The definition of success: thoughts from a Palestinian entrepreneur, thoughts from an American girl in Palestine

Tonight I had the surprisingly great pleasure of attending an entrepreneurship meetup in Ramallah. What this means is, a group of business leaders and such in Ramallah got together, made a group, invited speakers, then invited local movers and shakers to attend the speaking events. Let's be clear, I am not a mover and shaker; I am a substitute mover and shaker for when my boss is out of town.

I was not looking forward to this; it was some guy from Microsoft talking about entrepreneurship, I was there specifically for business reasons, I was feeling sort of sick, and it involved putting tighter pants on than my work-sweats (let's be real, tight pants are the worst!). So there I found myself, trudging across Ramallah in tightpants and a blazer, cutting through 15 or so milling men (awkward) to find a coffee, a seat by myself, and some sense of strategic purpose. Mostly I wanted to slouch and pick at my nails; I have a tendency to do that, even when fully engaged. It's how I think. That, and fully stretching my upper body across whatever table I find myself in front of. I was told at my previous employer that this was bad for my brand, however, so I try to be more brand-aware now. (Oh, what's personal branding, you ask? Well, as far as I could ever tell it meant psychologically disengaging from yourself enough to actually view yourself as a corporation maneuvering in the marketplace of humanity. Obviously, I suck at personal brand management. I am the Mom and Pop store getting crushed by Walmart. I am ok with that.)

So to my delightful surprise, this talk ended up being one of the best I have ever attended. This guy was for real (one of my highest compliments). It was his story of leaving Microsoft to start up a business, having it fail, and coming back to Microsoft. It was utterly compelling, totally smart, very human, and had me hanging on the edge of my chair while simultaneously picking at my nails and slouching (sorry, Peter Kim! I'm trying!!). I loved loved loved it.

One of the things he said struck me somewhere deep inside, the place where this blog lives and where, when it gets struck, my first impulse is to scratch something out for Boomtown Arabia. He was asked how he defined success. He paused, and then said the following (light paraphrasing, but I basically think I have it in its entirety):

"I got asked this once when I was on a panel. I thought it was a very good question, and didn't really know how to answer it. It's a tough one, yeah? The gentleman next to me asked if he could field it. Go ahead, I said. He said something I thought was so perfect. He said that he measures his own success in three ways: '(1) Am I doing something I am totally passionate about and which gives me energy? (2) Am I taking a risk, am I demonstrating courage in my job/life? (3) Am I doing the best I can?

'If I live up to those three criteria, if all are a full and resounding yes, then I am successful. I am giving no one else the power to do that, because they can't. I get to say if I am a success or not, because only I know if I am fulfilling those three things.'"

I loved this. I've never heard such a clear articulation of the way I hope to live my life. I've gotten some great advice over the years, most prominently "never make any decision based on fear or money; both are overrated", and this seemed to capture that advice and push it forward to a point of generation and aspiration. It made me wonder: how do other people define their own success? It is a tough one.

For me, the best part of this, the hardest part, was the 'am I doing by best?' question. So often I am not. My best comes through maybe 20% of the time; the rest is a mashup of lazyness, boredom, and save-my-ass-wit. But, the times when I have really pushed myself to...push myself, it's felt great. I think I shall start trying to live more by these metrics; not in a gross evaluative way, just in a nice mindful way. What about you? How do you define success?

And, oh!, another good question I've been working out over here in the People's Republic of Palestine, does success differ between 'job' and 'life'? For some reason, I don't think so, or at least not for me. I don't really wear two hats. If I'm proven to be living both a personal and professional life of passionate, risk-taking best, well well well...I'll be one happy girl. That, and a passionate, risk-taking dog - high-fives all around.

Guest blog: Snapshot of the nonviolence movement in Palestine

Note to the reader: this is a guest post from my friend B., another girl from Boston (what is it about us and the Arab world??) who lives here in Ramallah and got caught in a violent reaction form the Israeli armed forces to a peaceful protest in a Palestinian village. This included running from tear gas and hiding in a stranger's house for hours while the army made arrests. Harvard alum, future NYU law school student, she's smart and quick and extremely articulate, unlike your dear usual blogger. All that to say, this post is worth your time.

