When we received word that some of our favorite out rockers, Antigone Rising, were taking their tour to Israel, we thought it would be really fun to have them do a little tour blog for us. I mean, how often do you get to experience a different country through a band’s eyes? Thankfully, bassist and resident Tweeter Kristen Henderson was psyched on the idea and jumped in head-first to bring us: Dispatches from Holy Tour 2012.
Dena Brings Drum Therapy to Beit Issie Shapiro – Ra’anana Thursday 02.23.12 (Dena Tauriello)
In addition to playing shows for the people of Israel, the State Department also asked that we perform workshops throughout the course of our trip. After getting wind of my being a certified drum therapist, they asked if I would do some sessions at Israel’s largest and most-pioneering developmental disability facility, Beit Issie Shapiro in Ra’anana. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity.
I was briefed just prior to beginning the sessions – I would have severely autistic children. They didn’t speak or understand English. I felt a little nervous since most of my work has been with children on the autistic spectrum, such as high-functioning autistic, PDD (Pervasive Developmental Disorder), Aspergers and, most commonly, ADHD, with children who could easily understand my instructions.
These children were painfully impaired – so much so, that my speaking fluent Hebrew would not have made for an easier session. Some could barely hold the sticks and others simply couldn’t at all. Some had difficulties moving one of their arms and were not able to coordinate moving their legs, certainly not simultaneous to arms, which is a common course of the therapy.
Most common with this population is their incredible difficulty looking anyone in the eye and being able to listen to and follow directions. It was incredibly challenging getting them to do a fraction of what I asked them to do. More often than not, I had to physically manipulate their limbs to try to give them an understanding of what was being asked of them. And they still could not repeat the task. Again and again they were unable to do what was asked of them. But there were a few who, in the face of their consistent struggles, continued to smile their way through the entire experience. I stood in front of each seated child, asking them to perform an impossible task to them. But time and time again, they tried. They struggled. They failed. And they continued smiling.
As I was getting ready to leave the facility, I was presented with a plaque with photos of the session, which read the following:
Thank you for visiting Beit Issie Shapiro and sharing the magic of music! We appreciate your friendship and thank you for caring. With love from the Special children, families and staff of Beit Issie Shapiro.
I cried. But having been touched by these children, in their spirit, I will leave Israel smiling.
Second Leg of Holy Tour – The West Bank
Day 1: West Bank – Friday 02.24.12, 6PM (Kristen Henderson)
We gather in a conference room at the Ambassador Hotel, East Jerusalem with Cindy and Vin from the US Consulate General’s office for our security briefing. We make note during elevator ride that there was no need for a security briefing during the Israeli portion of our tour. We grow silent from jet lag and contemplation. But mostly jet lag.
Cindy and Vin are both so cute you could squeeze their faces. As they speak I start wondering how these consulate workers ever meet someone to marry, as they travel every few years from one volatile country to another. I think their lives are crazier than ours, that’s how crazy. I’m jolted back to the conversation as they reveal the protocol in case of an emergency evacuation from one of our scheduled events.
“It’s never happened in the two years I’ve been here, well, actually it did happen once. But never while we were out with Arts Envoys, and it actually turned out to be a false alarm,” Cindy relays to us with confidence and a nervous giggle that indicates she might be worried she’s scaring us to death. She finishes the thought, “If a security worker does grab you, don’t look back. We will handle your equipment.”
Okey dokey.
Day 1: West Bank – Friday 02.24.12, 7:30PM
Welcome Reception/Jam Session with Antigone Rising and Palestinian musicians from the region (Kristen Henderson)
Cindy and Vin tell us we’ll be heading to their boss, Frank’s, apartment for a party and jam session. Our gear will be set up and ready for us and Frank’s wife has cooked up a storm for the party. I start feeling jet lagged and like I wish we had the night off. Then I walk into the apartment and meet Frank. Somehow within two sentences of our conversation, Frank, Cathy and I realize we were all born in the same exact hospital in Glen Cove, New York. We are standing in an apartment in East Jerusalem. My jet lag passes instantly. I’m back in the moment loving every second of my experience, double dipping my falafel in the hummus and drinking Palestinian beer. Born in the same hospital on Long Island? That. Is. Cray. Cray. C’mon.
