Palestine Granted Observer State Status at U.N.
In favour: 138 | Oppose: 9 | Abstain: 41
Rock Throwing in Bethlehem
A half dozen kids in their early teens were notably distressed, one appeared to have been crying or at least, quite upset. They gathered less than fifty meters from the base of the checkpoint and tower where the wall turns a sharp corner, the site of heavy protests just last week during the battle between Hamas and Israel in Gaza and beyond.
Three of the kids gathered stones from construction site rubble. They leaned around the corner, peering at the guards in the high tower. One smile at me and I smiled back, both with body language and in English asking what they were up to (the stone throwing was obvious, but the reason was what I was after). The taller, thinner of the bunch motioned to the stones and then the tower. “Yeh, I get that. But why? E’nte?” I asked. The others were clearly gathering for a quick hit-n-run volley and so I reached for my camera. The same kid immediately motioned “No! No!” with his hands across his face and then pointing at my camera. I waited to see if he would change his mind, and then returned my camera to its bag.
I chose a spot, leaning against the wall to watch. This was not a major demonstration, rather quite clearly some upset kids, a grievance of some sort they wanted to settle. All at once they rushed the wall and launched the stones. None made it as high as the partially protected windows, but in all, fairly good accuracy. Some experience, I assume.
Immediately, a white van pulled over and from it emerged two men in their fifties who grabbed the boys by the backs of their shirts collars and arms, scolding them as they dragged them away. One got loose, turned, and ran directly into me. He was the one who had appeared to have been crying earlier, perhaps the reason this one-sided battle had formed.
I held him momentarily, more concerned he would fall if I let go. He pushed himself back, I stepped aside, and the men continued to drive the kids away, talking to them, trying to calm them down.
So much of the rock throwing, the protests that turn nasty are kids against kids, literally teenagers and early twenty-somethings with stones and flaming cocktails on one side, relative children of the same age on the other pointing guns. It’s the same on the news about Egypt, Syria, and everywhere else this kind of unrest is sustained. Those with families, jobs, and what feels like a future are more likely to remain home and watch on television.
Of Whiskey, Guns, and Chewing Gum
I had just finished an enjoyable lunch with a few associates in Bethlehem when I walked back, toward where I had departed the #21 bus, at its last stop. I could not recall the location of the Bethany Bible College, but knew I was very close. I decided to try my luck with the PA Police, an armed force which works to maintain order in those areas controlled by the Palestinian Authority.
As tonight the United Nations would vote on the the Palestinian bid for “Observer State,” the outcome unknown, many more armed police had come out to line the streets and stand at the corners. When I was in this same place one week earlier, the IDF had been painting that section of the wall, gate, and guard tower aircraft gray to cover the graffiti and damage from fires set by Molotov cocktails. Already, sign of a place in contention had returned, “FREE PALESTINE” in black and red spray paint.
The first two PA Police I spoke with did not have a command of English, and my Arabic remains mostly non-functional for the lack of time I have committed to study. They directed me across the street to a half dozen heavily armed men in, on, and around a PA truck.
As I approached they straighten-up, a few smiling, the others looking somewhat grim.
“Marjaba. Kif harek?”
” ‘suta ilhamdilla,” one of the men replied, offering an outstretched hand. The others smiled, laughed, or said something I did not understand. Likely semi-offensive as the others laughed more.
“Wen Bethany College?”
“What?” he asked in English.
“College. Bethany College?”
“Where you go?”
“To the college, somewhere, … over there,” and as I waved my arm, I saw the sign and realized it was just diagonal from me, on the same side of the street I had just come from.”
“Where you from?”
“Jerusalem. That is where I live.”
I could already tell this was more fun than they had enjoyed all day, and I might be here for a while, so I played along.
“La, la. No. Where you from–what country?”
” ‘merika,” I responded.
“Ah! President Obama!” They all laughed.
“Yes, President Obama.”
The half dozen police, those of whom were not sitting in the truck, were carrying fully automatic machine guns. While I have grown accustomed to seeing this, either with the IDF or Palestinian Police, it didn’t bother me. However, I found myself studying the weapons now that they were within reach. It intrigued me as to how physically abused they appeared to be, scratched, dented, and worn. I wondered if this was from use, or simply carrying them around all day, for even my camera has suffered quite a bit in the recent months without my having mistreated it in any fashion.
The driver of the truck leaned toward me, across his associate in the front passenger seat. “You have passport?”
“What?” hearing him, but not really seeing the point as I was only asking directions.
“Passport. Let me see your passport.”
