29/6/98

Daring to be different

Morris Shehadeeh knows his place in the family.
    "Coffee?" he asks the guest.
    "You see," he says, grinning, upon returning with a tray of goodies, "in this Arab home, it's the man who prepares the coffee."
    "We've always been different," says his wife Suad, an activist feminist, artist and lapsed politician with a passion for education.
    Morris is a good sport about his role as head of a family of Arab feminists. He supports Suad's mission to the hilt. Good thing, too: they have five daughters who follow her lead.
    And different they are, in a society not noted for free-spirited individualism.
    "I've been a feminist ever since I was a little girl in the village, even from the age of six or seven. It bothered me that most of my classmates -- about 15 girls, out of 20 -- did not go on to high school."
    Suad was encouraged to study by parents who were illiterate, who never went to school themselves. She is more than making up for it: she's still a student, at the age of 50.
    "I didn't go to an Arab high school, I went to a Jewish one, near Acre. I was the only Arab there. But it was fine, it was the mid-'60s; I was like one of the Jewish girls, we did everything together. There was no racism, not as we have now."
     She has always raised eyebrows in her village, Fassuta, an enclave of 2,000 Catholic Arabs three km from the Lebanese border.
    "It wasn't easy for a girl to go study, to wear pants, to leave the village, to learn Hebrew. I was among the first to break from the traditions. It was a bit hard at the beginning, but I wanted to change things."
    Even something as simple as choosing names for her children. She smiles. "Yes, there was a little outcry."
    Samiramis, the eldest at 27, was named for an Egyptian mythical character, a half-fish, half-girl daughter of the sea.
    A year later Ezies was born, yclept for Isis, the goddess of the Nile. Why the strange spelling? She laughs teasingly. "I spell it as I wish!"
    Osiris was the husband and brother of Isis in Egyptian mythology, and god of the underworld; however, in the Shehadeeh family, he's a beautiful she (who also took liberties with her monicker, spelling it Azoris). Does she mind going through life with a man's name? No, says Ezies, "anyway, only we know it's a man's name."
    But everyone knows that Adonis was the paragon of male beauty -- and Greek at that. Never mind; Adonis Shehadeeh is 18, and all woman.
    The youngest is 14-year-old Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty.
    All five are tall and lovely, artistic, ardently feminist, and, like their parents, believe that a woman's place is in school.
    Azoris studies business management and law; Samiramis majored in chemistry at the Technion before embarking on a career in fashion design; Adonis studies English and English literature; Ezies, tourism; Suad herself has degrees in education, management and is working on her BA in art.
    Suad's return to school interrupted a promising political career. Two years ago, in the Meretz primaries, Suad garnered more votes than anyone else in Haifa, Jew or Arab. She placed 15th on the Meretz list in the Knesset elections.
    She was an extreme rarity -- an Arab woman politician -- but don't even suggest it was tokenism. She is not a manequin dressed up as anything she's not. Regard for Suad is so high that she was short-listed for the position of ambassador to Finland. "They gave it to a man instead; you see how unfair it is?" Yes, but it was an Arab man -- Haj Yihye. She smiles. "I think they decided that before they have an ambassador who's an Arab and a woman, they should have an Arab who's only a man."
    Regard for her is so high that in 1989 the city presented her with a certificate, proclaiming her an exemplary citizen.
    At least until she gets her latest degree, she has restricted her political involvement to Haifa and the region. For now, national politics will just have to struggle along without her.
    Unrestricted is her battle for women's rights -- mostly Arab issues, which are most pressing, but she is devoted to universal issues too.
    Feminism can make men see red in an archly traditional, male-dominated society.
    "In the past, if a woman was beaten, no one spoke of it, it wasn't dealt with, or if it was, only within the family -- either they'd make 'shoolem' [peace] or she'd suffer, or be murdered, and no one knew anything. To some extent we changed that.
    "There are some places that are still closed, where our voices cannot be heard, especially in the Arab Triangle, around Umm el Fahm, that area. It's Moslem, and shut off, they're in a different world. But now we've started making progress there too, little by little.
    "In the Galilee, it's completely changed in the last 20 years, it's unbelievable -- whether it's women studying, or in the work place, day-to-day life. Some of the men in fact support these changes." She smiles wrily. "As long as the changes don't affect them directly, they support them."
    As if Suad doesn't have enough on her plate, this student-politician-feminist-mother  works too: she's the big boss of a community center in Haifa's largest Arab neighborhood. Wadi Nisnas is grizzled, rough, poor. A woman like this can have a profound influence on a place like that.

MORRIS DOESN'T just pour coffee.
    He's known in local circles as "the mukhtar of mukhtars." Like Suad, he devotes his life to public service. "I help everybody," he states simply.
    A traffic accident 19 years ago left him severely debilitated and unable to work. He says the injury was "a one-in-a-million chance": his lymph system was destroyed. "Any infection, the slightest scratch, could kill me. I have no immunity. I live on antibiotics, with high fever, and constant fear." His limbs are grossly puffy.
    "I fought with the National Insurance Institute -- alone. But I put my experience to good use: I learned all the laws, and then I was able to help others who've been handicapped.
    "People don't know what to do, where to go, they fall between the chairs, and most Arabs are blue-collar, so it happens a lot. Arabs don't know the laws, they don't know their rights, and they can't afford a lawyer to represent them. So I represent them. I go to labor courts and fight for them. I find loopholes in the law to protect people."
    Instead of staying in bed, where it's safe, he takes mortal risks, rolling up his sleeves and getting involved -- strictly voluntary.
    With his harem of beautiful daughters, he's had a full-time career fending off boyfriends. "Actually, the girls have good taste in men; they wouldn't get involved with the wrong sort."
    Samiramis is now married, and has given Morris a Morris Jr. to dote on.
    Does his son-in-law realize what it is to be married into this family?
    "Oh yeah," Morris laughs as he clears away the coffee cups. "He helps his wife too."