Unexpected place to find humor

Husein Mashni

The word “Gaza” doesn’t usually conjure up thoughts of laughter.

For the Biblical scholar, it’s the place where Samson was taken

after his capture by the Philistines (not to be mistaken for today’s

Palestinians, who also call themselves Philistines). Samson’s eyes

were gouged out, and it was here that he brought down the temple of

Dagon, killing himself and thousands of spectators who had come to

gloat over his capture.

For the rest of us, most of what is known about Gaza comes through

CNN, BBC, etc. It’s seen as a dark, poverty stricken, over-populated,

refugee-camp-littered haven for terrorists. Even in Ramallah, which

has experienced the ravages of the current intifada more directly

than Gaza City, people are shocked when I tell them that I live in

Gaza, fearing for my safety. It bears mention that it is easier to go

from Los Angeles to Gaza than from Ramallah (two hours away by car)

to Gaza.

Ignorance about Gaza abounds. Before moving here a year and a half

ago, I too believed CNN. To dispel all the misconceptions would take

as much newsprint as was used to create and foster them. But there

was something that surprised me when I first came here, something I

didn’t expect to find in this, the most heavily populated strip of

land on earth: humor.

It was my second day in Gaza. A friend and I went to the souk

(outdoor market) that is located near downtown Gaza. There were

scores of donkeys surrounding the small, bustling, smelly, outdoor

shopping area. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people filter through the

tight confines to buy fruits, vegetables and household supplies from

rough wood kiosks.

A pound of tomatoes costs 100 shekels, you’re told. If you’re new

to the system, you’ll be shocked because 100 shekels is about $30.

But 100 doesn’t mean 100. It means 10. A million, if you hear it, and

you will, means 100. And so on.

I was looking for a pair of pants. There was a middle-aged man

with his three boys manning a small, make-shift clothes rack at the

entrance to the souk. I started looking through the pants section for

green denim.

“What size is he looking for?” the salesman asked my friend, since

he perceived that I was a foreigner.

“Thirty-two,” I answered in Arabic, trying to break the ice.

“Thirty-two?” the man said sarcastically as he slapped my belly.

“This guy can’t see the stairs in front of him and he thinks he wears

32.”

Of course, 32 was an American measurement, and after four years in

the Holy Land, I still don’t know what size I wear in metric, which

is all they use in these parts or any part of the world outside

America.

Not long after, I went out with some friends to buy ice cream near

the Jundi Majhool, or Unknown Soldier Park, in downtown Gaza. Graced

by a huge picture of Yasser Arafat with the quote “No, my dream will

not be complete without you, O Jerusalem,” the park is one of the

main hangouts in Gaza.

The ice cream kiosk was just outside the park. As we stood by it

ordering our ice cream, I was drawn to a large and familiar picture

of a woman on the front of the ice cream cart. After a few seconds, I

realized it was the face of Kate Winslet, of “Titanic” fame. This ice

cream seller had taken the poster from Titanic, deleted Leonardo Di

Caprio (thankfully), replacing him with a painting of a three-scooped

ice-cream cone that Winslet appears to be drooling over. Perhaps as

protection against copyright infringement, the ice-cream seller also

painted a Hindu-like dot on Winslet’s forehead. A disguise?

One thing I always love about Americans is the ability to laugh at

our selves. Even the biggest faux pas can be turned into a joke. The

bigger the mess, the bigger the laugh.

I didn’t expect to find that here in Gaza. But I did.

One night, as we walked down the main street, a friend and I

stopped into a cell phone store to buy a calling card. I noticed the

owner of the shop working on his computer. The screen saver was of a

beautiful European-looking city with dark glass skyscrapers and an

elegant turn-of-the-century red brick bridge spanning a crystal blue

lake, with a crisp blue, cloudless sky overhead.

Gripped by the beauty, I asked the shop owner what city it was.

Without a missing a beat, he said, “This is my city, Jabalya.”

Jabalya is a tiny, immensely populated, poverty-stricken refugee

camp home to more than 100,000, located five minutes from Gaza. The

picture was certainly and sadly, not Jabalya. But that somehow made

his joke all the funnier and his brand of humor mature and profoundly

stinging.

There’s more. Few things are as entertaining, whatever country

you’re in, as the different ways people spell English words. I could

fill a computer disk with the various spellings of the word cafe. In

Gaza, if you come here, I will take you to on the cafe creative

spelling tour. Here’s a sample:

Cofe, Kofe, Kafe, Kafee, Kaffee, Cofee. I’m absolutely positive

you’ll find every conceivable variation of the spelling of “cafe”

except the right one.

In America, brand-name clothes are barely within many people’s

budgetary limits. For the vast majority of the young men in Gaza, who

would give anything to escape the hopelessness and poverty of their

lives here, American name brands are extremely popular. They are also

available at a fraction of the cost. The only catch being that the

name might not be spelled correctly.

The local versions of Nike, for instance are “Niek,” “Naik” and

“Kine.” But to give a sense of authenticity, they still have the

famous Nike symbol underneath.

And there are European companies represented. In one Mercedes Benz

I rode in was a new seat cover with a large Mercedes Benz symbol and

the words underneath, “Made in Gurmany.”

The Baptist Church I attend in Gaza is probably one of the few in

the world with a huge picture of Che Guevara spray-painted on its

outside fence. The differences between here and America are enormous.

I lived in Costa Mesa, five minutes from the opulent Newport Beach,

which boasts of having more Mercedes Benz’ per capita of any city in

America.

Now I live in Gaza, five minutes from Jabalya, which boasts of

having more donkeys per capita of any place in the Middle East.

“Where there’s a post, there’s a donkey to tie to it,” one young

Jabalyan told me.

The modes of transportation may change. The streets that those

modes of transportation are used on may change. The laws that govern

commuters and the homes that surround these streets may change. So do

the music, the language, the food, the clothes the customs and many

of the values.

But one thing that’s the same in both places, besides the

Internet, is that people need to cope. And one of the best ways

they’ve found to do it is with humor.

* HUSEIN MASHNI is a former reporter for the Daily Pilot who

covered education. He left to do mission work in the Middle East and

writes us occasionally about his experiences.