{"product_id":"mezzaterra-isbn-9781400096633","title":"Mezzaterra","description":"From the bestselling author of the Booker Prize finalist \u003cb\u003eThe Map of Love\u003c\/b\u003e–an incisive collection of essays on Arab identity, art, and politics that seeks to locate the mezzaterra, or common ground, in an increasingly globalized world.\u003cbr\u003eThe twenty-five years’ worth of criticism and commentary collected here have earned Ahdaf Soueif a place among our most prominent Arab intellectuals. Clear-eyed and passionate, and syndicated throughout the world, they are the direct result of Soueif’s own circumstances of being “like hundreds of thousands of others: people with an Arab or a Muslim background doing daily double-takes when faced with their reflection in a western mirror.” Whether an account of visiting Palestine and entering the Noble Sanctuary for the first time, an interpretation of women who choose to wear the veil, or her post—September 11 reflections, Soueif’s intelligent, fearless, deeply informed essays embody the modern search for identity and community.“Soueif is a political analyst and commentator of the best kind.” –\u003ci\u003eLondon Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Marvellous. . . . A writer of special importance. . . . Her combination of centred gravity, minute precision and insistent humanity generates highly clarified truth.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Independent\u003c\/i\u003eAhdaf Soueif was born in Cairo. She is the author of \u003cb\u003eAisha\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eSandpiper\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eIn the Eye of the Sun\u003c\/b\u003e, and the bestselling novel \u003cb\u003eThe Map of Love\u003c\/b\u003e,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ewhich was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1999. She also has translated from the Arabic the award-winning memoir \u003cb\u003eI Saw Ramallah\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eby Mourid Barghouti.POLITICAL ESSAYS\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mystery surrounds rules of engagement\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The rules of engagement used by the Israeli Defense Force and the border  police have always been something of a mystery . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Since the intifada, Israeli security forces have frequently used live  ammunition against demonstrators despite the absence of firearms on the  Palestinian side, producing a steady stream of deaths.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Guardian, Tuesday October 3, 2000\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Intifada 2000 dwarfs the original\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The slings and stones may be familiar, but the past weeks of  Palestinian-Israeli violence bear little resemblance to the intifada of  1987-93. They make it look almost gentlemanly . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mr Najjar recalls the mass arrests and bones broken deliberately by Israeli  security forces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'This time,' he says, 'they aim to kill.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Guardian, Friday October 27, 2000\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Under the Gun: A Palestinian Journey1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I have never, to my knowledge, seen an Israeli except on television. I have  never spoken to one. I cannot say I have wanted to. My life, like the life  of every Egyptian of my generation, has been overcast by the shadow of  Israel. I have longed to go to Palestine, but have not wished to go to  Israel. And now I am going there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I have not felt such anticipation or such fear since I was a child. For the  past two months I have been following the news of the Intifada.2 I have  compared the images on the BBC and CNN with those on al-Jazeera and other  Arab channels. I have unspun stories, fumed at the American newspapers and  been grateful for some of the reporting in some of the British press. I have  started and ended my days reading appeals for help on the Internet. And  again and again I have asked myself: 'What is it that I can do?' Now at last  I can do something; I can go see for myself, and write. But going means  going there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sunday 26 November 2000\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My suitcase is open, almost packed, on the bed. I bought it yesterday--with  wheels in case I have to drag it through barricades. The minicab is due in  half an hour.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Monday 27 November 2000\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It is the first day of Ramadan and we are on the road from Amman to the  bridge and I am staring out at the desert and thinking--as I always do--how  much I miss it when I'm in England: ten minutes of rolling sandy hills, then  rock formations rising like huge chocolate gateaux followed by sand again;  but this time rippling as though having a joke, then a bend in the road and  a green valley opens up and suddenly a row of bedouin women walking  elegantly along a ridge, then sand again and we are at the Jordanian  terminal which seems almost empty. We unload and our driver makes enquiries.  The West Bank, al-Daffa, is closed. He points to a large, low building and  through the windows we see that it is crammed with people. 'But Jerusalem?'  the woman with whom I've shared the taxi asks. Jerusalem, apparently, is  open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I know nothing of this woman except that the small daughter on the seat next  to her is called 'Malak', Angel. An orthodox priest in black robes and his  hair in a long grey braid comes out of the building and takes a taxi back to  Amman. We go to another part of the terminal. Buses are waiting, loaded with  people. Angel's mother decides to go VIP for the sake of the child. I walk  along behind her. We hand over our passports and are ushered into a large  room with sofas and Arabic newspapers. An official says that because I have  a British passport I must go with the 'foreigners' on the bus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'But she'll sit there for hours,' Angel's mother says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man shrugs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'She's Egyptian', she says, 'and it's her first time here. Let her stay with  us.