from the
camp in Bethlehem studying at the conservatory in a deal that Ramzi made with them to insure that he would continue teaching their
students with 20 more to start soon. Nablus, Jenin, and Hebron will follow. My hope is that some of the children I played for will
step forward and sign up for lessons as they become available.
I’ve met some unforgettable characters here. Ramzi’s grandfather is a refugee from somewhere near the Israeli international airport.
If only he could see it now. He and Ramzi’s grandmother have lived in the Al Amari camp since 1948. They left everything they had
and ended up camped in a field near Ramallah living in a tent expecting to stay a few weeks. He and his wife are tiny and almost
toothless. He thinks he is somewhere between 75 and 80 years old. Starting with nothing he has made a life here and raised children
and grandchildren. Ramzi and a cousin with his family still live with them in the house their grandfather built. The paths between
tents became paths between tin shacks and now narrow walk ways between houses. Ramzi’s grandfather doesn’t have
conversations mostly he gives speeches but they are worth listening to, wise and often very funny. Ramzi simul translates into
English unless he’s out of the room in which case his grandfather plows on even though I am not able to understand what he’s
saying. It makes me want to study Arabic. He doesn’t like doctors. He says “I went to a doctor once and he had me lie down on a
table he touched me here and here” touches both sides of his chest “and then said , give me money”. He remembers his home in
Palestine “Oh Palestine very good , very good “(this in English) “not like here” dismissively in Arabic. Ramzi interjects “He means
what is now Israel”. “In Palestine it was warm. You could sleep outside with just a blanket, and eat oranges off the trees. We got
along fine with the Jews. The British were --so so (this again in English,) Churchill very good. Eisenhower very good. Jacques
Chiraq very good. Bush very bad. What you do in Iraq? What? It’s Haram”(unclean something bad). I tell him that there are good
people in the US and not everyone supports the war. Of course says Ramzi he just means the government he doesn’t like any
governments. Later he tells a story of a young boy shot and killed by soldiers in the tiny street where we were sitting in front of his
house. He makes the sound effects of the gun. Then says, “ haram, haram”. During dinner he points to Samuel, the 26 year old
French percussionist, and says, “He can’t understand anything about life. He’s too young. What could he understand.?” Everyone
looks at Samuel and laughs. “But you and I, we are old . We understand about life.” I nod sagely and look around the room.
Everyone laughs. At one point he begins talking about terrorism and he gestures to the room we’re sitting in. “If they filled this room
and out in the hall”, points, “and the whole first floor of the house”. He’s very specific and finally “the whole house upstairs too. If
they filled the whole house with money and asked me to kill someone I wouldn’t do it.” I ask Ramzi if his grandfather ever comes to
concerts to hear him play, and he says “No he would just start talking. You can’t control him.” Another evening my stomach is a
little unsettled and he has his wife, Ramzi’s grandmother, fix me tea of marabia (a kind of sage) “Marabia tea is very very good. “ He
adds that Arafat would still be alive if he had drunk marabia tea.
Kamal is a driver. He picked me up at the airport with his van. He has Israeli plates. As we approach Ramallah on the main road he
points to a village just off the road to the north. “That is my village. It’s a very nice village. “There used to be a road right to his
house. “Two minutes.” Now he has to cross the checkpoint, drive through Ramallah and all the way around. “They are crazy” he
laughs. I’m horrified by my first sight of the wall. It reminds me of something out of Lord of the Rings but Kamal just laughs and
says “crazy” again. As we drive though the Qalandia camp just past the check point, 5 or 6 people call out to him to say hello. He
greets every one and smiles. “I was born in this camp”. Over the next four weeks I see a lot of Kamal. He is the first driver called
when we have to cross into east Jerusalem. One Sunday morning he picks me up at the center to take me to the Shufat refugee
camp. I’m just learning my way around Ramallah but it seems to me we’re almost to the Qalandia checkpoint. “Are we going to
Jerusalem? I don¹t have my passport.” ”Oh Dobbs, Dobbs you need your passport”. No one had told me we we’re crossing the
checkpoint. We’re not crossing the border. It’s very confusing. We race back to the flat where I’m staying. I’m worried about
being late because someone from the American Consulate is coming to see a show. We pass the checkpoint and find the school after
crawling through garbage strewn streets with smoldering toxic fires everywhere. Up above on top of a hill is a west Jerusalem
neighborhood. You can see the trees and gardens and the red tile roofs. At the school it turns out they were expecting us on
Monday. It’s a Muslim school so of course they’re open on Sunday. The woman from the consulate doesn’t come. She’s at home
because it’s Sunday. None of this seems to matter and I do three performances for the girls at the school. I could have gone on
indefinitely but we have to get back for an evening concert in Jerusalem. While I’m playing for the kids, Kamal listens and smiles,
and translates for me. I don’t realize it but I¹m making a good impression on him. That night as we’re driving into Jerusalem and
have brazened our way past the second checkpoint and everyone but me is smoking madly in relief, he calls out: “Dobbs I love you.
