On my way home a week ago, I traveled from Bethlehem and the checkpoint there to West Jerusalem,
and then by bus to an area close to Gaza where I met a young Israeli and former combatant in
the Israeli Defense Force's special unit, the famed Golani Brigade. This experience with him which
lasted only a few hours because of my scheduled flight home, but I think a good representative sample
of this trip for me.
This is my message this Thanksgiving morning
to each of you, faithful friends. "Thinking about the Other". A letter to Yaniv. Love, Bill
Good day, Yaniv.
In our country, this is the day we set aside to thank God for the blessings of our lives in a world
faced with scarcity, and where we have plenty. I have much to be thankful for, including friends old and
young. When I reflect on our few hours together a week ago in your community on the edge
of the Negev Desert in Israel, I realize the irony with which we both live in our world together.
We used, several times in our conversations, the phrase "the other". In fact,
it was you from whom I first heard the poem of Maqmood Darwish, "Thinking
About the Other". I recite it often, and still carry the audio of your recitation with me.
I also reflected on three places that you took me to that afternoon, a week ago. First,
to the herb stand, operated by this lone Bedouin young man, when I observed that you not
only interacted with him personally in Arabic, but I could also sense by the tone of your
voices that you both did so out of mutual respect. On your suggestion, I also purchased a bar
of homemade olive oil soap, and an herbal pomade for massaging my wife's aching
feet. Last night when I applied the pomade on her feet, I reflected on the interaction between the two
of you, and for me, I would imagine that will be the case over the next several months, or until the jar
is empty, and beyond perhaps.
The second place you took me, was to the back of an empty store front parking lot where there is
an Arab market, and off to the right, a lone store front with an open air sliding door. Under
the protection of the roof of that building, was a woman who was roasting kabob over
a smoking charcoal fire. You again, in your quiet, gentle way, ordered in the native tongue of the
woman, two chicken schwarmas for us. She was openly pleasant and hospitable, though wearing the
traditional scarf of the Arab woman. She was "The Other" referred by us several
times that evening, and whom, Darwish spoke of in his poem, I suspect. We then
proceeded yet to another location in that village that offered sweets by a young Arab
from the Nablis area. I had to shake my head again. Where was I but in the
realm of Israel. This was not suppose to be!
And lastly, you shared your efforts in the new job with the local school, predominately
Arab and Bedouins, most likely, and how you were working with the young elementary
students there on "environmental education" helping them define projects in which they
invested in themselves. These students were also "The Other".
So, in a land of ironies, which I found not only in your community, but in several places
where I traveled in my recent pilgrimage to Israel and the occupied territories, "unanticipated
possibilities". The prospect of your coming together to work on the Nassar Family farm with the
contingency of the Combatants for Peace members you coordinate (combined former
Israeli soldiers, and Palestinian resistance men), also keeps hope alive for me,
even in the midst of the darkness. I am grateful for your friendship
and for your active ways of engaging with "The Others' in your world.
"................When you think about the others, the distant others, think about your self
and say, "I wish I were a candle in the dark." Maqmood Darwish, Palestinian National Poet
Faithfully, Bill
Thanksgiving Day in America, Nov. 25, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
From Occupied Bethlehem to the Israeli Bedouin Town
Well, it's time to return home. After checking emails for the last time and dropping off' "extra baggage" with friend Jack at his wood shop, across from the Church of Nativity, I returned again to the hotel that had become my home for two weeks, paid the bill and left a token of my appreciation to the staff who had been true hosts for me each day. Few guests are long term at the Grand. Most breeze in late at night have traveling from the Galilee, rise at 5:00 AM scurry for breakfast and are out the door to the next "dead stones" exhibit, never having had more than a word, certainly not personal, to any of the staff. I know because I've watched them and have also been guilty of the same. It is too bad, because those who work for us there have great stories to be heard. I know that because i was privileged to have heard some.
I left the hotel as I had found it, full of old friends who provided great support and service while I was there. My mother was right, long years ago. It doesn't take much to be kind, and the rewards are great. With a warm feeling inside, I headed down to my favorite schwarma place for a last great sandwich. I then began the next leg of my journey home which would again reinforce the constraints of the occupation which Palestinians face every day of their lives.
I caught the service to checkpoint 300 at Bethlehem gate. I quickly moved through the first set of cattle ramps, but the movement slowed as we got through the second set of turnstiles, and finally to a standstill before the x-ray machine. Before I got into full view of the bottle neck of very narrow, criss crossing railed paths, I could hear the voice of the guard barking in Arabic at folks who were struggling to prepare for the machine's hungry body. It was hot and the air still, and there were a number of tourists in front and behind me, all for the moment - equals, experiencing the same indignity. (not unlike the feeling one has at our own airports, except volatile) I wonder if the Israelis feel protected, let alone secure with such a system? What is the real reason for the indignity? How can the Palestinians stand such loss of human dignity and the guaranteed freedom of movement within their own territory? How can we in the free world permit such a denial?
The heat from the hot metal roof above us, and the claustrophobic feeling one has in such cramped conditions is frightening. It causes more anxiety. The climate was not only warm but furious in nature. There were many defiant men with grimaces on their faces and women and men with small children there too, with desperation in their eyes. Some men squeezed through the small openings between the railings to get ahead in line. Some fathers passed their children, then their strollers and finally themselves, trailed by their wives with still other small babes besides them. Most of the travelers aided such desperate actions. Many Americans around me, grumbled and complained, or insisted on some degree of civility, not acknowledging I thought, what the Palestinians who traveled to work, to visit family, or attend their fields must endure day in and day out. I took a picture quickly with my camera, and left my tape recorder on for about 15 minutes to catch, perhaps the emotions that were flowing around me. At last after about 45 minutes of trudging, step by step in the direction of the voice coming from a walled- in cubicle, with double thick bullet proof glass, most likely paid for by my taxes, did I begin to breathe more fully. Only when we got to the machine, and to the next exit for final review of permission slips, passports and ID cards, and oh yes, finger print identification instruments, did the pressure ease on the tourists who were whisked through the turn styles in what seemed as an unfair advantage. After all, how were the others any different than us, at the core? The air on the outside was a relief to the constrained conditions we had all experienced. And then, a scramble with the back pack to the next bus which would drop me somewhere near where I could catch Israeli transit to the main terminal in West Jerusalem. The driver let me off, and by request, told me where I should stand and wait for it. An hour later, and several rejections by bus drivers of different destinations, only one took time to tell me that I was a the wrong place to catch the #20. On I trudged with my pack.
I climbed on the bus and was reminded of scenes on the news programs in the States of buses like this which were blown to smithereens and their human cargo burned to a crisp. I can imagine such fear. For some, the experience of passing through the checkpoint was justified. There hadn't been a bombing like that since 2005, and while there are those who justify such precautions by indicating that since the construction the wall, there hadn't been a serious incident. Those same people would probably not know that at about the same time, the Hamas declared a voluntary moratorium on such strategies because such bombings resulted in unfavorable world wide opinion about such tactics which was not the goal. It was to draw attention to the world about the desperations of those who were feeling imprisoned.
As we drove down the streets of downtown Jewish West Jerusalem, I remarked to myself that I hadn't ever been to this part of the city. The streets were lined with all kinds of shops that you might find in any city in the US, from Starbucks to Wendy's. What a contrast to downtown Bethlehem that I had left just three hours ago. The bus driver indicated my stop, and I scurried with others, including lots of young men and women with M-16s strung around their necks, towards the turnstiles and still more security to enter the terminal which I would find was on the top floor of the building. I was refused entrance in the first of two doors and neither I or the guard could speak each other's language sufficiently in order to understand what all his gestures were about. I only knew I was not welcomed nor part of his routine. A couple of young students finally stepped forward and indicated that I had to enter by another gate further down where the proper x-ray machine was stationed. I wondered as I banged around with my pack on my back if the Israelis who went through this process felt protected or secure, or neither?
I bought my ticket and was already an hour behind from getting to my appointed place with someone waited two hours south toward the city of Sderot. My cell phone purchased in the West Bank, would not work in Israel, and my friend's phone would not reach me either. This was not a great feeling, but I had been there before, and things worked out. Yaniv, the young former member of the Israeli Defense Forces', feared Golani Brigade, said "not to worry, no problem", he would find me. But would he wait for two hours for my arrival as the day deepened, and the night darkened. I decided that he would stay there and wait for me, and that I would not be left abandoned in the middle of some lonely high way in Southern Israel. I trusted that thought even though the driver did not know of the stop which I had asked to be dropped. It turns out that I had mispronounced the name, and when a kind fellow traveling with us clarified the misinformation, we all felt a lot better. At least, I would be dropped off a the agreed upon spot. As the sun dipped below the horizon, and in the dimness of that light, I saw a lone white sedan that belonged to Yaniv. I was grateful for the driver's persistence, and the goodness of a faithful friend.
And finally, the brief but deep encounter with Yaniv, once again. Originally, I had planned to spend the night with his family, but due to the limitations of time toward the end of the trip, I decided that it would be just for a couple of hours that evening and then to Ben Gurion Airport. It turns out that Yaniv's interpretation of 12:30 AM flight was the next day at noon. Israelis would interpret 12:30 as noon, not AM or PM. He was expecting to have me around for the next day which explained to me why, after having dinner together in his community, we drove another twenty miles to his house in the Negev Desert. Fortunately, we discovered before it was too late to make it to the airport. But what unfolded in the two hours previously was priceless.