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He asks me in Arabic if I'm Egyptian. I am. Am I willing to pay the eighteen  dinar VIP fee? I am. He disappears. An exhausted woman comes in. She says  she sat in this room yesterday from two till eight then was told Jerusalem  was closed and had to go back to Amman. But the man comes back and waves us  out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A van this time and when we get off, there it is--'Al-Jisr,' Umm Angel3  says--the bridge. A wooden construction, just like in the pictures, with  wooden walls so you can't jump off and into the Jordan river. The Jordan  river is a mere trickle of water. We walk across, two women and a  flame-haired child and there, above our heads, are Israeli soldiers just as  I've seen them on television for four decades: their eyes behind shades,  their faces behind machine guns and above them two crossed Israeli flags;  one fluttering in the breeze, the other caught in a spike of machinery and  lying limp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We stop at a kiosk and hand our passports in through a window to a young  woman in army uniform. She waves us on. Another van and on to another  terminal building. Had there been Jordanian soldiers and guns on the other  side? I didn't see any, but maybe I just didn't notice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We are sitting in a smallish, brightly lit room with vivid blue armchairs.  Serious attempts at decor have been made: a cactus growing out of a half  coconut shell tilts on an Arab-style carved wooden table, rubber plants and  plastic flowers droop from dusty glass shelves, an empty drinks dispenser  glows coldly in the corner. On the walls are three reproductions: two are  Kandinsky-like, but the third is a large close-up of the two forefingers of  God and Adam just failing to meet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A polite young Israeli comes in and asks me in broken Arabic to fill out  some forms. Then he comes back to escort us to the passport window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I say: 'I don't want my passport stamped.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He says: 'I know.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Al-Quds, Jerusalem, 2.30 p.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I head out of the hotel and start walking. Every car I pass I imagine  exploding into flames. How far away does one have to be not to be killed by  an exploding car? But the sun is shining as I head down Salah el-Din  Street--and I am at home. The street is lined with bakeries, haberdasheries,  shoe shops, small grocers, hairdressers. Girls in school uniform and  headscarves walk in groups, chatting, laughing. Boys loiter and watch them.  The names on the shops and the doctors' signs are the familiar mix of  Christian and Muslim Arab, French and Armenian. The French cultural centre  has wide-open doors and an inviting garden; there is a smell of roasting  coffee. It's like a smaller, cleaner, uncrowded Cairo. But two buildings  look different from the others: they are modern, precise, their angles are  sharp, they fly the Israeli flag, and they are the only ones where the gates  are made of steel bars--and are closed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But then appearing in front of me are the walls of the old city. Closer in I  see the ancient gateway and beside it an Israeli army car and five soldiers  armed with machine guns. I tie a scarf under my chin and walk past them,  through Bab al-Zahra,4 and I am in a medieval Arab city: Orshalim al-Quds,  Jerusalem the Sacred, a city made of rose-hued stone. The streets are paved  with it; like cobbles, only larger, the stones are worn smooth and shine in  the light. Down steps, round bends and another rosy alley stretches ahead.  The houses seem to grow out of the street. Around many of their green iron  doors are the decorations which mean that the resident has made the  pilgrimage to Makkah. You see these in any Egyptian village, but here,  instead of the representations of the pilgrim and his or her transport, you  get delicate drawings of flowers and birds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A small handwritten sign on the wall points to al-Aqsa. I walk down  Mujahedin Street. A small boy, maybe four years old, skips along chanting,  'Ya Saddam, ya habeeb, come and blow up Tel Abeeb.' A few steps behind him  his mother smiles at me. And now I am in front of the gateway to al-Haram  al-Sharif (the Noble Sanctuary). Inside the gateway, sitting at a wooden  table are three armed soldiers. One stands up and blocks my path: 'Papers.'  I don't like the look of the soldiers. I am one and they are three. My  passport is British but it says born in Cairo. Egypt has just recalled its  ambassador from Tel Aviv. But a couple of local men from the administration  of the mosque are standing just inside the gateway. I hand over my passport.  The soldier flicks through it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'In England, you live?' He has a heavy, East European accent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Yes.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I've been told don't explain, don't justify, don't be defensive. Minimal  response.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'What town?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'London.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Why are you going in?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I decide: 'To pray.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'You are Muslim?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Yes.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Israelis have closed the Haram to all Palestinians except residents of  Jerusalem. And Jerusalemite men under the age of forty-five are also not  allowed to go in. The soldier goes through my handbag which I have emptied  of everything except purse, tissues and comb. The other soldiers look into  the bag, too. He motions me on with his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A few steps and I am in the vast enclosure of the Haram. Brown earth with  shrubs, patches of grass, trees. The Haram wall to my left forms part of the  wall of the old city itself, to my right it forms the backs of houses and  churches. Stretching in front of me the path rises to meet a wide set of  pale steps leading to a great stone terrace and out of that rises the golden  Dome of the Rock. I sit on a low stone wall under the open sky surrounded by  small Mameluke structures and sense utter peace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Later the women come out of prayers. They look at me with open curiosity:  'Salamu aleikum!'