There is a Palestinian rap group called Zero Hour sitting together eating and drinking in the living room. They are speaking in Arabic and intimidate the s— out of me. Our band is clumped together on the sofa and I decide we can either isolate ourselves in exhaustion and shyness or we can have the full monty experience. I walk over to the intimidating rappers and say hello. They’re dressed in traditional rapper garb, baggy jeans, big heavy chains around their necks, ski hats on their heads. They look at me surprised that I approached them. I can’t remember what I said, but the next thing I know Nini Camps is by my side inviting Adley Arafat, AKA “Skulls Father” to sit in with us to bust a rhyme during “Who Knows What Tomorrow Will Bring.”
Kamal, a producer from American Idol in the United States, is at the party. He is in East Jerusalem helping the US Consulate produce a program called Ghaneeha, now in it’s third season. Ghaneeha is the American Idol of the West Bank. Kamal lights up at the thought of us mashing it up with Zero Hour. He tells me they’re a politically charged group, and I get the impression it’s not in a U2 sorta way.
We take the stage and call Adley up. I felt an instant connection with this kid, I can’t explain why. I just loved him from hello. And now he’s up on stage with us trading verses – he in Arabic, us in harmonized English. We have no idea what he said. I’m sure he had no idea what we said. When we were done, we fist pumped. He told us the group had to leave the party because they were from Nablus, on the other side of the wall, and they had to meet curfew. My eyebrows screwed around in confusion. I grabbed him before he left and, really quite naively said, “I’m a mother. I have a three-year-old son and daughter at home. I think it’s a good thing that you and your friends use art to convey your message of frustration over your situation in the West Bank. But please be careful because you have a mother that loves you and now we love you too.”
“Skulls Father” looked at me and giggled. He knew I had absolutely no idea what his life was like, and I’m not even sure he understood what I said. But in that moment we were connected as friends, as “artists in a cultural exchange,” and he gave me a huge hug as a driver from the Consulate General pulled him away to get him home in time.
Someone later explained to me that there was a wall built around the West Bank in 2000. I must have been busy drinking margaritas at Henrietta Hudson’s while that was in the news cycle. So, now I’m learning. Zero Hour was out on a 12 hour pass granted to them by the US Consulate to attend our welcome reception, but they had to return by curfew, which was 11PM. My head spun a bit trying to catch up with what it must feel like to be carted back to your own side of the wall by curfew. In 2012.
When we got home later that night, Nini and I skyped home. It was seven hours earlier in New York and our families were together celebrating my daughter Kate’s third birthday. Our kids were more interested in playing with each other than talking to their moms in the West Bank, so we made my Dad follow them around with an iPad camera and we watched them play for a half hour. Then we went to sleep in our Ernie and Bert twin beds in East Jerusalem.
Day 2 West Bank – Holy Tour – Saturday 02.25.12 (Nini Camps)
Sometimes you just can’t predict what the day will bring. The itinerary for said day read plain and simple that we had a cultural exchange in Ni’lin in the morning, a quick stop off at The Church of the Nativity, and then sound check and a concert in Bethlehem.
OK. Great. I’m ready.
Or am I?
The van takes us through East Jerusalem and we wind our way along the infamous wall that separates the Palestinian cities from the Israelite territory. The story of the wall (and of this country) is so vastly complicated that our Embassy liaison, try as she might, simply can’t put into words or a timeline just how complicated the situation here really is. At least not in a way that we can truly understand. However, we do start to realize just how real this situation is and how difficult it is for those who are actually living through it. I try to imagine just what it would feel like to have a wall built down 5th avenue in NYC. All of a sudden, it will take one hour to get from 5 East 5th to 5 West 5th because there is now a wall separating the two, and depending on what side you fall on, you might need a permit to get to the other side. I’m not trying to get political here and I certainly am not passing judgement, but I feel like regardless of where you fall in this debate (and from the looks of it, politicians aren’t even close to getting a solution) for people who are living in it day-to-day, it’s brutal.