I have already written of Yaniv's tour in the Army, and his decision to put down his rife and join Combatants for Peace. Well since my last visit with him, he had lost his job as writer, and hired on as a teacher in the mostly Arab community nearby. The Arabs were predominately Bedouins. His job was to work with elementary students for an hour or so around environmental education. Yaniv, with his simple life style ( he built his own home out of discarded wood and other building materials, as well as applied an insulating, clay earthen wall to the structure). He could write the book on living simply which includes eating simply. He asked if I were a vegetarian or not and then we drove the town of Raphat for a stop at the local herb store at which he bought some kind of spice and suggested I get some olive oil soap while we were there. His conversation with the Bedouin was in Arabic, and there appeared to be a very comfortable, mutual relationship between them, almost bordering respect. We then headed down the road and he pulled into an apparently abandoned parking lot where shops were closed, and then swung around to the back where there was a small windowed store, with an Arab woman cooking barbecue over a smokey pit. Had I gotten there at 3 as planned we would have been able to visit the local market with all of its eccentricities. We, instead as the only customers surrounded by the usual crowd of boys in such places, enjoyed chicken schwarma sandwiches and a Coke. Later we drove around the corner to a bakery and Yaniv ordered from the young man, who was from Nablis, in the West Bank, originally. ( what was he doing in Israel?) The baclavah type sweet was delicious, and then we drove to his family farm, for what I thought was a brief look at his completed dwelling, a visit with his parents who were Jewish emigres from Spain in the 60's, and travel to the airport.
What transpired during our three hour conversations, was a wonderful in sight into his life as committed pastoral being, totally integrated into the community as you might get from the above description, and a truly remarkable and lovable individual whose quiet reserve, dedication to the simplicity and authentic aspects of life, and dry sense of humor are notable. While he is actively engaged in restoring peace to the land, he still is dedicated to his country's goal of a home for Jews, but not to the exclusion of others. In fact, he and I both use the phrase "the others" in our discussions about not only how to relate to one another in the present, but also consider such language in any kind of long term solution to the conflict.
Our conversations that day as always, were rich and enlightening , and he caused me to reflect on the kind of life style we live here. He insisted that I take a hot shower before we talked further which would refresh me after such a long ordeal that day. I took him up on it and felt refreshed as I always am after a visit with him and others like him on my journey.
I left the hotel as I had found it, full of old friends who provided great support and service while I was there. My mother was right, long years ago. It doesn't take much to be kind, and the rewards are great. With a warm feeling inside, I headed down to my favorite schwarma place for a last great sandwich. I then began the next leg of my journey home which would again reinforce the constraints of the occupation which Palestinians face every day of their lives.
I caught the service to checkpoint 300 at Bethlehem gate. I quickly moved through the first set of cattle ramps, but the movement slowed as we got through the second set of turnstiles, and finally to a standstill before the x-ray machine. Before I got into full view of the bottle neck of very narrow, criss crossing railed paths, I could hear the voice of the guard barking in Arabic at folks who were struggling to prepare for the machine's hungry body. It was hot and the air still, and there were a number of tourists in front and behind me, all for the moment - equals, experiencing the same indignity. (not unlike the feeling one has at our own airports, except volatile) I wonder if the Israelis feel protected, let alone secure with such a system? What is the real reason for the indignity? How can the Palestinians stand such loss of human dignity and the guaranteed freedom of movement within their own territory? How can we in the free world permit such a denial?
The heat from the hot metal roof above us, and the claustrophobic feeling one has in such cramped conditions is frightening. It causes more anxiety. The climate was not only warm but furious in nature. There were many defiant men with grimaces on their faces and women and men with small children there too, with desperation in their eyes. Some men squeezed through the small openings between the railings to get ahead in line. Some fathers passed their children, then their strollers and finally themselves, trailed by their wives with still other small babes besides them. Most of the travelers aided such desperate actions. Many Americans around me, grumbled and complained, or insisted on some degree of civility, not acknowledging I thought, what the Palestinians who traveled to work, to visit family, or attend their fields must endure day in and day out. I took a picture quickly with my camera, and left my tape recorder on for about 15 minutes to catch, perhaps the emotions that were flowing around me. At last after about 45 minutes of trudging, step by step in the direction of the voice coming from a walled- in cubicle, with double thick bullet proof glass, most likely paid for by my taxes, did I begin to breathe more fully. Only when we got to the machine, and to the next exit for final review of permission slips, passports and ID cards, and oh yes, finger print identification instruments, did the pressure ease on the tourists who were whisked through the turn styles in what seemed as an unfair advantage. After all, how were the others any different than us, at the core? The air on the outside was a relief to the constrained conditions we had all experienced. And then, a scramble with the back pack to the next bus which would drop me somewhere near where I could catch Israeli transit to the main terminal in West Jerusalem. The driver let me off, and by request, told me where I should stand and wait for it. An hour later, and several rejections by bus drivers of different destinations, only one took time to tell me that I was a the wrong place to catch the #20. On I trudged with my pack.
I climbed on the bus and was reminded of scenes on the news programs in the States of buses like this which were blown to smithereens and their human cargo burned to a crisp. I can imagine such fear. For some, the experience of passing through the checkpoint was justified. There hadn't been a bombing like that since 2005, and while there are those who justify such precautions by indicating that since the construction the wall, there hadn't been a serious incident. Those same people would probably not know that at about the same time, the Hamas declared a voluntary moratorium on such strategies because such bombings resulted in unfavorable world wide opinion about such tactics which was not the goal. It was to draw attention to the world about the desperations of those who were feeling imprisoned.
As we drove down the streets of downtown Jewish West Jerusalem, I remarked to myself that I hadn't ever been to this part of the city. The streets were lined with all kinds of shops that you might find in any city in the US, from Starbucks to Wendy's. What a contrast to downtown Bethlehem that I had left just three hours ago. The bus driver indicated my stop, and I scurried with others, including lots of young men and women with M-16s strung around their necks, towards the turnstiles and still more security to enter the terminal which I would find was on the top floor of the building. I was refused entrance in the first of two doors and neither I or the guard could speak each other's language sufficiently in order to understand what all his gestures were about. I only knew I was not welcomed nor part of his routine. A couple of young students finally stepped forward and indicated that I had to enter by another gate further down where the proper x-ray machine was stationed. I wondered as I banged around with my pack on my back if the Israelis who went through this process felt protected or secure, or neither?
I bought my ticket and was already an hour behind from getting to my appointed place with someone waited two hours south toward the city of Sderot. My cell phone purchased in the West Bank, would not work in Israel, and my friend's phone would not reach me either. This was not a great feeling, but I had been there before, and things worked out. Yaniv, the young former member of the Israeli Defense Forces', feared Golani Brigade, said "not to worry, no problem", he would find me. But would he wait for two hours for my arrival as the day deepened, and the night darkened. I decided that he would stay there and wait for me, and that I would not be left abandoned in the middle of some lonely high way in Southern Israel. I trusted that thought even though the driver did not know of the stop which I had asked to be dropped. It turns out that I had mispronounced the name, and when a kind fellow traveling with us clarified the misinformation, we all felt a lot better. At least, I would be dropped off a the agreed upon spot. As the sun dipped below the horizon, and in the dimness of that light, I saw a lone white sedan that belonged to Yaniv. I was grateful for the driver's persistence, and the goodness of a faithful friend.
And finally, the brief but deep encounter with Yaniv, once again. Originally, I had planned to spend the night with his family, but due to the limitations of time toward the end of the trip, I decided that it would be just for a couple of hours that evening and then to Ben Gurion Airport. It turns out that Yaniv's interpretation of 12:30 AM flight was the next day at noon. Israelis would interpret 12:30 as noon, not AM or PM. He was expecting to have me around for the next day which explained to me why, after having dinner together in his community, we drove another twenty miles to his house in the Negev Desert. Fortunately, we discovered before it was too late to make it to the airport. But what unfolded in the two hours previously was priceless.
I have already written of Yaniv's tour in the Army, and his decision to put down his rife and join Combatants for Peace. Well since my last visit with him, he had lost his job as writer, and hired on as a teacher in the mostly Arab community nearby. The Arabs were predominately Bedouins. His job was to work with elementary students for an hour or so around environmental education. Yaniv, with his simple life style ( he built his own home out of discarded wood and other building materials, as well as applied an insulating, clay earthen wall to the structure). He could write the book on living simply which includes eating simply. He asked if I were a vegetarian or not and then we drove the town of Raphat for a stop at the local herb store at which he bought some kind of spice and suggested I get some olive oil soap while we were there. His conversation with the Bedouin was in Arabic, and there appeared to be a very comfortable, mutual relationship between them, almost bordering respect. We then headed down the road and he pulled into an apparently abandoned parking lot where shops were closed, and then swung around to the back where there was a small windowed store, with an Arab woman cooking barbecue over a smokey pit. Had I gotten there at 3 as planned we would have been able to visit the local market with all of its eccentricities. We, instead as the only customers surrounded by the usual crowd of boys in such places, enjoyed chicken schwarma sandwiches and a Coke. Later we drove around the corner to a bakery and Yaniv ordered from the young man, who was from Nablis, in the West Bank, originally. ( what was he doing in Israel?) The baclavah type sweet was delicious, and then we drove to his family farm, for what I thought was a brief look at his completed dwelling, a visit with his parents who were Jewish emigres from Spain in the 60's, and travel to the airport.