“My passport? Uh … Ok. Hold on.”
Everyone got quiet and watched as I pulled it from a pouch in my backpack. I handed it to the passenger who had apparently not reviewed many western passports, for he looked for my photo in the back. The guy in the driver seat grew frustrated and took it from him.
“Ah-mer-ee-kah!”
“Yes. America,” I repeated, smiling.
When I turned back to the four men standing by the truck, one of them had stepped closer to me and was holding a stick of Wrigley’s gum, in its famous silver foil wrapper, in his outstretched hand.
“Ah! Shokran!”
They all laughed as I unwrapped the gum, placed it in my mouth, and began to chew. I could not recall the last time I had a piece of gum. It was refreshing.
The guy to my left, whose machine gun was closest to me asked, “You like Hamas?”
Taking a slight risk, but having a feeling I knew the correct answer, “No! Hamas is c-r-a-z-y!” circling my index finger round my head.
Immediately, they all cheered and rewarded me with a round of high-fives.
“Obama. He hates Palestinians,” the same man said.
I lowered my head as I considered how to address this, and then looked back to him, “No, no,” (shaking my head) “Listen,” I took a deep breath, calling upon a reduced, simple vocabulary to make certain they all understood. Each of them moved a little closer and were very quiet.
“Listen. No president, not Obama, not Bush, not Clinton–no president can say no to Israel. Too much money. Too many Americans in Israel. Too many Israelis in America. Too much business,” (spreading my hands wide) “It is not possible.” I waited, watching eyes and faces, “Understand?”
They all nodded, but of course, it was not the answer they were looking for.
I stated, “But tonight, United Nations votes for Palestine, right?”
“Yes, yes. But last year, it no … ” another finished the sentence “… no work. Halas.”
“Maybe this time it will be different,” (looking at everyone in turn) “We will see.”
“Inshallah!” (God willing)
“Inshallah,” I repeated.
The driver handed my passport to the passenger who in turn pretended to polish it with the end of his sleeve, turning it over a few times to make certain it was spotless. He handed it back to me, grinning.
I thought I would be free to go when the man in the passenger seat raised two Red Bull cans and offered one to me. With his right hand closer to me than his left, he said, “Whiskey.” Alternating, he pressed his left closer while retracting the right, “Rum. You want?”
I could not believe this, but at the same time I was not surprised. I laughed really hard, temped to try them just to see if they were joking, but decided against it, “La, la shokran. But, wait, wait, … you drink this all day?”
“Yeah! Sure!” They all laughed.
This went on for some time, the same offer extended again. The conversation degraded a bit, and I was eager to get on to my next meeting.
While I was not excused, which seems like a good idea when leaving six men with guns, I lifted my backpack, shook all their hands, and turned. The one who had given me the stick of gum grabbed my shoulder and gave me a hug which would have likely been a kiss on both cheeks, as is tradition here among men, had I remembered the protocol. It seems the loaded, fully automatic machine gun pressing into my hip and side caused me to forget my manners. I shook hands again and I said goodbye.
Across the street I enjoyed a tour of the Bethany Bible College multi-media centre and was invited to use their studio for filming interviews. I was very impressed by the setup and quality of gear. They invited me to share my experience as a film maker with their class. I hope to return soon, and next time, I will be packing gum (sorry, couldn’t avoid the pun).
The story of Rev. Ashraf Tannous
Rev. Ashraf Tannous is the Pastor of a Lutheran Church in Beit Sahour. Like many Palestinians, he is the second generation of a refugee family forced from their home at the time of the formation of the State of Israel.
With a solid grasp on his own heritage and what it means, for him, to be a Palestinian in a world of misconceptions, this brief interview shares Ashraf’s love affair with his home land.
Ashraf opens with “I am a human being … an Arab, Palestinian, Christian. I am a Semetic, from the Semites, a refugee, as well as a Lutheran Pastor” and in closing shares the story of when he was once described by a new acquaintance as “the sweetest terrorist” she had ever met, her own assumptions eroded and replaced through interaction.
This is the first in a series of films created to help bridge the cultural barrier between Palestine and the West, countries whose assumptions about this part of the world are based primarily on the limited view of the mass media.
Two-State Solution on the Line
Op-Ed Contributor
Two-State Solution on the Line
By GRO HARLEM BRUNDTLAND and JIMMY CARTER
Published: November 25, 2012
In this New York Times Op-Ed, former U.S. President Jimmy Carter and former Prime Minister of Norway Gro Harlem Brundtland call for member countries to approve the Palestinian statehood bid at the United Nations and talk about their recent visit to Augusta Victoria Hospital following a round table with Palestinians in East Jerusalem:
“If the recent rocket attacks on Israel and Israeli air strikes on Gaza tell us anything, it is that the status quo in the Middle East is not a safe choice for Israelis or Palestinians.