Slowly the landscape changes from city to mountainside and before long we are approaching the city of Ni’ Lin. the streets wind so tight I wonder if the van will make it through, but eventually we near the top of a hill and come upon a small community center. We know there is a program scheduled where the women of Ni’ Lin have prepared some song and dance for us but nothing could have prepared us for the sight of these women lined up along the steps of the community center waiting for us to arrive.
Sidenote: Ni’ Lin village gained international attention several years ago as they demonstrated (and continue to demonstrate) against the building of the wall and continuous land confiscations by the Israeli state and the ongoing struggle for Israel and Palestine to find peace.
The sight of these women, many dressed in traditional clothing (sewn and embroidered robes representing their heritage, ancestry, and affiliations), lined up waiting for us was overwhelming. I mean, who the hell are we? We play rock and roll music and they’ve never even heard of us! But here they are ready to share themselves and their culture with us. It’s really a bit much to wrap your head around.
As we made our way into the room lined with plastic chairs, we were ushered into the front row. As everyone settled, a gorgeous little girl in full traditional dress made her way to me. I don’t know why, but I smiled at her and made some faces as she stared at me. She was about 4 years old and the daughter of one of the Ni’lin women. When I managed to get a smile out of her, I reached out and she jumped right into my arms. Why? I don’t know, but before long she was on my lap and curled into me. I think she was tired and the way I see it, American or not, I must have looked like as good a spot as any for her to curl up and nap.
It is a strange sensation to be stared at. We go to the zoo but seldom are we the “exhibit.” For much of this cultural exchange, that’s what it felt like. At one point i found my way to the bathroom and nearly scared the lights out of a young girl. She wasn’t expecting me to turn the corner and when she looked up, there I was. I mean, she jumped. There were plenty of other people around so it wasn’t like I snuck up on her. It was my American-ness that snuck up on her.
Eventually everyone found their spots and the event started. They danced and sang and while much of it was in Arabic, the narrative was easy enough: Scenes of a wedding reenacted by the teens, a local dance by the little ones, a poet, traditional songs by the elders. All the while I’m wondering how on earth we are going to perform after this. We are going to go over like a box of rocks!
It seems we are always getting introduced and having no idea it’s us they are talking about and this was no different. After a seemingly elaborate introduction, all eyes were on us. So, we plugged in and while we hoped for the best, what we got was through the roof!
Clapping, dancing, smiles and hoots – this all-female bunch was letting loose! No idea what we were saying but as the music hushed so did they, as the music crashed, so did the hoots. They followed along as if they’d been listening to the CD for weeks! It was unbelievable.
After the performance, lunch was served. Pita-like bread smothered with olive oil and sweet onions with a big chicken breast on top. We took our loaded plates and sat outside in the sun with all the women and ate our lunch together. No cutlery, just hands. No napkins (except for the smuggled toilet paper I had in my backpack!) and no beverage. But the women prepared this traditional dish just for us on this day and we dug in as if it was a slice from Joe’s Pizza in the West Village as opposed to an olive oil soaked, chicken topped pita bread in the West Bank.
This blog is hardly enough to really convey what the morning held. The energy and the environment, the women and this conflict that is their lives and the openness with which they shared themselves with us is beyond what words can describe. i feel that as Americans we are so jaded and accustomed to life as we know it – we seldom wonder about our borders unless we need to protect them and many of us (myself included) have our faces in our cell phones instead of looking out into the world.
Today i felt what it might be like for a young girl to be empowered just enough to know that her life probably won’t change no matter how hard she tries. Today i felt what it might be like to be so proud of your culture that when a music group from America says they will come and play for you, you open your doors so wide that they can’t help but see who you are.