What transpired during our three hour conversations, was a wonderful in sight into his life as committed pastoral being, totally integrated into the community as you might get from the above description, and a truly remarkable and lovable individual whose quiet reserve, dedication to the simplicity and authentic aspects of life, and dry sense of humor are notable. While he is actively engaged in restoring peace to the land, he still is dedicated to his country's goal of a home for Jews, but not to the exclusion of others. In fact, he and I both use the phrase "the others" in our discussions about not only how to relate to one another in the present, but also consider such language in any kind of long term solution to the conflict.
Our conversations that day as always, were rich and enlightening , and he caused me to reflect on the kind of life style we live here. He insisted that I take a hot shower before we talked further which would refresh me after such a long ordeal that day. I took him up on it and felt refreshed as I always am after a visit with him and others like him on my journey.
Mohamad, the Teacher from Aroub Camp
After rising early to meet the American pastors at the Bobiscot taxi stop in Bethlehem, who were joining Daher and I for a quick tour of the family farm, and home of Tent of nations, I took Daher's lead in the story. It's their story not mine. There were ample and appropriate moments for me to share some of my journey with the visitors, and to respond to their questions. As is often the case for travelers after they have had the door opened a bit beyond the typical pilgrimage, seeing the farm sets the whole story within a context of land and its people. I really enjoyed their questions, and the small role I played in sharing Fotonna's story. We prayed together in the chapel cave, and we sent them off with poetry and song. They are well on the way and will find their own stories to tell.
After the visit with the eager pastors, I spoke also to two traveling Canadians who were planning to return in a few days and volunteer on the farm for awhile. I love their spirit. They are huge part of the soul of this farm. Daher then drove me to the Village of Nahelin and could go no farther because he had no license to do so. It was a farm vehicle after all.
My goal for the last several days after seeing Husan earlier, was to return to the village and scope out the relationship which the people of the village had with the residents of Beitar Elit, a nearby, large settlement of orthodox Jews. What caught my attention the previous week as we turned off the settler road in the south end of the village, was the absence of fences and guards, but lots of signs in both Hebrew and Arabic. What I learned was that while the settlers were orthodox, and therefore, not expected to work but to study the Torah, the State subsidized settlers needed labor, building materials, inexpensive produce, and car repair- all of which could be found in the village! There were car loads of settlers with their children riding the streets, and cars with yellow Israeli license plates parked in garage repair places; settlers shopping at the market for good produce for good prices, and men with long beards searching the stands for the needed items. The bilingual signs along the road reflected a strange irony. Was this
the occupation I had heard of? Or, some distant outlier in the equation? I wanted to find out.
The taxi up from the village of Nahelin dropped me at a spot which would presumably place me close to the market area. Presumably is the operative word. After meandering in the general direction which my senses led me to believe was the location, I stumbled on to a large produce truck backing out of a driveway with a ton of fresh vegetables and fruits. They looked wonderful. Forcing me to slow down the gait a bit, I soon found clustered around me several young Husan children who were off for holiday from school that day. All seemed to want to speak some English, and to be helpful. Soon after the gathering, someone with superior English skills drove up and offered help. I told him of my need and he showed me the way, just a few blocks a way. And with that information, I was off in that direction with the trust that ARABS wouldn't tell a directioneven though they know no idea of what I was asking, nor wanting to disapointment me with some response.
Eventually, my faith carried the day, and I arrived at the corner of the thoroughfare I had passed by several days earlier. Walking along the road, I felt vulnerable and not a all secure, even though there hadn't been any official threats. There they were, settlers with cars in repair shops, settlers with cash in their hands and requests for good inexpensive produce, and settlers seeking wisdom from their elder Palestinian neighbors. It was an odd relationship. Suddenly, as I was taking a picture of three objects within view of a garage full of yellow license plates, and people from both camps with a mosque in the background, a voice yelled from the garage, "Get out! Go back to where you belong!" He was quickly restrained by fellow workers, and wondered what I would have done next, if they hadn't. I had images of me sprinting down the hill to the Settlement, rather than running uphill to the village. Somehow the settlements seemed safer at the moment. But soon things settled. I began to move back to the center of the village on my way to the next appointment. But first, nature was calling as I tried to be a faithful consumer of large quantities of water in such a dry, hot climate. There were no public WC within site. I popped into a hardware store and asked the young man if there was a restroom available. He was short with his answer, and seemed unwilling to say more. I decided that it would be good to establish a relationship given my dire need. He looked of school age, so asked if he knew Mohammad, my friend that I had met the day before and whom I would visit for dinner that afternoon. It turns out, I struck gold. He not only knew Mohammad, but had him as his teacher. He was delighted to know I knew him. Soon I was shown the local facility, and on my way, promising to tell my new friend that I would give his teacher a good review.
As I caught the taxi towards the Checkpoint on the advice of another student I met along the way, I sat next to a inviting and charming man, who was eager to speak English, and I learned that the village and the settlement had a long history of exchange. It was just made more difficult with the walls. He said, "we really have gotten along for a long time. We are both tired of the occupation. It's our leadership that is the problem." Somehow, I found his response hope-filled. We exchanged greetings and names as we reached the taxi terminal near Al Hader, and I wished him good feast.
I caught another service to Hebron in the south. The ride on the main highway was horrific, made more challenging because I was seated in the front passenger sea of the van with seven fellow travelers in the back. I think I preferred the rear, as to the acceleration to speeds of 120 kms., whipping past cement trucks into the oncoming traffic was not only the exception but the practice. Though belted in, I was seriously concerned, but bit my tongue which had gotten quite short since my arrival a few weeks prior. He let me off at the glass factory where I purchased some mates to the single wine glass I had at home. I felt great relief as I exited the taxi. I glanced at the factory entrance and it met an earlier recollection. This is the place I remembered. It was lonely there with absence of tourists. The glass products were broadly praised by connoisseurs of fine products, but tour buses rarely came that far south to Hebron. Shortly, I was on my way back towards Bethlehem, and an experience which would greatly effect me.
The Friday before I had met Mohammad, a friend of a friend, whom I had met on last year's trip at a demonstration in the village of Al Masara. He was leading the march, all dressed in a black suit, and distinguished by his size and quiet demeanor. He kept the rowdy young people at bay, but not controlled that day. Their spirit was vital. I was impressed by his
gentleness, but the aire of respect that surrounded him. At the meeting on Friday, and after hearing about the work of his village's Youth Center activities through Eben, the director there, he made me promise that I would return for a meal in his house before I left. I did so.
My friend Christy also received the invitation and had planned to meet me at the Camp. She cancelled out, and I learned later, she really wanted Mohammad and I to have some quality time. It was a nice gift. I called Mohammad when I arrived at the Camp. Aroub was a rural refugee camp, and even with 12,000 people did not have the frenzied feeling that other more urban camps did. There was more space for people to live. Mohammad answered my phone call, and asked me to meet him by the military checkpoint, and he would come get me. My patience and faithfulness was soon to be rewarded.
Mohammad was in his forties I would guess. He was not only a teacher and a non-violent activist but had received his master's degree in comparative literature last June. He was a bright fellow and dedicated to teaching. We had much to share on that count but I was not prepared for what we would share on a very personal level. He had told me earlier about his father who was gravely sick and had been sent home from the hospital with words that they couldn't do any more for him. When we got to the house of his father in the camp, and the small cubicle where Mohammad and his brothers and sisters were raised, I had a sudden shot of a reality that was not my own experience. It was a simple dwelling, and as we turned the corner, there was his father resting on a concrete slab, half prone and half sitting on the blanket beneath him. He greeted his son and myself warmly but reservedly. I was struck by how at peace he seemed to be for such a sick man in his 80's. I wanted a picture of the two of them, and he agreed but he first wanted to put his Kafiya on his head, the proud Arab that he was.
After some more stories, Mohammad invited me to his own home which he had just recently build a few houses up the hill from his family home. And there, at the front of the house, was his brother, who was also sick, and identifiable as mentally challenged. He stared at us and said not a word. Mohammad had told me that he is strongly medicated and that without the drugs, it was impossible to control his falls. The cost per month was about $80 a month and not within the salary capability of a teacher. Seeing Rahib reminded me of my own brother Bob, who also was physically disabled. Mohammad and I had another connection.
We entered his very comfortable, but simple home and his four-year old nephew, who had Mohammad's hand all the way from the check point, joined us for a wonderful meal which his mother had made for us. We talked for nearly two hours about the whole range of things from the personal to plans for the future of his country. When I left, I felt I had a long time friend in hand. It had been a good day. As I was leaving his house, a friend Mark Bravermann called from the states to wish me well. It was wonderful timing, as he also had met Mohammad last year and felt the same as I about him. I wished him good feast and we drove to town together in the next available service. It had been a good day! I was very tired but elated about not only the wonderfully hopeful things I had seen but the amazing people of the occupation who are not really occupied. They are really freer than their occupiers.
After the visit with the eager pastors, I spoke also to two traveling Canadians who were planning to return in a few days and volunteer on the farm for awhile. I love their spirit. They are huge part of the soul of this farm. Daher then drove me to the Village of Nahelin and could go no farther because he had no license to do so. It was a farm vehicle after all.
My goal for the last several days after seeing Husan earlier, was to return to the village and scope out the relationship which the people of the village had with the residents of Beitar Elit, a nearby, large settlement of orthodox Jews. What caught my attention the previous week as we turned off the settler road in the south end of the village, was the absence of fences and guards, but lots of signs in both Hebrew and Arabic. What I learned was that while the settlers were orthodox, and therefore, not expected to work but to study the Torah, the State subsidized settlers needed labor, building materials, inexpensive produce, and car repair- all of which could be found in the village! There were car loads of settlers with their children riding the streets, and cars with yellow Israeli license plates parked in garage repair places; settlers shopping at the market for good produce for good prices, and men with long beards searching the stands for the needed items. The bilingual signs along the road reflected a strange irony. Was this
the occupation I had heard of? Or, some distant outlier in the equation? I wanted to find out.