In the current political climate, it is highly unlikely that bilateral talks between Israel and the Palestinians can restart. Action is needed that will alter the current dynamic. As Elders, we believe that the Palestinian statehood bid at the United Nations is such a moment.
On Nov. 29, U.N. member states will be asked to vote on a resolution to grant “non-member observer state status” to Palestine, a significant upgrade from its current “observer entity” status. We urge all member states to vote in favor.
In going to the General Assembly, Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas is not carrying out a provocative act. Nor is he undermining trust and distracting from the pursuit of peace, as his critics have said.
This is a vote for human rights and the rule of law. It is completely consistent with decades of commitment by the United States, Europe and the rest of the world to peace in the Middle East based on the creation of a viable and contiguous Palestinian state existing side by side with Israel. It is a lawful, peaceful, diplomatic act in line with past U.N. resolutions and international law.
Yet this is a sensitive vote, and we know that many countries are considering abstaining or voting no.
If this resolution fails, it will probably mark the death of the two-state solution and move us even closer to a one-state outcome, with uncertain and potentially catastrophic consequences for both Israelis and Palestinians.
Let us articulate what a one-state outcome means: it either means that Israel will annex the West Bank, and give Palestinians full, equal rights as citizens of Israel — which seems unlikely — eventually eroding the Jewish majority in the country, or it means that Israel will deny equal rights to its non-Jewish population. Neither outcome gives the Palestinians the state of freedom and dignity that is their right, nor does it provide a secure, democratic homeland for the Jewish people.
On the other hand, wide support for this resolution would affirm what an overwhelming majority of people around the world — including Israelis and Palestinians — believe: that the two-state solution remains the surest path to peace in the Middle East.
A month ago, we stood together on the Mount of Olives in East Jerusalem, on the grounds of the Augusta Victoria Hospital. This medical facility is a Palestinian model of excellence for cancer treatment and is only a few miles from the rest of the West Bank, yet Palestinians face enormously complicated Israeli permit requirements simply to access care.
From the hospital’s vantage point we looked over vast Israeli settlements spreading across the West Bank, as well as the wire fences, high walls and roads that increasingly separate the Jewish and Arab populations.
The rate of settlement growth in East Jerusalem and the West Bank is staggering. There are now more than 500,000 Israeli settlers living beyond the Green Line, in violation of international law. Their numbers have doubled since the Oslo peace accords of 1993. Thousands more settlement homes are planned or under construction.
The peace process established by Oslo has not just stalled; it is going backwards fast. With every Palestinian family evicted or home demolished, with every new Israeli settler home built, the integrity of the territory promised to the Palestinians becomes further compromised.
A vote for the resolution will help to safeguard the two-state solution and enhance prospects for future negotiations. We further hope that threats to punish the Palestinians financially or otherwise for exploring this option, using an avenue to which they are entitled, will be withdrawn. Some are calling for the vote to be delayed but this is simply a bid to do nothing.
The disillusionment and fatigue we found among Israelis and Palestinians compels a bold act of international leadership. We know that there are many Israelis who share our view that to re-engage with the two-state solution is to revive the very feasibility of peace, and is therefore in Israel’s fundamental interest. We especially urge the nations with the greatest influence on the parties — the United States, European Union and the Arab states — to vote together in favor and save the two-state solution before it is too late.”
Gro Harlem Brundtland was prime minister of Norway when the Oslo Peace Accords were signed in 1993. Jimmy Carter was the 39th president of the United States and negotiated the 1978 Camp David Accords and the 1979 Egypt-Israel peace treaty. They are both members of The Elders, a group of independent leaders working for peace and human rights.
Walking in Numbers
After a few long days behind my computer in the intense effort to edit a short film I am producing about the Baptismal Site in Jordan, I needed a break. At 7 PM I headed down the hill from Mount of Olives to the Old City, about a twenty minute walk through the Qidron Valley. While this place was in the 4th century A.D. ascribed to the location of the biblical prediction of the last great war between the gentiles and the Jews, it now seems unlikely to harbour much more than a battle between kids on either side of the trash lined street.
Empty buildings smell of stale urine, dumpsters overflow due to lack of effort by the Israeli garbage collection services in East Jerusalem. I walk past an auto repair shop, fire station, food warehouse, and several, residential homes comprised of stone foundation, cracking walls, and warped tin roofs.