This was just the morning.
After this we went to the Church of the Nativity, where the sweet baby Jesus himself began his sanctified life. All in day’s work right?
What a crazy life this is. To think that sometime during my high school years i decided i wanted to learn how to play guitar and forced my pudgy fingers into a G chord until I could play it up to speed with “Closer to Fine” on a worn-out cassette. This morning I was in the village of Ni’lin and followed that up with a walk through the Church of the Nativity laying my hands on the supposed birth place of Jesus Christ. The Jesus Christ everyone calls to when they are scared to death. The Jesus Christ everyone calls when they are pissed off. The Jesus Christ everyone calls to when shocked – that very same Jesus Christ!
Then cappuccino. Then the concert, in a palace that has been converted into a hotel. Who are we? This just feels like the kind of thing that you can’t make up. Oh, and there’s 1,000 people waiting for you to play and they proceed to dance and clap and cheer throughout the entire show even though few speak English. Then they insist on photos and autographs after the show. It was Beatlemania without the Beatles.
The Middle East. Who knew?
Day 3: West Bank 02.26.12 (Kristen Henderson)
After being whisked from our show in a Sultan’s Palace turned hotel in Bethlehem the night prior, we were taken to an after party in the Palace’s disco tech where we proceeded to, let’s say, celebrate. As we raised our glasses for a toast, I was reminded by my manager that I would be appearing on a TV news program the following morning. The 11 p.m. imposed West Bank curfew turned out to be a blessing in disguise as the United States security detail yanked us out of the Sultan’s palace like a bunch of Cinderellas about to turn into pumpkins.
At 4:50 a.m. I was woken to the sound of Muslim prayer chanting. It happens five times a day in the city of Jerusalem, and it’s actually quite lovely if you’re not trying to sleep or aren’t caught off guard by its initial onset. On this morning it happened to come in extremely handy as an alarm clock.
I dragged my heavy head into the bathroom, sprayed my head with dry shampoo, and began contemplating what type of questions might be tossed at me on a morning program called Good Morning Palestine.
As we weaved around tight bends up and down desert hills at mach speed on our way to the television studio, I began to get car sick. I imagined getting to the studio and running straight into the ladies room just before going live on air. Then my imagination took it a step further, my imagination can never resist itself, and I envisioned actually getting sick while on the air. I wondered if that would make international news, American rocker girl loses her cookies on Palestinian TV. I then wondered if that would help or hurt our career. Before my imagination could take me any further, we rolled up on our destination.
Any thought of getting ill from car sickness left my body, only to be overtaken by the sensation of getting ill from nerves. The building we were about to enter was heavily guarded. It was also evident it had undergone some type of attack. By our standards, it was condemnable.
We climbed three of four or five flights of steps, it was all happening in slow motion at this point. There were men smoking in the stairwells staring at us. In we came, leather jackets on, Frye boots laced up, me with my hair meticulously flat ironed with week old bright red highlights in it. We were ready for a morning television appearance. The question was, were they ready for us.
Upon entering the studio I was promptly introduced to my interpreter, Osama. He reached out, shook my hand, and asked me to speak to him so he could get used to my dialect. I started babbling about the history of rock n’ roll in the United States, stealing my story from something Dena (our drummer) recited to a room full of students a few days earlier in Jaffa. Some of the program workers apologized to us for the appearance of the building. “We haven’t been able to fix it up since the last incident.”
I was moments away from going live on air, ear piece in so Osama could interpret every word being said between me, Cindy from the U.S. Consulate, and the hosts. I was there to announce where Antigone Rising would be performing for the next several days. Cindy was there for everything else, so I thought.
Suddenly, I hear Osama’s interpretive words clearly directed at me, “Why do you think your coming here means anything to the women in these villages?”