The taxi up from the village of Nahelin dropped me at a spot which would presumably place me close to the market area. Presumably is the operative word. After meandering in the general direction which my senses led me to believe was the location, I stumbled on to a large produce truck backing out of a driveway with a ton of fresh vegetables and fruits. They looked wonderful. Forcing me to slow down the gait a bit, I soon found clustered around me several young Husan children who were off for holiday from school that day. All seemed to want to speak some English, and to be helpful. Soon after the gathering, someone with superior English skills drove up and offered help. I told him of my need and he showed me the way, just a few blocks a way. And with that information, I was off in that direction with the trust that ARABS wouldn't tell a directioneven though they know no idea of what I was asking, nor wanting to disapointment me with some response.
Eventually, my faith carried the day, and I arrived at the corner of the thoroughfare I had passed by several days earlier. Walking along the road, I felt vulnerable and not a all secure, even though there hadn't been any official threats. There they were, settlers with cars in repair shops, settlers with cash in their hands and requests for good inexpensive produce, and settlers seeking wisdom from their elder Palestinian neighbors. It was an odd relationship. Suddenly, as I was taking a picture of three objects within view of a garage full of yellow license plates, and people from both camps with a mosque in the background, a voice yelled from the garage, "Get out! Go back to where you belong!" He was quickly restrained by fellow workers, and wondered what I would have done next, if they hadn't. I had images of me sprinting down the hill to the Settlement, rather than running uphill to the village. Somehow the settlements seemed safer at the moment. But soon things settled. I began to move back to the center of the village on my way to the next appointment. But first, nature was calling as I tried to be a faithful consumer of large quantities of water in such a dry, hot climate. There were no public WC within site. I popped into a hardware store and asked the young man if there was a restroom available. He was short with his answer, and seemed unwilling to say more. I decided that it would be good to establish a relationship given my dire need. He looked of school age, so asked if he knew Mohammad, my friend that I had met the day before and whom I would visit for dinner that afternoon. It turns out, I struck gold. He not only knew Mohammad, but had him as his teacher. He was delighted to know I knew him. Soon I was shown the local facility, and on my way, promising to tell my new friend that I would give his teacher a good review.
As I caught the taxi towards the Checkpoint on the advice of another student I met along the way, I sat next to a inviting and charming man, who was eager to speak English, and I learned that the village and the settlement had a long history of exchange. It was just made more difficult with the walls. He said, "we really have gotten along for a long time. We are both tired of the occupation. It's our leadership that is the problem." Somehow, I found his response hope-filled. We exchanged greetings and names as we reached the taxi terminal near Al Hader, and I wished him good feast.
I caught another service to Hebron in the south. The ride on the main highway was horrific, made more challenging because I was seated in the front passenger sea of the van with seven fellow travelers in the back. I think I preferred the rear, as to the acceleration to speeds of 120 kms., whipping past cement trucks into the oncoming traffic was not only the exception but the practice. Though belted in, I was seriously concerned, but bit my tongue which had gotten quite short since my arrival a few weeks prior. He let me off at the glass factory where I purchased some mates to the single wine glass I had at home. I felt great relief as I exited the taxi. I glanced at the factory entrance and it met an earlier recollection. This is the place I remembered. It was lonely there with absence of tourists. The glass products were broadly praised by connoisseurs of fine products, but tour buses rarely came that far south to Hebron. Shortly, I was on my way back towards Bethlehem, and an experience which would greatly effect me.
The Friday before I had met Mohammad, a friend of a friend, whom I had met on last year's trip at a demonstration in the village of Al Masara. He was leading the march, all dressed in a black suit, and distinguished by his size and quiet demeanor. He kept the rowdy young people at bay, but not controlled that day. Their spirit was vital. I was impressed by his
gentleness, but the aire of respect that surrounded him. At the meeting on Friday, and after hearing about the work of his village's Youth Center activities through Eben, the director there, he made me promise that I would return for a meal in his house before I left. I did so.
My friend Christy also received the invitation and had planned to meet me at the Camp. She cancelled out, and I learned later, she really wanted Mohammad and I to have some quality time. It was a nice gift. I called Mohammad when I arrived at the Camp. Aroub was a rural refugee camp, and even with 12,000 people did not have the frenzied feeling that other more urban camps did. There was more space for people to live. Mohammad answered my phone call, and asked me to meet him by the military checkpoint, and he would come get me. My patience and faithfulness was soon to be rewarded.
Mohammad was in his forties I would guess. He was not only a teacher and a non-violent activist but had received his master's degree in comparative literature last June. He was a bright fellow and dedicated to teaching. We had much to share on that count but I was not prepared for what we would share on a very personal level. He had told me earlier about his father who was gravely sick and had been sent home from the hospital with words that they couldn't do any more for him. When we got to the house of his father in the camp, and the small cubicle where Mohammad and his brothers and sisters were raised, I had a sudden shot of a reality that was not my own experience. It was a simple dwelling, and as we turned the corner, there was his father resting on a concrete slab, half prone and half sitting on the blanket beneath him. He greeted his son and myself warmly but reservedly. I was struck by how at peace he seemed to be for such a sick man in his 80's. I wanted a picture of the two of them, and he agreed but he first wanted to put his Kafiya on his head, the proud Arab that he was.
After some more stories, Mohammad invited me to his own home which he had just recently build a few houses up the hill from his family home. And there, at the front of the house, was his brother, who was also sick, and identifiable as mentally challenged. He stared at us and said not a word. Mohammad had told me that he is strongly medicated and that without the drugs, it was impossible to control his falls. The cost per month was about $80 a month and not within the salary capability of a teacher. Seeing Rahib reminded me of my own brother Bob, who also was physically disabled. Mohammad and I had another connection.
We entered his very comfortable, but simple home and his four-year old nephew, who had Mohammad's hand all the way from the check point, joined us for a wonderful meal which his mother had made for us. We talked for nearly two hours about the whole range of things from the personal to plans for the future of his country. When I left, I felt I had a long time friend in hand. It had been a good day. As I was leaving his house, a friend Mark Bravermann called from the states to wish me well. It was wonderful timing, as he also had met Mohammad last year and felt the same as I about him. I wished him good feast and we drove to town together in the next available service. It had been a good day! I was very tired but elated about not only the wonderfully hopeful things I had seen but the amazing people of the occupation who are not really occupied. They are really freer than their occupiers.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Worship in Community in the Wider Sense
Sunday, was truly dedicated to worship, rest and "Family" time. "Family time would take on new meaning, as you will see. I really missed the spiritual pilgrimage that is possible through the visits to the Holy places. However, I have learned to appreciate the "living stones" more than the "the dead stones" that often attract us there in the first place. For in those living spaces, God is truly present for me. It's for that selfish reason that I take these trips.
I joined the Nassar family for worship at their church the Christmas Church, located a few yards from where I was staying. As I entered the square, I saw Tony and his mother moving in the same direction, and joined them inside the church, in same pew. Afterall, this was their place of worship and for me, though I have joined in on a couple of occasions with the simul-cast broadcasts between with National Cathedral and the Christmas Church during the Advent season, seeing it in person, made the final connection. This was the real deal.
As I gazed around the room before worship began, I saw the wonderful stained windows and in particular, the one in the dome of the ceiling with Arabic script. Jihan Nassar informed me later that her father had attended that church and as an artist,
has done the caligraphy around that centerpiece in Arabic. The second of many connections for the morning. The pastor had been very active in supporting overtures from Presbyteries, favoring an end of the occupation publically, and actively, at the General Assembly (PCUSA)in Minneapolis this past summer. I had heard him speak as a witness and key note speaker at a variety of venues. It is a different experience seeing him in his own pulpit with his people.
As I gazed around, I saw the coordinator for the Middle East Programs (PCUSA), our mission worker in the region, and the director for Compassion, Peace and Justice (PCUSA), in the first pew. Though I had only seen them at GA also in 2008 as a commissioner, I was able to recognize them as prominent people. I was feeling more at home in this church than I thought I would. May be even a truer representation of the body of Christ in a global sense than I am use to feeling.
Moments before the service began, I saw, two pews up, a colleague and supporter of Tent of Nations, sitting with a row full of young men. His organization had provided water pumps for the new cisterns, as well as library shelves and books for the Women's Center in Nahalin. After the service, I learned that the young men, were active church leaders from large Evangelical Christian churches across the country. They were apparently on a week-long alternative tour of the holy land which included such experiences as visiting the refugee camps, meeting with Archbishop Chicour of the Melkite Church, and witnessing East Jerusalem's Sheik Jerrar neighborhood where Palestinian families have been ousted from their family homes by orthodox settlers. They had had a very disburbing and transforming experience which I would also learn later after worship. With all this going, it took awhile to "center".
But once I did, I found the bi-cultural experience in Arabic and English really worshipful. One of the scripture readings from Paul's letter to the Romans demands more attention when I get home. I distinctly remember hearing that "Hope is not something you can see", and if you can, it is not hope- at least God's hope for the world. Not being able to see it, at the moment, I found such a framework helpful. At the close of the sermon which was in Arabic, I wondered what scripture he chose to use for his message. It turns out, he didn't reference this one, but rather the creation text from the old testament. He referred me to Jihan after the service for her interpretation.
