Going to the back of the bus

Historically, riding in the back of the bus has been quite controversial. Bus seating can be quite the social statement during certain times and places in history. Yesterday I was moved by the social statements I found in the back of the bus to Arad.

Now, I love sitting at the back of the bus. Not because of some great social statement, but because the back of the bus is the only place with a seat in the middle aisle that allows me to stretch out the legs of my 6’1” body. We were traveling from Jerusalem to Arad and it’s a 4 hour process that would otherwise require my legs to be squished for that length of time. My wife prefers the front as her 5’4” frame has no issue with the bus seating, but she tolerates my preference.

During the last leg of our trip from the city of Beer Sheva to Arad we sat ourselves down next to a young woman with a pink backpack on her lap. She looked to be in her early 20’s and was very carefully dressed. She had a beautiful ankle length pink patterned skirt, a black turtle neck top that covered her from her wrists to just under the chin, and a pink and black head scarf that covered her entire scalp, including her ears. It was clear that everything she was wearing was folded or pinned in place so that it would not shift to reveal an inch of skin that wasn’t her face or hands. The woman, round and dark, greeted us with a warm smile when we sat down.

Michal and I were unsure of our next stop so Michal turned to the neatly dressed woman and asked her in Hebrew if she could help us recognize the stop we wanted. As in many cases with us in Israel, an innocent question turned into a deep and bonding conversation. She was younger than her face revealed, only 18. She was Bedouin, and for those of you who don’t know, the Bedouins predate the Jews, Christians and the Muslims in Israel. Traditionally they lived harsh nomadic lives, living off the herd animals they bred. Though most Bedouin now live in small makeshift houses in random locations in the desert, their lives have not improved much. I suspect it is beyond the American experience to understand the level of poverty that whole communities live in here in Israel. Most Bedouin have no plumbing and have minimal electricity, living in what would look to the outsider as communities of ramshackle shacks set amongst the sand dunes. Actually, they live a life much like the American Indian, at least the ones still living on reservations.

Our dark-skinned Bedouin, Haneen, appeared in better straits than most. She was dressed well and was in a position to afford schooling. She was fluent in both Hebrew and Arabic, and was very excited about her skill in the English language and her dream of being a journalist. “English” she said to us, “is the international language. I MUST learn this if I am going to be free.” She went on to show us her notebook with her English assignments. On the front page, nestled amongst the Arabic notes was the word “Freedom” written in large stylized letters. She pointed to this word and told us, “I wrote this after I saw this movie about this man in Scotland who was killed and yelled FREEDOM before he died.” I told her the movie she saw was about William Wallace, my ancestor. Her eyes lit up as if she was talking to Mel Gibson’s friend.

As I looked at the word passionately scribbled in her notebook I was immensely touched. Not because she was almost romantically in love with my mother tongue. Not because she had been moved by the story of my family ancestry. Not even because my American culture had managed to penetrate even this remote village community. Though these are all wonderful reasons to feel connected and even flattered by her, what moved me most was what she revealed about herself.

In that moment she revealed the passionate dream of her future, and in turn the dire oppression of her life. Her dream spoke of her hope to live a life of choice and self- direction. She described the importance of speaking a language that would allow her to talk to people she is now forbidden to talk to. In a life of her tradition she would marry a man of her parents’ choosing, her love of him would not be an issue in the matter. A man that would be in his right to beat her if he chose and she would have no place to go. She would not be allowed to choose where she could travel, and her life would be to bear children and serve her husband, nothing more. Her life would be not much more than one of servitude. She may at best be a pampered slave, but she would still be, in most regards, a slave.

Haneen had chosen a life of beyond this, a life of Freedom. Her family, blessed as they must be, seem to encourage it, or at the very least, not to forbid it. She made a point to state, that it will not be IF she becomes a journalist, but WHEN she becomes a journalist. She held on to her dream with the passion of the young, and the convention of the oppressed. With those seven letters in her notebook Haneen had written a novel.

I had never met someone, face to face, that actually lived a life that in my mind, had become extinct seven hundred years ago. It was surreal. I was strangely both sorry and proud of Haneen. She had more ambition than I ever had, and was overcoming more roadblocks than I could have ever imagined at her age.

It was strange to think that in Tel Aviv women walk around half naked if they like and seemingly have all the freedoms of their male counterparts: To marry the man that they love, to choose to work or to be a mother, or both. Two hundred miles away and the clock is set back seven hundred years. In the same country the life of a woman can take dramatically different paths. Israel believes in not interfering with the cultures of the ethnic groups that live within its borders, but I question the wisdom in that. In the United States, we have shown that separate is not equal, and the ways of some of the RESIDENT cultures are not only out of date, but ethically conflict with the learned ethical values. The simple idea of equal value on all human life is beyond these traditions and will forever be in conflict with the progression of this country. But then again, this is Israel and struggle is this country’s name.

Me, well I just like to ride in the back of the bus.

(Some pictures of Bedouin Women)