I arrived to the Jafa Gate of the Old City, pleased to find a generous crowd surrounding a small stage on which a minstrel show was about to commence. Highly animated figures adorned in what we ascribe to the clothing of the Middle Ages moved in theatrical fashion with exaggerated movement, facial expressions, and speech. While entirely in Hebrew, I understood the context. A king and queen were about to enjoy a performance put on for their own, personal fascination. We the silent audience were given privileged to look on.
A man and woman, whimsical in their staged drunken form performed truly inspiring feats of strength and balance as they stood on each other’s shoulders, hips, hands, and feet, twisting, turning, and moving as though gravity ceased to exist. A small, local Circ du Soleil production at the Jafa Gate in the Old City of Jerusalem.
Around the corner a large red dragon floated slowly over the heads of families. Children with dull wooden swords attempted to pierce its belly high overhead. A drum troupe stomped an intoxicating beat affecting the most stoic of the crowed while a gasoline soaked framework in the shape of a serpent was brought into the open. In the grand finale a mock hero fought its flaming form as black smoke billowed into the faces of those standing too close.
After the movie at the Cinemateque, I walked down and through the green park below the theater and then up the winding walkway back to the Old City. Coming in the opposite direction, in the shadows of the poorly lit walk, I met several groups on foot. I pay attention to movement as I learned to do in Phoenix and Chicago as a volunteer with the Guardian Angels citizen crime fighting organization. Not just here, but whenever in a city, anywhere in the world. I take notice of posture, gate, and stride. I look for the placement of hands in pant pockets, in jackets, or at the sides. I make eye contact with passers-by, offering salutation when possible. Even the most stoic faces usually relax when I offer a genuine smile.
I found myself open and without fear when a man and woman couple strolled side by side. But when approached by three, four, or a half dozen men in black top hats, coats, pants, and shoes, I found my body tensing. There was a tangible barrier to interaction. What would happen if I was to accidentally make contact?
I realized I was more comfortable approaching a group of Arab men than orthodox Jews. I asked myself, Why? Am I racist? To find the source, I pictured the Arabs in the clothing of the Jews and the Jews in blue jeans and sneakers, even with curly sideburns and facial hair. Immediately, I relaxed.
The uniform, the gang sign, the color of their tribe is both a means of uniting them and telling others, “You are not one of us.”
I was taken back to my month in Chicago where I was exposed to the very real threat of gang violence. I had seen Sergie get beaten by a local gang, fists, feet, broom sticks and weight lifter belts pressing him into the ground while I could do nothing but run. To this day I carry the burden of not being as courageous as he was, smaller than me but willing to fight to defend himself and his friends.
We wore red berets, white T-shirts with the Guardian Angel logo and black pants. There is tremendous power in uniform, to both give courage to those who wear it and fear to those who do not. Similarity in numbers is imposing, unifying, instilling both confidence and fear.
I moved to find purchase at the foot of the Old City wall, sat, and watched people go by. I closed my eyes and let go. I did not wish to carry prejudice any further that night. In their place, I knew how good it would feel to be surrounded by my friends, dressed like me, walking like me, believing the same things as I do.
In that moment, I regained comfort in myself and let go of fear.
The Power of Word Association
Let’s play a game. It’s simple. There is only one rule: I say a word and you must say the first word that comes to mind.
Ready? Go!
I say “Colorado” and you say … “skiing.”
I say “beach” and you say … “ocean.”
Excellent! You catch on fast. Let’s keep going …
I say “Hersheys” and you say “chocolate!” (with a smile)
I say “Catholic” and you say “priest.”
I say “Mexico” and you say “vacation” or perhaps (with another smile) “margarita.”
Good. Very good. You have not missed a beat. Now, let’s mix it up a bit.
I say “American flag” and you say “freedom.”
I say “Mexican” and with just a moment’s hesitation, you say “illegal immigrant?”
I say “China” and you say “Communism.”
I say “Islam” and you say “extremist.”
I say “Palestinian” and you say … “suicide bomber.”
Ah. Amazing how strongly these are correlated in our minds, how quickly they roll from the tongue. As humans, our brains are designed to memorize things in pairs or as parts of a story. Tricks for memorizing often include word associations. The media, advertising, and political campaigns use these word associations and sound bytes (short stories; Tweets) as some of the most powerful tools for building and maintaining a following. Unless we, as the recipients have direct experience to counter what we hear or read, they are absorbed, quickly becoming something we make our own—a part of us which we will defend and readily transmit to the next person as though we experienced it personally.