After worship, there was a gathering on the deck of the church, just above the market place which was a buzz with Muslims preparing for the Feast holiday in two days. I gravitated over to the young pastors, and together with Daher and Jihan, and support from the group leader, we were able to invite them to visit the Farm on the following day, on their way to Hebron. More of that story later.
With further conversations with the Louisville church representatives, we were also to share the work of Tent of Nations, which sparked their interests as they are presently preparing a trip for some of the senior staff who will be traveling in the Winter to the Holy Lands. The time was right, and God was hard at work. I struggled to hang on once again for another wild ride. There are no coincidences in my life, and signs of hope for a just peace through God's plan, not ours. Yes, hope unseen.
The rest of the afternoon was with the entire Nassar clan at Tony and Isreen's house in Beit Jala. After a wonderful meal in their home, and the traditional Arabic hospitality which comforts the visitor, I felt it had been a good day. The sounds of young children were also comforting, at least for the first couple of hours. While I truly loved playing with them throughout the afternoon, I understood once again, why we have children when we are young. The connections with the family created a cushion of support than I found comfortable and the most beautiful part of my experience during the entire three weeks. Afterall, it really is about relationships, and oh yes, connections. I feel connected.
I joined the Nassar family for worship at their church the Christmas Church, located a few yards from where I was staying. As I entered the square, I saw Tony and his mother moving in the same direction, and joined them inside the church, in same pew. Afterall, this was their place of worship and for me, though I have joined in on a couple of occasions with the simul-cast broadcasts between with National Cathedral and the Christmas Church during the Advent season, seeing it in person, made the final connection. This was the real deal.
As I gazed around the room before worship began, I saw the wonderful stained windows and in particular, the one in the dome of the ceiling with Arabic script. Jihan Nassar informed me later that her father had attended that church and as an artist,
has done the caligraphy around that centerpiece in Arabic. The second of many connections for the morning. The pastor had been very active in supporting overtures from Presbyteries, favoring an end of the occupation publically, and actively, at the General Assembly (PCUSA)in Minneapolis this past summer. I had heard him speak as a witness and key note speaker at a variety of venues. It is a different experience seeing him in his own pulpit with his people.
As I gazed around, I saw the coordinator for the Middle East Programs (PCUSA), our mission worker in the region, and the director for Compassion, Peace and Justice (PCUSA), in the first pew. Though I had only seen them at GA also in 2008 as a commissioner, I was able to recognize them as prominent people. I was feeling more at home in this church than I thought I would. May be even a truer representation of the body of Christ in a global sense than I am use to feeling.
Moments before the service began, I saw, two pews up, a colleague and supporter of Tent of Nations, sitting with a row full of young men. His organization had provided water pumps for the new cisterns, as well as library shelves and books for the Women's Center in Nahalin. After the service, I learned that the young men, were active church leaders from large Evangelical Christian churches across the country. They were apparently on a week-long alternative tour of the holy land which included such experiences as visiting the refugee camps, meeting with Archbishop Chicour of the Melkite Church, and witnessing East Jerusalem's Sheik Jerrar neighborhood where Palestinian families have been ousted from their family homes by orthodox settlers. They had had a very disburbing and transforming experience which I would also learn later after worship. With all this going, it took awhile to "center".
But once I did, I found the bi-cultural experience in Arabic and English really worshipful. One of the scripture readings from Paul's letter to the Romans demands more attention when I get home. I distinctly remember hearing that "Hope is not something you can see", and if you can, it is not hope- at least God's hope for the world. Not being able to see it, at the moment, I found such a framework helpful. At the close of the sermon which was in Arabic, I wondered what scripture he chose to use for his message. It turns out, he didn't reference this one, but rather the creation text from the old testament. He referred me to Jihan after the service for her interpretation.
After worship, there was a gathering on the deck of the church, just above the market place which was a buzz with Muslims preparing for the Feast holiday in two days. I gravitated over to the young pastors, and together with Daher and Jihan, and support from the group leader, we were able to invite them to visit the Farm on the following day, on their way to Hebron. More of that story later.
With further conversations with the Louisville church representatives, we were also to share the work of Tent of Nations, which sparked their interests as they are presently preparing a trip for some of the senior staff who will be traveling in the Winter to the Holy Lands. The time was right, and God was hard at work. I struggled to hang on once again for another wild ride. There are no coincidences in my life, and signs of hope for a just peace through God's plan, not ours. Yes, hope unseen.
The rest of the afternoon was with the entire Nassar clan at Tony and Isreen's house in Beit Jala. After a wonderful meal in their home, and the traditional Arabic hospitality which comforts the visitor, I felt it had been a good day. The sounds of young children were also comforting, at least for the first couple of hours. While I truly loved playing with them throughout the afternoon, I understood once again, why we have children when we are young. The connections with the family created a cushion of support than I found comfortable and the most beautiful part of my experience during the entire three weeks. Afterall, it really is about relationships, and oh yes, connections. I feel connected.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
From the Balcony of My Temporary Home
The sun's rays are filtered by the clouds this morning, unlike most days. Will the rains come to today? Probably not. The persistence of sun will claim the day. I feel the change as I write each new word. Yesterday was a time for me of a crystalization of many separate events of days past. The defining moment occurred in the morning during the taxi ride to Nahallin Village. I saw transactions between business people of Husan village and their orthodox customers from Beitar Elit. I was shocked. Signs written in Hebrew appeared all along streets for services, for vegetables and materials. Where are the walls to separate these people? There are none. No doubt this is mutual economic dependency at its best, but also there is the possibility of personal relationships. Hmmm? I am sure there must be some. (I returned several days later to capture those moments with my camera. More later.)
A friend suggested that I might be interested in seeing also the villages of Tocoa and the settlement of Tocoa. Said, our young friend and guide, organized a trip with a driver. He and his brother Assed, took us to the Wadi Quelt last year for a barbecue at the bottom of a steep canyon in the biblical wilderness area. Today, we headed south east of Bethlehem this time, after first meeting with Jamal, the police chief of Bethlehem who is from Beit Fajarr, the village whose mosque was set fire by villager a few weeks ago.
There are three players in the area of Tocoa, the birthplace of Amos, the village of Tocoa, the settlement by the same name and Nocodim where Liebermann lives. While there are some business transactions between the settlers and the village people because of the needs the Israelis have for services, the degree to which there is interaction is not so high as in Husan. Still we were stopped short of entering Nocodim, so as not to get the driver and Said in trouble, but instead, viewed the kibbutz from a distant hill top. Liebermann' residence stands out and above the rest with its distinctive red roof tiles.
Several boys surround me while I was taking pictures. Like all children I encounter, they clearly wanted to see themselves. I felt a little suspicious about those behind me, but I think it was just because I was a novelty more than they having a motive to intrude in my space. We then meandered south past the settlement through the village of Tocoa and further to the Bedowin lands on the edge of the barren wilderness. The view from there to the East and the backdrop of the Dead Sea, Jordanian mountains some distance away, was amazingly serene and quiet. We paused a moment, but long enough to capture a few pictures of the government-built small, block houses. The Bedowins refused to live in them. Why should they, when the wilderness provided them with a habitat that accommodated their nomatic life.
As the sun began to draw down, we drove back to Said's house and to the home next door that he and his family are building for the future, little by little. The solid concrete unfinished structure with its iron rods sticking up skyward, offers another wonderful view of the wilderness from its third story deck. Such a prospect also offers a symbol of hope for the days ahead. Said announced also that he had obtained a Jordanian passport and had plans to apply to be a physical trainer for the Arab Emirate Army. He also has a back-up plan to study Russian and improve his marketability as a guide here. He had applied to take a test to get his certificate after spending many thousands of dollars in tuition, but the exam was limited by the Israelis to just a few older guides, thereby controlling the number of guides available, mostly Jewish. Young men have a difficult journey to travel in pursuit of careers under the occupation, in addition to all the other constraints on their freedoms.
The day ended with a meal at Said's brother's house with a modified Macluba meal. IT was wonderful. We also met Said's parents who are really sweet, gentle people of the desert.
At night, I met at the local establishment with a few friends and Hosam Gibran who coordinates the Palestinian olive oil trade program at Bethelehem University. They train thee farmers in all aspects of olive oil business. Unlike the Palstinian Fair trade Association which is a business model, who retain 10% of the Harvest in exchange for administrative services. Basam got his masters from the Eastern Mennonite University in Harrisonburg Va. We talked for acouple of hours around his water pipe, and me a glass of wine, about the non-violence movement in Palestine. Bassam spent 15 years of his life in Israeli prisons from the time he was 17. In recent times, young Palestinians could receive such a sentence for merely drawing a Palestinian flag on their notebooks.
Hosam works with a number programs including work with the empowerment of women. He believes that such work is not about changing the role of women, but about changing values and attitudes. He said, his goal is not to produce the next female president or prepare women for leadership roles. While respecting the work of Gandhi and King, he prefered to define his approach which is Palestinian in nature. I asked him if he was actively engaged in a non-violent efforts and he laughed and said, "I'm tired and also disappointed in the present effort. I also spent several years in prison and lacke the resolve." He feels that the efforts today are not focused on the institionalized aspects of the occupation. For example he asked why aren't 1,000 Palestinians, each day attempting to take down small pieces of the wall? The spirit of direct action seems to be on hold at the moment. The Israelis have successful suppressing parts of the Palestinians community to the point that many are concerned about their own survival.