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I return the greeting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'From where is the sister?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'From Egypt.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They want to know if I have somewhere to stay, otherwise any one of them  will take me home. They all live in the old city, the Dome of the Rock is  their local mosque; they nip down every day to pray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two minutes takes me round a corner, up some stairs and into Umm Yasir's  home. Her two young daughters-in-law are both students. They whisper and  laugh together over their books.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'She got married three days ago,' Umm Yasir says, pointing to one of the  girls. 'Just over a cup of coffee. Who can have a proper wedding now when  people are being killed every day?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Does the situation affect you here, in the old city?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Look!' Umm Yasir says, taking me to her door, pointing at the shuttered  house across the lane: 'The settlers took it over. They put chairs out here  in the lane and pick quarrels with the young people coming and going.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But how did they take it over?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Since Ariel Sharon bought two houses here he's made it easy for them.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But how? Who would sell to Sharon?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Awwad Abu Sneina. Everybody knew he was a spy. He vanished from the  neighbourhood and next thing we knew the Israeli flag went up on the house  and Sharon had bought it. But when Abu Sneina died there wasn't a burial  ground that would take him. One day my son was playing football and the ball  hit one of them [the settlers], they grabbed him and said they'd call the  police. We said go ahead, call the police. But they called some other  settlers instead. Two hundred of them came from Atarot Cohunim and beat us  with everything they had--even their walkie-talkies. The people praying in  the mosque heard the noise and came to our help and it was a battle. The  police said we were the aggressors. At the Hadasa hospital they would not  treat us under the insurance. They made us pay 450 shekels. Affect us? They  do what they like to us.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She talks of tear gas pumped into houses, of rubber bullets which the  Palestinian children peel to extract the steel marble within, which they  brace into their slingshots and aim back at the soldiers. She talks of the  threat to her mosque, of an ambulance bringing a seventy-eight-year-old  neighbour back from hospital, how soldiers searched it and stripped it down  to the radiator: 'They've grown afraid of the air itself.' I feel dizzy with  the detail piling up in my head. It is getting close to sunset and I leave  before I can be made to stay and eat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Through Bab el-Silsila I see several young Jewish men in black clothes  hurrying along and into the tunnel which--I assume--leads to the Wailing  Wall. Further along a mild-looking man wearing a yarmulke and leading two  children steps out of a building. From within I hear the sound of children  chanting in Hebrew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The sun has set and it is time to break my fast. In Bab el-Amoud a man at a  stall fills me a pitta bread with falafel, salad and tahina. He finds a  chair for me and places a glass of water on the ground at my side. I sit  inside the ancient gateway and eat--within sight of the army car and the  soldiers and beyond them a beautiful, Indian-looking building standing  alone. Two young men lean against a wall discussing what the Arab states can  reasonably be expected to do. If only Egypt and Jordan would open the  borders, they say, so we're not mice in a trap like this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Back at the hotel I phone a journalist contact. I ask a few questions then  my enthusiasm for this city bursts forth--and is met with silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'What? You don't agree?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Well, yes,' she says. 'It's just that I think everything would be so much  easier if it wasn't there.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I go out to the grocery next door. I want to buy some yoghurt and dates for  my pre-dawn meal. The TV set on the wall is tuned into a Palestinian channel  showing the news. Every pot of yoghurt I pick up is labelled in Hebrew only.  'Don't you have any Palestinian yoghurt?' I ask and the owner points me to  another refrigerator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The news comes through of five workers killed by settlers. A sixth man had  managed to get away. The ambulances had raced to the scene but been stopped  by the army. Everybody in the shop has stopped in mid-motion and is watching  the set. The tears roll down my face as someone's wife wails on the screen,  but everybody else is impassive. When the item is over they go back to what  they were doing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 1The Guardian, 18 and 19 December 2000 published this in a shorter form. The  full article appears here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2The word Intifada derives from the root nfd, to make a sudden, violent  movement. It carries connotations of 'involuntary', as when in shock or when  hit by a sudden realisation. It also carries connotations of shaking  something off: dust, lethargy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 3Umm is mother. A traditional form of referring to someone is through the  name of their child, so Umm Angel is Angel's mother. Angel's father would be  Abu Angel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 4Bab is door or gate. Bab el-Zahra is al-Zahra Gate. Interestingly the  Arabic and English names of the gates of Jerusalem are different. So what in  Arabic is Bab al-Khalil in English is the New Gate.","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304831406309,"sku":"NP9781400096633","price":14.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400096633.jpg?v=1767732606","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/mezzaterra-isbn-9781400096633","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}