There is very little, naturally, which compels us to look beyond that which is stored in these memory banks. The nature of this recall is incredibly complex. It involves not just synaptic bridges firing, but the flush of chemical signatures which invoke a full body response. And those chemical signatures invoke additional memories of a similar emotional base which reinforce the primary recollection. We can and do rise quickly to heightened states of both pleasure or pain at the simple invocation of a word correlation such as those I opened with, above.
It is for this very reason, as a species which has propagated its history through the spoken word for some forty thousand years before the invention or writing, that TV and radio ads have so much power, some echoing for decades through the popular vernacular: “Ancient Chinese secret!” “Reach out and touch someone,” “Blue light special” (which the Bedouin of Petra use to draw attention to their stalls) have the same power as “Till death do us part,” “Remember the Alamo!” “May the force be with you” and many, many more.
If each of us questioned everything we are told, demanding full research and transparent exposure of all the facts before allowing our brains and bodies to settle into acceptance and subsequent defence, we would not only likely never get in a fight (let alone a war) but we would also find solidarity a foreign concept, incapable of moving as a group for the greater good of … anything.
Social and cognitive research has made clear our ability to unify under one philosophy, one religion, or one nation as central to our behaviour as individuals and as a species. We are inclined to take at face-value the words given to us by our political or religious leaders, those who provide our paychecks or teach us in school.
It is human to hear something and repeat is shortly thereafter with the fervour and conviction of a religious experience.
My own reprogramming
What I write next is difficult for me to admit, but it needs to be said.
When I first accepted this position in Jerusalem, even with some notion of the complexity of the situation in the Occupied Territories, in my mind I saw Palestinian kids running through the streets at night with black and white checkered bandanas pulled over their faces. I imagined angry young men overturning cars and seeking to do harm to anyone American. While I logically knew this was not the case, yes, those images remained as I rewrote my will and spoke to my parents about the potential of my not coming home (alive).
To date, not a single interaction with any Palestinian, not with those who protest, not the women who teach at the kindergarten nor the man who cuts my hair, nor Fatir who serves pizza, nor the owner of the International Bookstore have offered anything but warmth and hospitality.
Yet tonight, as I walked through narrow, poorly lit streets just after sunset in the Arab quarter of the Old City, I found myself walking faster than I do elsewhere. I forced myself to slow down, to interact, to make eye contact, to just breathe for I realized I was falling victim to my own xenophobia. Not out of logic or personal experience, but something deeper which whispered, “They can see you are different. You don’t belong here.”
Of course, the slower I walked, the more conversations I was given opportunity to engage. I stopped to purchase an ice cream bar and even helped to break up a fight. Five preteen boys playful wrestling had become a kid brawl in a corridor parallel to the Via Dolorosa. I waited for the arms and hands to drop below my eye level before I pulled one boy off and set him aside, only to watch him jump back in. A shop keeper came out and held another back. I grabbed one around the waist yelling “Khalas! Khalas!”
[Enough! Enough!] and held him firmly until the kid he was holding was released, insulted more than injured.
The boy I was holding stopped struggling and looked at my hands and then the sleeves of my polar fleece. He had this funny look of surprise when he turned his head to see I was not an Palestinian but a tourist. He pushed my arms away and turned to look at the ground again. I asked if he was ok, “Inta quayes?” “Quayes. Quayes,” he nodded in return, brushing off his pants and shirt while holding back tears. His face was red. I placed my hand on his shoulder. The shop keeper said, “Kids. What are they fighting for?” We both smiled as I turned and walked on.
I have in the past two months slowly broken down my own stereotypes and assumptions, replacing those ridiculous preconceived notions which have no foundation in anything more than sound bytes on TV (which I don’t even own). It is pushing midnight and I will again, tonight, walk through the Old City and up to the Mount of Olives (a little over a kilometer) without concern for my personal safety.
One! Two! Three!
One night, a few weeks ago, three kids walked along side me as they tested their English and helped me learn Arabic. They counted together from one to ten. “… temenya! tesah! ashra!” We stopped, toward the top, and sat on a crumbling brick wall. They told me their names (Mohammad, Mahmud, and the other I forget) as I shook their hands and introduced myself “Ismi Kai.” I happen to have most of my camera gear with me that night, so I pulled out a hand-light, camera, and microphone.