A friend suggested that I might be interested in seeing also the villages of Tocoa and the settlement of Tocoa. Said, our young friend and guide, organized a trip with a driver. He and his brother Assed, took us to the Wadi Quelt last year for a barbecue at the bottom of a steep canyon in the biblical wilderness area. Today, we headed south east of Bethlehem this time, after first meeting with Jamal, the police chief of Bethlehem who is from Beit Fajarr, the village whose mosque was set fire by villager a few weeks ago.
There are three players in the area of Tocoa, the birthplace of Amos, the village of Tocoa, the settlement by the same name and Nocodim where Liebermann lives. While there are some business transactions between the settlers and the village people because of the needs the Israelis have for services, the degree to which there is interaction is not so high as in Husan. Still we were stopped short of entering Nocodim, so as not to get the driver and Said in trouble, but instead, viewed the kibbutz from a distant hill top. Liebermann' residence stands out and above the rest with its distinctive red roof tiles.
Several boys surround me while I was taking pictures. Like all children I encounter, they clearly wanted to see themselves. I felt a little suspicious about those behind me, but I think it was just because I was a novelty more than they having a motive to intrude in my space. We then meandered south past the settlement through the village of Tocoa and further to the Bedowin lands on the edge of the barren wilderness. The view from there to the East and the backdrop of the Dead Sea, Jordanian mountains some distance away, was amazingly serene and quiet. We paused a moment, but long enough to capture a few pictures of the government-built small, block houses. The Bedowins refused to live in them. Why should they, when the wilderness provided them with a habitat that accommodated their nomatic life.
As the sun began to draw down, we drove back to Said's house and to the home next door that he and his family are building for the future, little by little. The solid concrete unfinished structure with its iron rods sticking up skyward, offers another wonderful view of the wilderness from its third story deck. Such a prospect also offers a symbol of hope for the days ahead. Said announced also that he had obtained a Jordanian passport and had plans to apply to be a physical trainer for the Arab Emirate Army. He also has a back-up plan to study Russian and improve his marketability as a guide here. He had applied to take a test to get his certificate after spending many thousands of dollars in tuition, but the exam was limited by the Israelis to just a few older guides, thereby controlling the number of guides available, mostly Jewish. Young men have a difficult journey to travel in pursuit of careers under the occupation, in addition to all the other constraints on their freedoms.
The day ended with a meal at Said's brother's house with a modified Macluba meal. IT was wonderful. We also met Said's parents who are really sweet, gentle people of the desert.
At night, I met at the local establishment with a few friends and Hosam Gibran who coordinates the Palestinian olive oil trade program at Bethelehem University. They train thee farmers in all aspects of olive oil business. Unlike the Palstinian Fair trade Association which is a business model, who retain 10% of the Harvest in exchange for administrative services. Basam got his masters from the Eastern Mennonite University in Harrisonburg Va. We talked for acouple of hours around his water pipe, and me a glass of wine, about the non-violence movement in Palestine. Bassam spent 15 years of his life in Israeli prisons from the time he was 17. In recent times, young Palestinians could receive such a sentence for merely drawing a Palestinian flag on their notebooks.
Hosam works with a number programs including work with the empowerment of women. He believes that such work is not about changing the role of women, but about changing values and attitudes. He said, his goal is not to produce the next female president or prepare women for leadership roles. While respecting the work of Gandhi and King, he prefered to define his approach which is Palestinian in nature. I asked him if he was actively engaged in a non-violent efforts and he laughed and said, "I'm tired and also disappointed in the present effort. I also spent several years in prison and lacke the resolve." He feels that the efforts today are not focused on the institionalized aspects of the occupation. For example he asked why aren't 1,000 Palestinians, each day attempting to take down small pieces of the wall? The spirit of direct action seems to be on hold at the moment. The Israelis have successful suppressing parts of the Palestinians community to the point that many are concerned about their own survival.
Children of the Same Land With DIfferent Eyes
Friday was a day of clarity. I suddenly realized that one of the outstanding highlights of my trip occured on a taxi ride to the village of Nehalin where Bill Mims and I joined Jihan at the women's center for several sessions. I will write more about the discovery of a particular relationship between the Orthodox community of Beitar Elit and the village of Husan. Another revelation which came to me yesterday was the phrase "The LIght in Their eyes". A three part poem came to me and three different looks: Childeren in the rural refugee camp of Aroub, the Nassar family childen of Daoud and Jihan, and the Street Boys of Bethlehem. For your consideration:
CHILDREN OF THE LAND
The Light in Their Eyes
There, in the streets of the Camp
Scattered here and there,
clusters of children playing in the dirty, dusty streets,
suddenly alert to our presence,
coming forward in silent anticipation.
Eyes, looking up from one meter, to heights above
as we walk together, we hear a warm greeting of "Welcome!"
in a tongue which is not their own.
The almond eyes capture their feeings, some innocent,
others with an economic agenda, perhaps yes or not.
Bishara, Nardine and Shadin
The light in their eyes, a glow with
excitement, joy and even hope.
As they grow in music, language and learning,
passed on by the family of nurturing souls that
know no" obstacles which can't be overcome,
and have dreams that must be shared".
One who leads her class in every way
though young, but old in many ways.
She reads a book a day it seems,
then analyzes it's meaning for herself,
which reflects a process of inquiry, questions
and verbs of action that lead to a creative
mind and perhaps answers to a world
full of barriers for her.
Another, now playful but caring,
surrounds her brother's body
with an arm, an embrace, returned laughter
and even a shove.
She plays the piano with such feeling
that belies her age and the sound projects
a spirit from within that others can only hear.
At last, Ebent, whose body never stops
from dawn to dusk,
and whose eyes and mouth engage the bystander
with quiet reference, and awe.
Such a little one, he is, who
poses on the farm's tractor with hope in his eyes
and prophetic words in his mouth, and an
overflowing joy in his heart.
All have light in their eyes.
The Street Boys of Bethlehen
The urban youth who are visible
in the streets, often kicking a ball,
release energy around and within them.
They pause for a moment, as their eyes tell a different story,
one of distress.
Having witnessed the violence of older ones,
on both sides, they seek outlets for frustration, pain, angst and loss.
Whoops, a soccer ball under great velocity speeds
toward my head.
I duck just in time and the ball sails above my head
and down the narrow streets of Bethlehem.
Was action deliberate?
Was pain an end itself?
Or, was it simply happen chance
that my head was in the way of a goal's face?
I'll never know for eyes were not to be seen this time.
Bill
CHILDREN OF THE LAND
The Light in Their Eyes
There, in the streets of the Camp
Scattered here and there,
clusters of children playing in the dirty, dusty streets,
suddenly alert to our presence,
coming forward in silent anticipation.
Eyes, looking up from one meter, to heights above
as we walk together, we hear a warm greeting of "Welcome!"
in a tongue which is not their own.
The almond eyes capture their feeings, some innocent,
others with an economic agenda, perhaps yes or not.
Bishara, Nardine and Shadin
The light in their eyes, a glow with
excitement, joy and even hope.
As they grow in music, language and learning,
passed on by the family of nurturing souls that
know no" obstacles which can't be overcome,
and have dreams that must be shared".
One who leads her class in every way
though young, but old in many ways.
She reads a book a day it seems,
then analyzes it's meaning for herself,
which reflects a process of inquiry, questions
and verbs of action that lead to a creative
mind and perhaps answers to a world
full of barriers for her.
Another, now playful but caring,
surrounds her brother's body
with an arm, an embrace, returned laughter
and even a shove.
She plays the piano with such feeling
that belies her age and the sound projects
a spirit from within that others can only hear.
At last, Ebent, whose body never stops
from dawn to dusk,
and whose eyes and mouth engage the bystander
with quiet reference, and awe.
Such a little one, he is, who
poses on the farm's tractor with hope in his eyes
and prophetic words in his mouth, and an
overflowing joy in his heart.
All have light in their eyes.
The Street Boys of Bethlehen
The urban youth who are visible
in the streets, often kicking a ball,
release energy around and within them.
They pause for a moment, as their eyes tell a different story,
one of distress.
Having witnessed the violence of older ones,
on both sides, they seek outlets for frustration, pain, angst and loss.
Whoops, a soccer ball under great velocity speeds
toward my head.
I duck just in time and the ball sails above my head
and down the narrow streets of Bethlehem.
Was action deliberate?
Was pain an end itself?
Or, was it simply happen chance
that my head was in the way of a goal's face?
I'll never know for eyes were not to be seen this time.
Bill
Thursday, November 11, 2010
A Second Day with my Friends from Trinity/Arlington
After breakfast on Wednesday, we went to Dar Kalima, the Lutheran school where the Nassar kids go to school, and Tony, Daoud's brother was there too! I had no idea we were going to their school until I saw Tony, as assistant Principal, walked in the room. THe Nassars are all over the place! I saw Daoud's children, Shadin and Nardine in their classes and that was great surprise too! WE walked over to the new University of Aliya, and did an informal tour before heading to see the wall at Rachel's tomb, as I had requested. The appearance of the 28 ft. wall, paid for by the US was overwhelming for everyone. Until you have seen it for yourself, it's hard to imagine.