_________________________________________________________________________

Part I: Giving some context

The last couple of weeks have been extremely sad for Palestine, and much media attention has been appropriately devoted to the tragic deaths of Juliano Mer-Khamis, founder of the Jenin Freedom Theatre, and Vittorio Arrigoni, an Italian activist dedicated to the Palestinian cause. Although tragedy sometimes becomes almost a daily part of existence here, and there has been no shortage of sad things occurr

ing in Palestine of late (the murder of the Fogel family and the subsequent collective punishment of Awarta village springs to mind) I believe that these two deaths have hit hard the Palestinian community, the expat community, and myself personally, for a few reasons. One, the killings were not perpetrated by Israel (ostensibly anyways, although articles of speculation on that have already appeared on the internet). It becomes almost a joke to blame everything on Israel and the occupation (an aside: on a late-night trip back from Jerusalem many months ago my carmates were discussing how it was not possible for the PA to paint the frequent speed bumps in the road, as the Israelis had banned the yellow colored paint needed. Sleepily I asked why they didn’t just pain the bumps white. A silent beat before everyone hushed me joking “We must blame the occupation!”) Tragedies perpetrated by Israel against Palestinians are so frequent that it becomes a matter of course, loses its shock value, and even provides a convenient common enemy, one whose cruelty is understood as both incomprehensible and common.

Two, the victims were both prominent peace activists, who had chosen to live and work amongst Palestinians out of principle and commitment to the cause. Vittorio was Italian and Juli

ano had Israeli citizenship—unlike West Bank and Gazan Palestinians, they could move freely; neither had to be here. In short, they were much like us. Perhaps I am more naïve than my fellow expats (likely) but I’ve dismissed any sort of danger coming from Palestinians because I am here for the cause. I am pro-Palestinian. I believe in this people’s right to exist not just in the West Bank and Gaza but in all of historic Palestine and anywhere else they choose to live. Palestinians are my friends and coworkers and students and neighbors and I don’t buy into the Islamophobia that my home country espouses—the kind of Islamophobia that says that radical Muslims (or any Muslim) are capable of the type of senseless violence that these two deaths encapsulate. The truth is, though, some are. Palestine is filled with just as many complexities as any other country in the world – atrocious and inhumane violence is not inherent to the people, place, or religion, but neither is it nonexistent.

Nevertheless, these two instances are extremely tragic and extremely rare. I tell my fam

ily that I am safer in Palestine than I am in the US and that is true. These freak instances of politically motivated tragedy are extremely infrequent – there have been no kidnappings since Hamas, the “terrorist” group, took over in 2007, and even before then, all those who were kidnapped were eventually released unharmed. No less to consider is the violence inflicted on peace activists by the IDF -- Emily Henochowicz, the flotilla and Rachel Corrie come to mind. I do not believe in condoning one tragedy by pointing out another, but I mention these to point out the institutionalized violence and discrimination against Palestinians and pro-Palestinian activists that the IDF, and by extension Israel, embodies. Rachel Corrie’s death could be argued to have been an accident, but the slow and unsympathetic Israeli justice system is only now ruling on it, seven years after her death. I have no doubt that if Vittorio’s killers are found, their “trial” will be as swift and damning as Rachel Corrie’s is slow and exculpatory.

Part II: Going peacefully

Strangely I wrote all of the above intending it to be an introduction for the record of my experiences in Nabi Saleh. The point I was laboriously not making is that, though the deaths of Juliano and Vittorio are shocking and sad, they should not overwhelm what needs to be said about the tragedies occurring every day in Palestine against peace activists, by Israel as a matter of unwritten policy. I do believe that both of them would be disappointed to know that the manner of their deaths undermined the work of their lives.

A little over a week ago myself and a gang of young Palestinian activists headed out to Nabi Saleh, a village not far from the university town of Bir Zeit. Nabi Saleh is a small town, with a little over 500 residents. Since 1977 a settlement called Halamish has existed near Nabi Saleh, and in 2009 the settlers took over a spring belonging to a Palestinian family; it is the main source of water in this rural village and the residents are now only allowed 6 hours of running water per week. Since then demonstrations have been held every Friday to protest, and participants try to march towards the spring to assert their right over it. In response to these demonstrations, the IDF declares the entire village of Nabi Saleh to be a closed military zone each Friday, where even the residents are not allowed to leave their homes. This gives the IDF the “legal” power to arrest any Israelis, foreigners or non-residential Palestinians in Nabi Saleh on that day.

For this reason our service ( pronounced “servees”, a shared taxi) was not able to drive directly into Nabi Saleh. The driver agreed to take us around the entrance to the town which was guarded by IDF, adding time to our journey (and shekls to our fare). We were dropped off on a terraced valley and had to pick our way through the olive groves up into the village, approaching from the rear. Several times we had to stop along the wa

y and fall silent, in order to avoid being spotted by soldiers.