I pressed in on the ear plug tucked in my ear, as if that was going to change the question. Osama’s voice disappeared. The host’s words had been fully interpreted. It was time for an answer. I took a deep breath, and knew I had to come up with something honest and meaningful. After a fleeting vision of getting sick on the air, I opened my mouth and said, “We come here as mothers, as sisters, as daughters. We walk into these villages to learn about your culture and traditions and to hopefully share ours with all of you. We leave as friends who feel our worlds aren’t as far apart as we thought they were. And we’ll be at the YMCA in East Jerusalem at 4 p.m.” Osama began interpreting my words in Arabic for the television viewers. I took a deep breath and looked over at Nini and Julie across the room giving me a thumb’s up.
Later that evening, the host of Good Morning Palestine was at our show.
Day 4, Final Day, West Bank 02.27.12 (Nini Camps)
I’m sitting in our East Jerusalem hotel looking at my luggage and wondering how it might be possible to put this trip into words. I mean, the fact that I am in Jerusalem as an art envoy/cultural ambassador still makes my head spin. Not only that, but I only have about 20 minutes before we head out for dinner and then to the airport back to NYC. That’s the other thing, the schedule has been so jam packed that the days have become a blur of activity. Specific events are real and vibrant but hard to organize in a timeline. It’s as if my memories and experiences are a carousel of flashing colors and lights. They all just spin around and around waiting for me to pluck one out of the sky, think on it and then put it back.
I do remember today, though, and early this morning we played an all-girl school in East Jerusalem. The music director of the school had one of his classes prepare three of our songs that they would then perform with us during the show. In addition, we held a workshop with this class to talk about our music and American music in general. In fact, we weren’t given any specific information as to what we would share with the girls so in the end, we gave a crash course on improvisation by improvising the whole workshop! It was one of those times though, when you wonder if the tables shouldn’t be turned. These girls were being trained to sing beautiful arias and opera and they wanted us to talk about rock ‘n roll!
The way they sang our songs made them sound far more sophisticated than I could have imagined. These sweet, angelic voices raised together singing “Hey now mamma I’ll go anywhere you want to go…”! I didn’t know what to do with myself. As I sat there, I remembered writing the song in my Brooklyn apartment (with my pal McCowan) having a good laugh as we wrote, played and sang this honky tonk little ditty. It was impossible to take it very seriously. It was just fun. Fast forward to Jerusalem and here are these sweet girls singing away, reading their lyric and sheet music. It was too much; you couldn’t rip the smile off my face.
Later that morning, during the show itself (this time in the school auditorium for the whole school) there were a few other highlights. Or, rather, low lights. Our amps, lights and sound system kept blowing out the power! Several times during the show the electricity just shut down. It didn’t seem to matter much. In fact, sometimes I think these sorts of things make a show better. It changes the dynamic of the whole event. All of a sudden we are on our toes not sure which way this thing is going to go. You wonder, “Well, do we stop? Do we wait for the power to come back? Will it come back? Are those cookies still backstage?” So many thoughts to consider in a split second. Luckily the girls were so enthused.
It was such an amazing process to watch. They were all very polite at the start of the show. In their seats, clad in their uniforms (which brought me back to my own school days), they were excited and eager and they clapped and waved their arms in the air. At one point the girls in the back rows started getting up and standing on their chairs. Soon the girls in the front started to stand. After that it is hard to tell when or how it happened, but all of a sudden two brave souls came right down front and started dancing. I give them credit because it was a good few minutes of them dancing alone while the rest considered the option. I’m not sure if they were waiting to see if they’d get into trouble or if they just contemplated a potentially embarrassing situation. Who knows!
But before the song finished the whole bunch stormed the stage and they were clapping, stomping and singing. In the moments when the power failed, it was as if the electricity surged among the girls because in those moments the show elevated to another level. We dropped our instruments and let them lead the charge with us. This was the last day and, after nearly nine days of two shows a day, my voice was not willing to rise up and fill that room without a microphone. I was Clint Eastwood at best. But it didn’t matter, they gave me their voices and together we raised up melodies that echoed off the back wall.
Check back soon for more Dispatches from the Holy Tour