Do you love me?” “Yes I love you Kamal” everyone is laughing. From then on whenever I see him he says “Dobbs I still love you.
Do you love me?” He tells me “You are the first American person that I like. I’m sorry. I tell the truth”. A week later on the long
ride to Nazareth we pass a prison. He says “That is a prison for Palestinians” and then adds, “I was there for six months.” “Why”, I
say.” He mimes talking too much. I tell him that in the states I perform in prisons. “I would like to play in there”. “That’s a good
idea but the Israelis would not agree”. I say that six months is a long time and he says “Yes and no. In a life no, but it’s a long time.
I had good friends there”. After a while he adds “In all I was four and one half years in Israeli prisons.” Several days later he picks
me up in Nazareth and we take the long way around through the unbearable traffic of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem to drop me at the home
of an Israeli pianist, Lena Nemirovsky, for a rehearsal for a Brahms sonata I’ll be playing with her on my final day. We pass a kibbutz
where I spent some time doing workshops. At his home for dinner one night he had shown me his books. Karl Marks. “I used to be
a communist” he had said. I mention that kibitzes are communist. “Yes” he says “they are economic communist”. Clearly not the
important part to him. “Dobbs when I was young I was a communist but it is a (searches for the word) fantasia. In the reality it
does not work”. He shrugs. Just past the airport he says look there at the end of the stone wall. He slows down and drives onto the
verge. Just to the left of the highway on a hill is a long wall. At it’s end a beautiful old stone house of two stories appears. “That is
my grandfathers house”, he says. “My house.” This was the only time I ever saw a trace of bitterness on his face. “The Israelis are
always crying about the Germans. I was not there. My grandfather was not there. Every year they get millions of dollars from
banks in Switzerland. They took my grandfather’s house and they don’t give him, or my father, or me anything.” On my last day I
play a concert with Lena at a music school in the German colony in west Jerusalem. Kamal had told me “Dobbs that’s a very rich
place the president lives there.” I am hoping that my friends from Al Kamanjati will come, but I don’t expect it. They would have to
sneak in and Kamal would be risking his job and being sent back to prison, but at one minute to eight they arrive; Ramzi, Marie, who
is French the director of the center, and Kamal -- beaming. After the concert we walk around the corner to a restaurant for food and
beer with some Israeli friends. I tell Kamal to keep a look out for the president. “Oh yes I have some things to tell him “. At the
restaurant, Kamal after some thought, finally orders a beer. He has been keeping Ramadan faithfully with only two days to go. “This
is a special night so I will drink beer with Dobbs. He is the only American I like. I’m sorry. It is true.”
I met many wonderful people: Tareq the percussionist. Samuel the marimba player, Basam the husband of one of the board members
of Al Kamanjati. He works in the election commission with people from the Carter institute preparing for the municipal elections in
January. One night at dinner he told the story of the lions in Ramallah square, a place familiar to TV viewers during the two intifadas.