Within our group were some who had been demonstrating in the Manara against the division between Fatah and Hamas which has divided Gaza from the West Bank since elections in 2006 and crippled the unified Palestinian movement against the occupation. Many had embarked on a hunger strike roughly three weeks before that day – two remained were with our group. He said he hadn’t eaten in 18 or 19 days, and I was skeptical as he tromped with us through the valley in the heat, but I didn’t see anything other than coffee and cigarettes pass his lips, even as we all sat down for falafel. When he took off his sweater, his shrunken frame convinced me.

We made it to the town and gathered in the city square, where people were filling balloons with paint and handing them out to the kids, in an effort to discourage them from throwing rocks. (I thought this was a good idea until later when I was told that the IDF didn’t differentiate between the two, and people were scrubbing tell-tale paint stains from their hands as they hid from the soldiers). I began to ask about what would happen and what I should do. A friend helpfully updated her advice to me – she’d earlier told me that if they shot tear gas, I should run slowly. And if they chased us? “No. Then you run fast.”

We began to march, people carrying Palestinian flags and water balloons and not much else. I

hung back and avoided cameras and video. I’d been to one other demonstration before, where the IDF had brought their own photographers to snap pictures of faces, obviously to be used later to make people’s lives difficult. It’s been reported that Israeli soldiers have entered homes in Nabi Saleh, awoken all children over the age of 10, and photographed them, most likely to identify them should they participate in any demonstrations. Considering that Israel has full control over whether Palestinians can leave the West Bank, visit Jerusalem, and pass between cities among other things, having a record with them can have long-lasting and serious consequences. This is one way Israel deters peaceful protesting.

As we walked down the road, not far from the city center an IDF jeep was already waiting for our little band, so we took a left down a garbage and tear gas canister strewn path and ended up in a small field where soldiers were waiting to meet us. Having been to one other protest before, I expected that the two groups would just stand and look at each other, the protestors shouting slogans and the soldiers watching out for any rock-throwers.

That is not what happened. Within two minutes of arriving, and with no provocation on the part of the Palestinians (for what my eyewitness testimony is worth anyway), the soldiers came towards us and began setting off tear gas canisters. Already at the back of the group, I edged away to find more soldiers standing behind us, cutting off our exit. I kept moving backward and to the side as that was the only open way out. I could see the soldiers run after people, oddly singling out this person or that, and completely ignoring others. They seemed to target the teenage boys, maybe those wearing keffiyehs, maybe those shouting the loudest, maybe those that they recognized from other demonstrations. I spotted a young woman in a hijab with a video camera far down t

he hill, calmly taping all that was going on. One of the young men we’d arrived with was thrown to the ground. Photographs I saw later, such as the one here,

show him in the dirt, a soldier kneeling on him, the end of a huge gun resting directly on his temple. A rubber bullet at that range would penetrate a skull neatly.

Myself, a few of the others I’d come with, and other demonstrators retreated inside the nearest house, where the family welcomed us warmly. Once inside we peered from the windows to see others still standing outside. The soldiers moved off, into the city center, and began to patrol the town. We were told we could not leave the house until they left the village, or else we might be arrested. The Israeli activists with us faced a night in jail and a fine, the Palestinians faced prison time, I faced potential deportation.

We sat nervously in the home, listening to tear gas going off in other parts, watching from the windows as our friends made an attempt at reaching the spring, sipping coffee and playing with the adorable children. After several hours we were told the soldiers had left the village. Israeli and foreign journalists had been arrested, as had two from our group – one of whom was the hunger striker. We made our way out of Nabi Saleh on a servees and back home, 10 hours or so since we’d left.

Protestors were arrested, tear gassed and shot with rubber bullets. At no point did the protestors use violence, nor did they even approach Israeli residential areas or Israeli civilians. Journalists were arrested from the town center. Footage from earlier protests show the IDF approaching a young man who is ostensibly not doing much other than leaning against a pole. The mere act of being in the town was grounds for arrest and pro

secution. Those who bemoan the lack of a nonviolent Palestinian movement should perhaps look at what happens to those who try.