Following a a spontaneous informal meeting with Zoughby Zoughby of the Wi'am Center for Conflict Resolution and Non-violence ( I recognized the building and dashed over to see if anyone could see our group on such a short notice. They invited us in for tea, and welcomed our pocketbooks to the gift shop and check out the needlework of the local women. The purchases are for a good cause, and not lost on the racket that the tour drivers and guides thrive on THe surprise visit worked out great for all, and was another glimpse for the group, of yet another group working for a just peace through non violent means. WE then travelled to Efrat and went to the home of settler Bob Lang from New York who had been in the settlement for nearly 30 years. ( I had nicked named him "Builder Bob" for he supported increasing the population in the region of Samaria and Judea as a right to their history in the region. He spun his tale and of course "was open to all questions" for which he had all the answers. His presentation was well planned, and clearly, this was not his first time with visitors, as he incorporated nearly every question we might have had, had we had a chance to ask them. I am sorry I didn't tape it! The experience will fuel other posts I know.
WE then toured Dehesheih Camp, the largest camp in the Bethlehem area. THe United Nations which has jurisdiction over the camp, had shut down all its schools and health centers for the more than 12,000 refugees within its walls. Trash had not been collected either for the last 25 days. The horrible conditions of the camp have existed for some since its origins in 1948. The site was very disturbing for all of us. WE left after hearing the overview, and taking the short walk through the camp. On their way to Jerusalem, the group bus driver left me off at the Cinema Rd in Bethlehem and after saying how grateful I was for their visit, I bid them farewell and walked up the hill to my room. It was really wonderful to share time with members of my church community who had heard my story and that of others for the alst five years, and made the committment to come see for themselves. As was for me, their lives will never quite be the same. B.
Following a a spontaneous informal meeting with Zoughby Zoughby of the Wi'am Center for Conflict Resolution and Non-violence ( I recognized the building and dashed over to see if anyone could see our group on such a short notice. They invited us in for tea, and welcomed our pocketbooks to the gift shop and check out the needlework of the local women. The purchases are for a good cause, and not lost on the racket that the tour drivers and guides thrive on THe surprise visit worked out great for all, and was another glimpse for the group, of yet another group working for a just peace through non violent means. WE then travelled to Efrat and went to the home of settler Bob Lang from New York who had been in the settlement for nearly 30 years. ( I had nicked named him "Builder Bob" for he supported increasing the population in the region of Samaria and Judea as a right to their history in the region. He spun his tale and of course "was open to all questions" for which he had all the answers. His presentation was well planned, and clearly, this was not his first time with visitors, as he incorporated nearly every question we might have had, had we had a chance to ask them. I am sorry I didn't tape it! The experience will fuel other posts I know.
WE then toured Dehesheih Camp, the largest camp in the Bethlehem area. THe United Nations which has jurisdiction over the camp, had shut down all its schools and health centers for the more than 12,000 refugees within its walls. Trash had not been collected either for the last 25 days. The horrible conditions of the camp have existed for some since its origins in 1948. The site was very disturbing for all of us. WE left after hearing the overview, and taking the short walk through the camp. On their way to Jerusalem, the group bus driver left me off at the Cinema Rd in Bethlehem and after saying how grateful I was for their visit, I bid them farewell and walked up the hill to my room. It was really wonderful to share time with members of my church community who had heard my story and that of others for the alst five years, and made the committment to come see for themselves. As was for me, their lives will never quite be the same. B.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
New Circles of Friends for Tent of Nations
One of three purposes for traveling to Palestine this time, in addition to providing support for the Nassar family, and visiting new places, was the opportunity to introduce two groups from the U.S to the Project the family leads. On Monday, the Interfaith Peacebuilder Group whom I had travelled with over the weekend, were coming for lunch at the farm, and to learn about the family's story.
IFPB delegations come to the farm almost each time they visit the country. Some of the travelers had been to the farm before, but none in the last few years. They were surpised by the changes on the Farm, and to obvious increase of settlement development around it. After hearing Amal Nasar tell the story, many of the travelers were enraged once again with the picture she painted, but impressed that she expressed no anger, or made claim of victimhood. The message is powerful, and those that might still be teetering on the edge, were swung over to supporting an end to the misery, and obvious violations of human rights. In my role as respresentative for Fotonna, and as a fellow traveler with their delegation, and a former delegate myself, I had their audience for a few more minutes and shared what we had done to support the families' efforts to hold on to the land, and to offer a place where internationals and others could come and work together on the land. I was encouraged that the delegation had a number of young people aboard. All of them expressed an interest in returning again as a volunteer. We will no doubt have additional support in Fotonna's effort to secure new circles friends.
The second group were fourteen members from church in Arlington. I had long waited their coming to the land, and was pleased that they were not only there to see the dead stones, but to see the living ones as well. After briefing them in the morning about what they might see, we divided into two groups and headed for the taxis we had hired for the trip of some six miles. We had planned for them to be exposed to two routes of travel, one via the villages with all of its trials, and the other, a return via the main highway back to Bethlehem. This would give the travelers an exposure to the harsh realities of village people as well as that of the Nassar family. The return trip never happened as the drivers needed to return through the village as they had to make a run along the same route we had traveled earlier. WE were only able to complete one half of the experience for them in that case. Driving the main highway to fetch us would have been a problem for them. It was just fine.
Two Canadian pilgrims, staying at the same place as the group, joined us for the trip too. Amal's story, told in the cave of her fathers. grabbed the hearts of the listeners. I was so happy that the group heard for themselves what we had written about and talked about for four years at our church. It was a highly satisfying experience for me, and worth the wait to hear their testimonies about the injustices they had SEEN. I heard the travelers talking about writing letters and letting the world they knew, know about what they had now witnessed. IT was a great day for everyone. Scwi scwi, (little by little). BIll
IFPB delegations come to the farm almost each time they visit the country. Some of the travelers had been to the farm before, but none in the last few years. They were surpised by the changes on the Farm, and to obvious increase of settlement development around it. After hearing Amal Nasar tell the story, many of the travelers were enraged once again with the picture she painted, but impressed that she expressed no anger, or made claim of victimhood. The message is powerful, and those that might still be teetering on the edge, were swung over to supporting an end to the misery, and obvious violations of human rights. In my role as respresentative for Fotonna, and as a fellow traveler with their delegation, and a former delegate myself, I had their audience for a few more minutes and shared what we had done to support the families' efforts to hold on to the land, and to offer a place where internationals and others could come and work together on the land. I was encouraged that the delegation had a number of young people aboard. All of them expressed an interest in returning again as a volunteer. We will no doubt have additional support in Fotonna's effort to secure new circles friends.
The second group were fourteen members from church in Arlington. I had long waited their coming to the land, and was pleased that they were not only there to see the dead stones, but to see the living ones as well. After briefing them in the morning about what they might see, we divided into two groups and headed for the taxis we had hired for the trip of some six miles. We had planned for them to be exposed to two routes of travel, one via the villages with all of its trials, and the other, a return via the main highway back to Bethlehem. This would give the travelers an exposure to the harsh realities of village people as well as that of the Nassar family. The return trip never happened as the drivers needed to return through the village as they had to make a run along the same route we had traveled earlier. WE were only able to complete one half of the experience for them in that case. Driving the main highway to fetch us would have been a problem for them. It was just fine.
Two Canadian pilgrims, staying at the same place as the group, joined us for the trip too. Amal's story, told in the cave of her fathers. grabbed the hearts of the listeners. I was so happy that the group heard for themselves what we had written about and talked about for four years at our church. It was a highly satisfying experience for me, and worth the wait to hear their testimonies about the injustices they had SEEN. I heard the travelers talking about writing letters and letting the world they knew, know about what they had now witnessed. IT was a great day for everyone. Scwi scwi, (little by little). BIll
The Words of Appeal from Ballota Refugee Camp
The Director of the Center at Ballota Camp opened with, "If you have visited Refugee camps in the West Bank, our needs are no different, only double as we are the largest camp here. He seemed a little frustrated, and maybe a little resentful that all the misery in the camp is met with indifference by the world. He pleaded with us
to place pressure on our government to bring an end to the occupation, and free the people. Having visited three other camps in the past, I too, was wondering the same thing.
As we were leaving the camp, our group was strung out, and off guard when some young boys acted aggresively and hit of the older, more fragile women in our party with a soccer ball. She was quite frightened by it of course. We quickly moved out of the camp. WE were told by our leader that we should have called the incident to the attention of our hosts, as the adults do not promote such behavior, and would have corrected it immediately. I think that advice might have come a bit earlier. Anyway, no one was seriously injured.
We left Nablis that afternoon having taken a tour of the old city given by the Human development Society, an organization committed to responding to the needs of women, in particular. The tour guide was himself from the old town center, and his story of the seige on his city was horrifying, and the Israeli forces stormed in with lots of weaponry, injuring 100's and killing 77, the largest number in killed in all of the West Bank. He, himself, had been shot on the roof of his apartment building by an Israeli sniper. At the time he was an ambulance worker, and was taking a break, not knowing the incursion had had happened. He hid behind an object on the roof while taking a smoke. A bullet slashed through one leg and out the other, cleanly. He was bleeding profusely, and wondered if he should remain where he was or make a dash for the door. He made the move and descended the stairs to his apartment. His family picked him up and took him down stairs and into the streets to an incoming ambulance. The soldiers prevented him from getting into ambulance, and made him sit for two hours without attention, and by that time had lost an enormous amount off blood. Eventually, the soldiers allowed him to go, but he was again stopped. From the time he was shot until he was admitted in the hospital, totalled five hours. He eventually regained consciousness, and survived the ordeal. There were stories along the way in his neighbor of the old city with similar stories of young men being
killed indescriminately IT is one thing to engage in an equal battle but to attack
unarmed men,is a disgrace.