I gave the light to Mahmud while the others sat on the wall and I filmed. Mahmud yelled to his two friends, instantly a Hollywood director, “Ok! One! Two! Thre–” I interrupted him, “La, la. (No, no.) Musha photo (Not photo). Video!” He looked at me, at my camera (which does not look like a video camera) and back to his friends. “Ok! One! Two! Three!” and I pressed record. The three boys sat there motionless for about ten seconds, then I started laughing and they broke into laughter too, “Oh! Video! Video!” and jumped off the wall to see what I had filmed. We all took turns using the camera, hand light, and sitting on the wall.
As I have broken down my own assumptions and allowed myself to redefine my safety zones, I have found a level of warmth and comfort in my time with the Arab people which I have never encountered anywhere else but perhaps in Thailand. I am not saying they are not capable of violence, we all are when pushed to the limit with no way out. It is not my place to explain the dynamics of the second Intifada or the actions of Hamas and Israel. But I do know my personal interactions with these people have been genuine. When I allow that level of humanity to unfold, I see “Them” as “Us” and those word associations are reprogrammed.
My experience shared with you.
Not just in this one subject of Palestine and the Palestinians, but in all that you do, whenever you find yourself visited by strong images or word associations not directly related to your own life experiences, take a moment to ask yourself where they came from. Whose words are echoing in the folds of your grey matter? What messages accompany them? Even if it feels real for you, ask yourself why you react the way you do.
Have the courage to say, “I have no experience with this,” or “I do not believe I have enough information to lend my words to the situation” rather than repeating what you have heard on TV or from a friend or colleague, an opinion stated with the confidence of fact.
Your words are powerful. Use them wisely. Are you sharing because you want to impress your friends? or to feel a part of the group? or to simply make your voice heard in an already noisy conversation?
This technique of checking-in, of stopping just long enough to engage a bit of reason before flushing your body with emotion is at the core of meditation and inner peace. I will spend the rest of my life learning this seemingly simple technique, and I will come up short over and over and over again. But for those times that I do succeed, I walk a little slower, I breathe a little deeper. I ask myself, “What, exactly, am I afraid of?” I make eye contact. I smile bigger for no reason. I reach out and engage.
Sit down with a stranger, a Mexican immigrant, an Israeli soldier, an Arab Muslim, or an Orthodox Jew and ask to hear his or her story. Find someone you never thought you would attempt to talk to and see what transpires when you do. Ask questions and do not share anything about you unless provoked. My experience is that this, more than anything we can do, gives foundation for true peace, inside of you and in the world around you.
For tonight, I say “Palestine.”
You say, “Sounds like a place I would like to visit, some day soon.”
A quiet night in the Old City
I recently returned from dinner with Lukas, a German volunteer who will live here for a year in total. We enjoyed a Greek salad, hummus, and tabbouleh with fresh pita. While paying our bill, the entire restaurant staff was gathered round a large LCD TV, watching live video of two bodies burning inside a car in Gaza.
The owner turned to me, Lukas, and the young man who was managing our bill, his hands held up by the sides of his head, “They were two journalists. One, two journalists. The Israeli rocket landed
[the index finger of his right hand a rocket landing in his left palm] on their car. Now they are … ” his voice trailed off as tears welled in his eyes. He tuned back to the screen.
To my front as I turned away from the TV, the young man returned my card and said quietly, “Who are the terrorists?”
The suq (market) was mostly closed down, save one or more vendors hoping to catch the last of the tourists who now walk casually through the Old City, following the stations of the cross without the pressure of the crowds, admiring ornate church doors, or simply trying to haggle a last good deal before flying home. I had scheduled a hair cut appointment around the corner, at the intersection of Muristan and the street which comes in from Damascus Gate. But when I arrived, the barber yet had one man in the chair, his face covered in foamy soap, about to be shaved with a straight razor while another customer sat waiting.
Its surreal, to be honest, to be just one hour’s drive from where people are burning. I want to do something, anything, but there is nothing I can do. It doesn’t matter if I was an EMT or with a humanitarian aid organization, no one is allowed in or out of Gaza. Even before the rocket battle, the permits were granted infrequently and only at the invite of an existing, approved organization. Sometimes the wait list is years, but mostly never accepted at all.
I read what I can. I watch videos when I have time. The complexity of the story continues to unfold, as the politics of the situation come to the surface. I see similarities to the many U.S. lead invasions and incursions and military actions which did not require a congressional Act of War in the past fifty years. I see ratios of death—hundreds in response to a handful not unlike hundreds of thousands in response to three thousand, and see clearly the strength one nation does hold over another when the rest of the world refuses to stand up and say “no more.”