Things I wonder

I just got back from a whirlwind 6 day business trip to London, where I attended an extraordinarily fancy mobile industry 'summit' where I ate lobster and duck and swapped business cards with many people exponentially more wealthy than I will ever be. I also got to see my mom and celebrate the birth of a new member of our family, Annaliese, my niece/her granddaughter. All that was great. It was also nice to let my brain wander a bit on the plane ride home and during the drive back to Ramallah. Some thoughts/experiences from the past week include:

• Having the single most gendered experience of my life being one of maybe 5 women at a 250 person conference, and definitely being the only one under 40, as well as the only one working at an NGO living in Palestine. There were three reactions to meeting me from the men in suits trolling about this shindig: (1) total exoticism (tell me more about the checkpoints, but you're blonde, wow!), (2) paternalism (I'd love to mentor you, you remind me of my daughter), (3) utter disregard (oh, NGO, how nice of you to do that work [eyes wandering over my shoulder]). Upside was, only a total jerk could be an asshole to a blond girl from Palestine doing development work, so I took advantage of my position to say stuff to people no one else could get away with, like telling the CEO of a major mobile company that his staff was a nightmare to work with. No way he could sass me in a crowd full of orientalist father figures! Instead, yes, I will take your personal mobile number so I can call you when needed. My old boss had a term for this which I will not use here, but man, was it appropriate for this situation.

• Realizing how much joy I have in my life here in Palestine by how much I missed it while in London; pork and freedom and safety are nice, but really boring. Not that I am not safely eating pork freely here as well. Sort of. The fire of injustice makes everything more delicious?

• Wondering when or if I will ever feel calm when heading through Israeli customs. Positing this experience against the experience getting into the UK, which took 2 minutes and where I was greeted with a smile, is insane. Must.remember.not.all.customs.are.like.this.

• Pulling back up to my apartment last night, and feeling the heat surround me as I get out of the car. It's summer here; spring was a short season. Feeling that weird disassociation that comes from business travel which I've experienced so much of, and realizing that I have a new desire to stay put. I can stay put here, or anywhere, but I am done travelling off and on. Then climbing up the stairs to my apartment, sharing a bottle of Spanish wine on my roof, talking about life and communism and poetry with the heat wrapping me up in a dry hug, and realizing that staying put here is exactly what I want to be doing. That was really nice.

A note on business attire: suits are so 1990

I'm off on a business trip to London, where I'll be speaking on a panel at a closed door, 'c-level' summit on the mobile industry. I'll be rubbing shoulders with the likes of the CEOs of Vodaphone and Nokia. Those shoulders will be suited. This strikes me as absurd.

To put it short, business suits seem so passe, especially as I fold mine tenderly into my garment bag. All business attire does. It has the musk of the 1980's about it, that sickly sweet smell of fast money and class-climbing. Look at the people truly changing the world, truly kicking ass - they're wearing jeans and tshirts. Who ever said to be taken seriously you have to wear a suit? That seems to me like the same people who said to make money you have to be in investment banking, or the same people who told me I had to take math to get into college. WRONG. Suckers. Bring your brain to the table, c'est tout.

I know many people who wear nice suits. Car salesmen. Goldman Sachs employees. Funeral parlor workers. Do you want to be any of those people? Good, me neither.

After having finally shed the 'business casual' of my last job, I am now in a deep love affair with the purely casual office. I'm comfortable, I don't spend time thinking about what I wear, I don't spend money on it, and instead I truck to the office in my jeans, get my work done, and truck on home. No fussing. No people endlessly judging each other. I haven't opened up an email from Gilt Group in months. All that seems like a weird hazy dream...I really spent that much money on Tahari? I really cared and noticed what my coworkers wore? Wow...the shame. Actual shame I am feeling as I write this. Who gives a shit? Sweatsuits for all, let's get cracking!

More death in Palestine for the peaceful

On April 4th, Juliano Mer-Khamis was shot dead outside the children's theatre he ran in the Jenin refugee camp in Palestine. Jenin is one of the cities in Palestine that was just devastated during the second Intifada; visiting, which I did only a month ago, you still see endless bullet holes in the walls of the city, and posters of young martyrs everywhere. It's a sober reminder of the tragic realities that pass through this place in waves.

This is a bit of a personal thing for me, as Jenin was the first city outside of Ramallah/Jerusalem that I visited in Palestine. It was eye-opening; more like, eye-popping, eye-shattering even. It's the bullet holes, the endless martyrs, the palpable sadness that fills the place. I went into a store to buy a juice, and an old woman told me about her son who had died when I inquired after the picture hanging on the wall. I could have had that experience in every single store, if I so chose to. Omnipresent tragedy.