The lions were designed by an Italian designer and he was sending the final drawings to the municipality of Ramallah or who ever had
commissioned them, and since the payment was late he penciled in a watch on one of the lion’s paws as a reminder to send the
check. Inadvertently the drawings were sent on to China without anyone thinking to erase the penciled on watch, so when the lions
arrived in Palestine, one came complete with wristwatch. The next day I made the pilgrimage to the square (it’s called square on all
the maps but it’s round). There was the watch on the lion facing north, set permanently at quarter past six. Their tails were cut off
by the Israeli soldiers a few years ago and they are covered with graffiti but there is something about a stone lion that just works.
The night after I heard the story I wrote this poem and then set it to music and sang it at a concert in Ramallah with accompaniment
from Ramzi on Bazouk, Tareq on Arabic percussion and Samuel on marimba.
In Ramallah square where six roads meet
in circle round four lions stand,
dreamt in Palestine, drawn in Italy
and made in China’s mainland.
And
(swing) One of them wears a wrist watch, wrist watch, wrist watch,
one of them wears a wristwatch.
Their faces stone. Their eyes see not,
yet nothing escapes their gaze.
And all they see, is all there is
in that square so round amid the haze.
And
One of them wears a wrist watch, wrist watch, wrist watch,
one of them wears a wristwatch.
Tanks and guns and CNN and children throwing stones
bullets of rubber, bullets of lead
gun ships, rockets, people lying dead.
Somewhere mercy groans.
The lions look, each grieving for his
And
One lion knows what time it is, time it is, time it is,
one lion knows what time it is.
The soldiers are angry. Their restraint fails.
Like Alice’s queen they shout “Off with their tails!”
Now the soldiers have left. The lions bereft,
tailless they watch , where their tails were a notch.
Still
One of them has his wrist watch, wrist watch, wristwatch,
one of them has his wrist watch.
After the concert Basam comes up to me nodding his head and says “Still, one of them has his wrist watch”. “It’s not much” I say.
“But it’s something” he answers.
Dobbs
Nelson, NH
United States
November 6, 2005
Tour of Palestine West Bank October 3rd to October 31st summary:
Fri 7 - Gathering at the home of the director of the French cultural center, 15 people
Mon 10 – Al Hallyah School in Ramallah, 65 kids
Tues. 11 - Al Amari refugee camp community center, 25 kids
Wed 12 - Nablus refugee camp community center, 40 kids
Evening concert for adults, 100 people
Thurs 13 - Qalandia camp community center, 35 kids
Sun 16 - Three performances at Shufat refugee camp girls school, 120 kids
Evening performance in Suk Al Quatani at Qods University in the Old City of Jerusalem, 50 people
Mon 17 - Two performances for music appreciation classes for very young children at the Al Kamanjati center, 17 kids
Tues. 18 - Evening performance at the Sakakini Center in Ramallah, 65 people
Wed 19 - Latin school and high school in Taibeh , 75 kids
Master class and performance at the National Conservatory in Ramallah, 15 kids.
Fri 21 - Two performances at an elementary school in Nazareth, 65 kids
Sat 22 - Four performances at two elementary schools in Nazareth, 120 kids
Evening performance with and for teachers and students at Beit el Music music school in Shafar’am, 30 parents and students
Mon 24 - Friends School Ramallah, 100 kids
Center for Children's Blood Diseases, parents and children, 40 people
Tues. 25 - Jenin number one refugee camp girls’ school 80 kids, boys school 80 kids
Jenin American school 60 kids
Wed 26 - Refugee camp in Bethlehem girls school 80 kids , boys school 80 kids, private school after school program 15 kids,
master class at National Conservatory
Bethlehem with performance 2 kids , evening concert 45 people
Thus 27 - Master class and performance at National Conservatory East Jerusalem, 5 kids
Evening performance in Hebron 150 kids 100 adults
Fri 28 - Two performances at the orphanage of Home of Good Hope Assyria, 60 kids. Evening performance at the National Theater
of Palestine in East Jerusalem sponsored by the American Consulate, 65 people
kids 1324
adults 475
performances 37
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