We headed to Bethlehem and the home stays with the people in Beit Sahour. I got off at the bus stop in Jerusalem, and took a local bus to Jerusalem. It had been full weekend in the north, and I was glad I went.
to place pressure on our government to bring an end to the occupation, and free the people. Having visited three other camps in the past, I too, was wondering the same thing.
As we were leaving the camp, our group was strung out, and off guard when some young boys acted aggresively and hit of the older, more fragile women in our party with a soccer ball. She was quite frightened by it of course. We quickly moved out of the camp. WE were told by our leader that we should have called the incident to the attention of our hosts, as the adults do not promote such behavior, and would have corrected it immediately. I think that advice might have come a bit earlier. Anyway, no one was seriously injured.
We left Nablis that afternoon having taken a tour of the old city given by the Human development Society, an organization committed to responding to the needs of women, in particular. The tour guide was himself from the old town center, and his story of the seige on his city was horrifying, and the Israeli forces stormed in with lots of weaponry, injuring 100's and killing 77, the largest number in killed in all of the West Bank. He, himself, had been shot on the roof of his apartment building by an Israeli sniper. At the time he was an ambulance worker, and was taking a break, not knowing the incursion had had happened. He hid behind an object on the roof while taking a smoke. A bullet slashed through one leg and out the other, cleanly. He was bleeding profusely, and wondered if he should remain where he was or make a dash for the door. He made the move and descended the stairs to his apartment. His family picked him up and took him down stairs and into the streets to an incoming ambulance. The soldiers prevented him from getting into ambulance, and made him sit for two hours without attention, and by that time had lost an enormous amount off blood. Eventually, the soldiers allowed him to go, but he was again stopped. From the time he was shot until he was admitted in the hospital, totalled five hours. He eventually regained consciousness, and survived the ordeal. There were stories along the way in his neighbor of the old city with similar stories of young men being
killed indescriminately IT is one thing to engage in an equal battle but to attack
unarmed men,is a disgrace.
We headed to Bethlehem and the home stays with the people in Beit Sahour. I got off at the bus stop in Jerusalem, and took a local bus to Jerusalem. It had been full weekend in the north, and I was glad I went.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Harvesting Olives in Jenin
I decided that after finishing the course on communications with the women at the Women's Center with Jihan, that I would join the Interfaith delegation to Jenin and Nablis over the weekend. We first, traveled to meet the four members of the Palestinian Council who were elected in the 2006 election. They are members of the Hamas Party, and have spent most of the years since in prison. They sought asylum at the Red Cross Headqarters and are into their 128 days of a refusal to leave the property, since they were warned that they would be arrested immediately. It is too bad that the press and the government have labeled them as terrorists, as their party was elected freely in the election. Leaving them out of the equation was also an error too, as they now become heroes outside the conversation, instead of contributing members within the PA government.
We also visited Sheik Jerrar, a neighborhood in East Jerusalem whose families were ousted by the settlers there. Their story is a sad but determined one, as they have suffered severely by the attack of the settlers, who threw the family out in the streets, including tossing sleeping children out the door. The four months or so that the family spent outside in heat and cold, was of international notice. Their stories made me angry at a world that allowed such brutality. Perhaps that will require a blog article by itself when I have the time.
Then, afterwards, we went to the Northern most city of Jenin, where with Nasser Aboufaha. WE visited him in 2006 when he was just beginning to coordinate the activities of the Palestinian Fairtrade Association, and cooperative of some 40 smaller cooperatives and three hundred farmers. What I notice most is the sense
of pride and dignity the farmers have in their product and in the work they do. They have also been able to raise the market price, to balance local need and a fair
wage for their farmers. They use to get 6 NS for a liter now up to 25 or 26
depending upon the results of tests of their oil. Six of us spent the night in the home of Abent and Somerher Khaloway and their four children. Abent is a very succesful farmer, with some 6,000 trees. He hires some 35-50 pickers and has just three weeks to harvest his crop. We road about half hour north through the town of Sababde in the back of a large truck to get to his fields. While we didn't set any records, the workers appreciated our presence, I believe. There was a lot of wonderful lighthearted play and hard work during the few hours we were in the fields. The Arab hospitality is special. Never did I hear any word of anger or hatred for the Israelis, only disappointment and frustration with end of the occupation.
THe next day we visited the beautiful city of Nablis located between two sister mountains, one of good ness and one of evil. More about the tour through the old
city and the visit to the Balotta Refugee Camp of 25,000 people within a square KM.
70% of whom are children under age 18. b.
We also visited Sheik Jerrar, a neighborhood in East Jerusalem whose families were ousted by the settlers there. Their story is a sad but determined one, as they have suffered severely by the attack of the settlers, who threw the family out in the streets, including tossing sleeping children out the door. The four months or so that the family spent outside in heat and cold, was of international notice. Their stories made me angry at a world that allowed such brutality. Perhaps that will require a blog article by itself when I have the time.
Then, afterwards, we went to the Northern most city of Jenin, where with Nasser Aboufaha. WE visited him in 2006 when he was just beginning to coordinate the activities of the Palestinian Fairtrade Association, and cooperative of some 40 smaller cooperatives and three hundred farmers. What I notice most is the sense
of pride and dignity the farmers have in their product and in the work they do. They have also been able to raise the market price, to balance local need and a fair
wage for their farmers. They use to get 6 NS for a liter now up to 25 or 26
depending upon the results of tests of their oil. Six of us spent the night in the home of Abent and Somerher Khaloway and their four children. Abent is a very succesful farmer, with some 6,000 trees. He hires some 35-50 pickers and has just three weeks to harvest his crop. We road about half hour north through the town of Sababde in the back of a large truck to get to his fields. While we didn't set any records, the workers appreciated our presence, I believe. There was a lot of wonderful lighthearted play and hard work during the few hours we were in the fields. The Arab hospitality is special. Never did I hear any word of anger or hatred for the Israelis, only disappointment and frustration with end of the occupation.
THe next day we visited the beautiful city of Nablis located between two sister mountains, one of good ness and one of evil. More about the tour through the old
city and the visit to the Balotta Refugee Camp of 25,000 people within a square KM.
70% of whom are children under age 18. b.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A Local Settlement and its Accommodating Neighbors
Well, just when you begin to really think you understand the situation, you learn you know little. Teaching in a village near the Nassar family farm made what appeared from the top of the mountain on the farm,come alive. From the farm, we could see the village below, but not its many hills within that make travel
difficult; its surrounding settlements, but not their relationship. IT's the latter
that wish to reflect upon. I learned that the town is nearly absent of men, as they are working during the day in the settlements which is their only source of employment. These settlements are on farms owned by the residents of the village. They are forced to work on the construction of the very places they farmed a short period ago. They are paid relatively well at $125 and are able to furnish the inside of their homes fairly well with left over materials from the buildings they are constructing, and with the money they make. YOu would think that the occupation is no problem for them. But the income is good, at least for now. What will happen when the cities they are building are complete and the only jobs they can find are low paying service jobs and not the highy paid craftsman skills they are employing now?
On another village near the same settlement of Beitar Elit, the settlers regularly come to the village to have their cars repaired, or to buy building materials. There are not walls there, and the orthodox come to purchase their goods and fresh vegetables freely. Many of the villagers speak Hebrew frequently and their are signs in Hebrew, all over the place. Where's the threat of the terrorists there? Go figure!
difficult; its surrounding settlements, but not their relationship. IT's the latter
that wish to reflect upon. I learned that the town is nearly absent of men, as they are working during the day in the settlements which is their only source of employment. These settlements are on farms owned by the residents of the village. They are forced to work on the construction of the very places they farmed a short period ago. They are paid relatively well at $125 and are able to furnish the inside of their homes fairly well with left over materials from the buildings they are constructing, and with the money they make. YOu would think that the occupation is no problem for them. But the income is good, at least for now. What will happen when the cities they are building are complete and the only jobs they can find are low paying service jobs and not the highy paid craftsman skills they are employing now?
On another village near the same settlement of Beitar Elit, the settlers regularly come to the village to have their cars repaired, or to buy building materials. There are not walls there, and the orthodox come to purchase their goods and fresh vegetables freely. Many of the villagers speak Hebrew frequently and their are signs in Hebrew, all over the place. Where's the threat of the terrorists there? Go figure!
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Women of Bent Al Rif and their Center
Bill Mims and I traveled by taxi through the back roads to the Women's Center where Jihan Nassar, the director, leads classes in Computer Science, English and women's development classes. She asked us to offer a short course for the women in problem solving, while giving them practice in English. These are very bright young women, who because of the traditional nature of their culture, are not encouraged to continue their formal education. For the most part, they stay at home and do little. It is such a waste of talent, and when offered the chance to enroll in courses, they are eager to learn. The brainstorming activity centered around identifying issues which they are facing; identifying resources they have at their disposal,and creating a trusting climate, has been a challenge. They were quite honest in sharing their experiences not only with occupation, but about their desires to pursue an education. I look forward returning tommorrow.
Bill and I grabbed a taxi up the valley to Tent of Nations, and spent some time
weeding around the olive trees I planted two years ago. They are doing quite well,
and during the fourth year, they take off. We regret to say that the one for George Bush died in the vine.
Bill and I grabbed a taxi up the valley to Tent of Nations, and spent some time
weeding around the olive trees I planted two years ago. They are doing quite well,
and during the fourth year, they take off. We regret to say that the one for George Bush died in the vine.
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