I am not saying Israel is or is not justified in some way, but when so many civilian lives are lost and no one is held accountable, as with the U.S. in Afghanistan or Iraq, it only further supports my belief that at the core of being human is the ability to disarm that part of us, compassion or empathy or both, which sees our adversaries as human too.
Here, at the Church of the Redeemer, I sat for an hour between dinner and a lecture about “Friends of the Earth.” The talk was about the effort to restore the drastically diminished (5% of its original flow), heavily polluted (warning to Christian pilgrims: raw sewage flows from Tiberius), and overused (Syria, Jordan, and Israel all raise non-native, water hungry species such as bananas and mangoes while serving growing populations) Jordan River to something closer to its original flow.
At the front desk Palestinian Melvina, a nineteen old daughter of one of the church’s employees, welcomed attendees in Arabic, English, and German. She asked how I felt about the U.S., what I missed and what I did not. Of course, I spoke in depth about the National Forests and wilderness, the places I miss most when traveling for no other country in the world has preserved places with such diversity as these. I got a little carried away, missing the Colorado Rockies and the high Utah desert when she interrupted me with a degree of maturity that caught me off guard, “What about the other side? What about those things which do not work?”
Of course, I knew what she was getting at for it could not be avoided. “I am sad … no, I am deeply disturbed that our—my tax dollars, money which left my own hands is paying for the death of your people. It’s disgusting, to me.” She nodded her head and I looked at the floor, wishing I could say something more.
The Burden of the Hero
Shame, guilt, and fear are remnants of atrocities more difficult to shake than the loss of someone we hold near, for we justify our actions in our personal psyche, and over time in our shared mythology. War criminals become heroes as time gives way to a rewritten history, in oral tradition, book, and song, but we carry the burden just the same. Generations to come confront what has been done. How many churches, how many government bodies have in the past two decades apologized for the actions of their forebearers, decades, even centuries ago?
I feel sorrow for those who bury their dead. But I feel pain for those who point and fire a weapon not in self-defense, but in an act of fear, for they live on with the burden of what they have done.
When the Rockets Come Down
It has been a confusing time for me, here in Jerusalem. There is a sense of helplessness among those I live and work with, knowing there is nothing we can do. Hamas and Israel will do battle to the detriment of the Palestinian people. There is no intervention (that I know of) that will bring this to a rapid end.
And yet, in the Old City (where I walked to and from late this afternoon), life goes on much as usual. The Palestinian Christians or Muslims who do not observe the Islamic day of rest continue to promote their services and wares, kids run along side cars hoping to sell silver Mylar balloons with bright pink letters, “I
[HEART] YOU” And old, hunched women with hands and feet made of brown earth pluck strands of mint and wild herbs for passers by, their coffee sacks sparse protection from the cobbles on which they sit.
While the escalation of events is worse than most of the skirmishes in the past few years, there is no immediate sense of danger nor fear here in Jerusalem, even as we are told (BBC) a rocket landed shy of here a little over an hour ago. I was standing across from the North East corner of the Arab quarter when the air raid siren went off. I stopped, grabbed my camera (just in case) and waited. It didn’t last long, a few minutes total. No one seemed to notice or care, and so I continued across the Kidron Valley and up the Mount of Olives. There were fireworks nearby for another Palestinian wedding (there are many) and the usual buses and cars, but I failed to hear anything else.
I had walked through the Islamic grave yard, around the southern wall and past the archaeological site. I passed through the metal detectors, my camera backpack of more interest than the coins in my pocket or cell phone, the guard asking where he could find one like mine. I spent some time at the Western Wall, watching, learning, wondering. I squeezed through a soccer match intensified by the narrow corridor and stubborn school aged girls who refused to make way for the boys and their game.
I arrived to the Church of the Redeemer to talk to Lukas, a German volunteer. Yet unsettled and wanting to make sense of what was happening just ninety kilometers away, I continued my walk down Muristan Street. I came across Fatir, a Palestinian Muslim whom I have come to admire. He was to the front of his pizza shop, not working but just sitting, observing. He shook my hand and put his arm around my shoulder as I sat by his side, he on a plastic lawn chair and I a bit lower, on a limestone block which formed the kickstone beneath his counter.
He said, “My friend. How are you?”
“Sad. Confused,” I responded.
He didn’t say anything, and so I continued, “Is it like this often? You seem to not be concerned with what is happening.”
“Yes, it has been like this since they took our land more than fifty years ago. There is nothing we can do.”
“How do do you do it? How do you remain this way, warm to everyone who comes through.”
He smiled and rose, saying, “Do you want some tea? Yes. I will make you some tea. Here. Stay here,” placing his hand on my shoulder and pressing lightly down.