That visit also had a real moment of grace to it, which was thanks to the Children's Theatre. I had gone with my colleague B. to Jenin with the intention of both of us seeing the play being put on, a reinvention of Alice in Wonderland. As B. and I were wandering around the camp prior to the play, we somehow, in typical Arab fashion which puts any other hospitality I've ever encountered to shame, made friends with a lady and were invited to coffee in her house. Two little ones trailed along and wrapped themselves around our host's chair, shyly staring. B. and I chatted with them in our mangled Arabic as we all drank coffee. Next thing I know, we're inviting the little ones (9-ish year old girl and 5ish year old boy) to the play with us. Of course, they come. No matter we've known them for five minutes. No matter we're two random foreigners. It takes a village people...and sometimes, a globe. So, off the four of us trot with a promise to Mom to bring them home after. B. and I are just loving this. Truly. These kids are adorable, and they've never been to the theatre, even though it's just down the street. So the four of us go the play. I think the best part for me was when something happened in the play when a very important ring rolled to the front of the stage, and the two little ones automatically stood up and leaned over, totally enthralled. My heart burst. There's nothing better than watching a kid just live their imagination. B. and I shared a smug smile of contentment. After the play, the kids told us they liked it and politely disappeared back home. B. and I rode home on the bus in happy silence.

This theatre, this show, this little moment of grace and a thousand more like them, was all thanks to Juliano, an incredible individual dedicated to the future of Palestine - its kids. Born from a Jewish Israeli mother and a Palestinian Christian father, he called himself 100% Jewish and 100% Palestinian. His mom founded the Freedom Theatre in Jenin; her work is profiled in a very powerful documentary that's not super long and can be viewed in its entirety online (it's in one of those youtube series wherein you need to watch parts 1-9; if you find a better link, please comment it). I really, really suggest you watch it, lovely reader; it's one of the best I've seen in terms of stuff on Israel/Palestine, and if nothing else, watch it to inform yourself about the work this man, this father with another baby on the way, was tragically killed for. Keep his work alive by educating yourself.

There's also just a heinous amount of airstrikes going on in Gaza, which the US press seems to not even realize. And raids in Palestinian villages, and cities. And settler violence. And a million pathological acts of injustice, dehumanization, and terror. If you are interested in keeping up with all this, as do not ever think you're getting comprehensive news from NYTimes or CNN for Fox or any US media outlet, I suggest you check out this website, this website and this website.

McFish for lunch, filet mignon for dinner: or, why it's not hard for me to move around

Sorry for the radio silence, readers; it's been a hell of a week and will be a hell of a next few weeks, so you're going to have to be a bit patient with your old embed in Palestine.

In any case, I got some interesting emails in response to my post on being in the development industry; it seems some think I may be about to blow. I'm not. Never fear; I may be here in Palestine, but I'm still the same old G. My heart is drinking a beer on a boat in Cape Cod, ideally while fishing; no worries there.

I also got a lot of feedback from people who, in essence, had stayed still since college. Never left New York, or never moved from their group of friends, or always had the same job. I get that - it's scary and sad to move, not to mention logistically a real pain in the ass. So why do I do it?

Well, I think it boils down to, I've always just been expected to. My parents got divorced when I was little, and my dad moved across the country to Florida and then California. I flew by myself for the first time at 6 years old. Tough little thing, I guess. Yes, in many ways I'd prefer to not talk about, this sucked, but in one major way, this was the greatest gift I've been given.

My parents were, and are, opposites, and for this I am so eternally, endlessly thankful. I'd fly to my dad's and be greeted with: "McFish are 39 cents today, it's Wednesday! Guess where we're going for lunch? I love Chateau McDuck!" To my look of dismay, he'd counter with "well, cheeseburgers are 39 cents too. And go to bed early, we're waking up at 4 am to go fishing." Well, ok then. I'd fly in to my mom's and be greeted at the airport with a harried 'put this on!' while shoving a dress at me, 'we have a fundraiser tonight'. She'd look in horror at my perennially unbrushed hair and pale face, hand me a brush and some lipstick (all this while driving 80 down a one way street) and say her classic line: 'you need a little color'. By this she meant, so much bright red lipstick. I sort of just happily acquiesced to both modes of living. Why not? McFish, fundraiser: two great options.

So when you plop me down with a goat head for dinner, or tell me I have to sit in the back of a car with three large breatfeeding women for five hours while driving over a mountain pass without a road, or set me up in a house with no hot water but so many cockroaches - yup. Can do. No prob. Guess that's how this will be now.

That's about all I have to say on this matter. I've done some great travelling in Palestine lately, with one of my best friends who visited. That was a gift; our friendship is a gift. I'm going to Jordan tomorrow for work/hiking in Petra, coming back to Ramallah for a day, then off to London for a conference, seeing my mom, and eating so much seafood and pork products. Maybe even a McFish. We'll see how lucky I get.