Fatir is a handsome man, with short, cleanly trimmed black hair and beard. He has the face of a professor of history, a man who has confidence beyond worldly means. He always carries a subtle smile which says he knows something I do not, that everything will be ok.
The first time I met him he said, “Do you want a pizza?” to which I responded, “Yes, but just one slice please, I am not very hungry.”
“I am sorry. I do not sell just one slice. You should take the whole pie.”
“It is too much.”
“It is good to eat. You can save the extra for later.”
“Quadesh?” I asked. (“How much?”)
“Ashrine shekels,” he responded, but then after a pause, “but today, as I am not so busy and would rather cook than clean, half price and you can save half the pizza for tomorrow. But you must stay and talk to me.”
And so I did. And we talked while I ate. Both the conversation and fired pizza were splendid.
A few weeks ago I stopped in with a new friend (we had met an hour prior at a funeral), an Israeli architect whose friend, a Catholic Priest, had asked us to fetch a beer for him to consume during the service (which he did). While we waited for pizza (as practicing Muslims do not serve alcohol, we went to another shop), Fatir granted us the most animated oral narrative of the history of Mecca I had ever heard. In the end, he tied Islam, Christianity, and Judaism together, reminding us of the common origin through Abraham and his wives. There we were, a Muslim, a Jew, and myself of Christian foundation telling stories over pizza in Jerusalem. No where else in the world does this happen so readily … and just a few weeks later, the conversation transition to one of rockets and death by remote control.
Fatir returned with today’s newspaper. He sat beside me again, and opened to a full page spread. A dozen photos showed bodies buried in rubble, mud, and one, quite unrecognizable. All in Gaza at the fall of Israeli rockets. “Look. Our people, they are afraid, running, crying, wanting the bombs to stop.” On the next page, he showed me photos of the apartment in Tel Aviv whose outer wall was blown away by a rocket from Gaza. “Look, the Israeli soldiers, they are afraid too, lying on the ground covering their heads, the Israeli people killed.” He closed the paper and folded it in his lap. “We are all human. We are the same. But this will continue because everyone is afraid of how we are different. Hamas does not represent us, the Palestinians. They are doing this for themselves. It is very, very sad.”
I sat there with him for an hour, almost comforted by the smoke from his cigarette as its smell intermixed with the sound of his calm voice. After some time, he asked me, “How do you think it will end?” I took a deep breath, shook my head and shared with him something I had been thinking about for a few weeks time, “When I was a boy, in school, we were told the Europeans, the Spanish, the Portuguese, the French and English came to a land relatively empty and free for the taking. We were taught that at first, there was peace with those few people who were already there, but then they became angry and started to attack the settlers. I grew up with these images, these stories, believing they were true. It was only many years later, as I read and learned about the real history of the United States that I have come to see the truth.”
Fatir stood and ran into his shop for a moment, then returned, “Continue.”
“There were an estimated twenty million Native Americans in what is now Canada and the U.S. Nineteen million were killed or died from disease in roughly two hundred years. While far less populated than Europe at that time, it was by no means an empty continent. In Central and South America, the story was the same.”
Fatir said, “Wait, wait. Shuay, shuay. Tell me again,” and he put his hand on my knee.
“The ones who win Fatir, they rewrite history. My fear is that some day, maybe in one hundred years, the Palestinians will be a nearly forgotten people here, in this land with a four thousand year Palestinian history. No, it has not been that of the Palestinians alone, for many nations have come and gone. More than twenty in all—” at which point Fatir nodded his head and as though we had practiced a dozen times before, we together listed “Caananites, Hitites, Philistines, Egyptians, Hebrews, Greeks, Romans, Turks, and the English too.” He smiled, pleased, I believe, I know some of the history. “That’s right. Nearly thirty nations have claimed ownership of this narrow strip of land. Some hostile take-overs, some gradual migration and merger of people,” I added.
“Yes. I see your point. I had not thought of this before. We are losing our land. And maybe we will lose our history too, as we scatter, living now in so many places: Jordan, Syria, Kuwait, and Egypt too.” We sat there for a while longer, and I asked about his wife and children. Three sons. Three daughters, the oldest of which is “quite clever” receiving 99% in Mathematics at Hebrew University.
It was growing dark and I had yet to walk home. I said I needed to go and without hesitation he took my tea cup from my hand, placed his other hand on my head and ruffled my hair, saying, “Come again. You are always welcome here.”
“Shokron my friend, w’masaleme.”
“Inshallah.”