Constructing Kasun, Educator

Like anyone who has registered with the Georgetown Center for Contemporary Arab Studies Outreach Coordinator, I received an invitation to attend a writing workshop led by Palestinian author Ibsitam Barakat.  Participants would read her memoir about her childhood and then participate in a day-long session with her on February 2. 

I wondered what the session might be like.  Would pain and bias eclipse open dialog and the ability to use writing as a vehicle for exploration and understanding?  I knew the Outreach Coordinator and had admired the way she had coordinated prior programs.  I decided as a writer and teacher that I wanted to attend.

Before the session began, I spoke briefly with Ibsitam.  I was impressed with her intensity and how hopeful she was.  She said she was interested in constructing, in bringing people together, that all of us want and need to grow, and suddenly she drew an ecological parallel, “You’ll never meet a tree that doesn’t want to grow.” 

Ibsitam challenged our thoughts on growth at personal, societal, and historic levels, right from the start.  “There is no freedom without cutting through fear,” she explained, encouraging us all to break through our fears of others, our exclusionary beliefs (religions, group identities, etc.).  Despite a painful childhood scarred by war, flight, and fear (all richly described in her book, Tasting the Sky: A Palestinian Childhood), she is able to advocate for a policy of “zero attacks,” where blame is not cast in dialog in order to resolve conflicts.

And then we were writing about our most personal feelings, memories, ideas.  Various educators in the audience shared–stories of loss, stories of structures of oppression through the personal experience, of, for example, being an African American woman in the US.  Ibsitam valued our voices, our experiences, and wove them together with historical experiences, her own, and the histories of peoples–including Arabs and Jews–throughout the milennia.

We wrote several times, and in the writing and the ensuing discussions, the room was a connected class of 25 teacher-writers.  We supported each other in our frustrations at not being able to support children as we want to, the mindsplitting prospect of not reaching them on the personal levels and the awful pressure of teaching the mandated curriculum verified through highstakes tests.  We listened with empathetic ears, and there was suddenly a community of empathy, respect, and care. 

Ibsitam achieved this for two reasons, I believe.  First, she is wise.  Second, because we believed in the idea she offered us, one of a compassionate power stengthened by virtue of being in community.  I look back on my journal notes from that session and carry these memories as glimmers of hope for how a world can live in peace, by sharing our stories and listening, one story at a time.

Information about Ibsitam’s book is available at http://www.amazon.com/Tasting-Sky-Palestinian-Ibtisam-Barakat/dp/0374357331.

To learn more about Ibsitam Barakat’s ideas, scroll down to Ibsitam’s name and watch the interview:  http://culturesurfer.com/VideoIndex.htm.

I’m trying to find a positive way to describe the dissonance I feel from today’s experiences as I transitioned from Fulbright participant in Tel Aviv to tourist in Amman, Jordan. I rode along the highway in Tel Aviv and looked for one last time at the garbage dump that has been rehabilitated to a land mass and remembered Al Azhar Park in Cairo as well as the goofy comments from one of the Fulbright seminar participants who claimed that she heard one too many times about the dump. This was on the heels of counseling a young Israeli hotel worker who helped me with my bags that he should do what he can to try and make the relationship with his girlfriend in Guatemala work (after also recommending my favorite town ever for vacationing to him—San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico).

At the airport I got to have the conversation I had practiced with a friend about the Lebanese stamp in my passport. “Why did you go to Lebanon?” “To go to a good friend’s wedding.” “And what was her name, and do you know anyone else there? And do you have any other activities there?” I tried to act natural while finding myself feeling like some sort of criminal who really had something to hide. I remembered my friend’s admonition that making jokes about military activity would land me in jail, so I practiced my poker face. Not surprisingly, I was selected out of the line for a second security screening.

I waited in line and watched individuals take from two to ten minutes in the special screening. I was escorted to a side screening table. Imagine Macy’s the day before Christmas, and you’ll get a sense of the level of activity in that place. We started with the first of four bags (two of them handbags). Inside a large plastic crate I looked at the contents of all my electronics equipment, a morbid, threatening spaghetti of cords, each piece touched once, twice, by a special wand which I gather was testing for radioactivity. I thought, well, this shouldn’t take too long—just a couple more minutes.

The minutes drug on as we started the second bag. “Don’t touch the bag I’ve just checked at all,” I was warned. Eventually three others took turns looking at the contents of my next bag. They were not happy that I hadn’t told them in advance about the books I had been given in Egypt as gifts. I was supposed to have declared them, apparently. So we searched through the first large piece of luggage. I took out every item of clothing and separated out my books. All those Arabic sounding authors and titles related to Egypt and Arabic. Pages were touched, flipped through. I couldn’t resist and asked if they’d like some of the recipes in the Egyptian cookbook I had bought. The one long-haired woman who seemed to be in charge of my investigation smiled back, so I hoped I might finish the check, which had drug on for over an hour, soon.

After the fourth painful bag (couldn’t I get a chair!?!), I was told I would get another check. I was escorted by my female investigator (mercifully, she was female), to a sort of changing room. Luckily I was wearing very thin clothes which provided easy access to all body parts. I was told to take off many components and then frisked in ways I didn’t imagine possible. I stood there wondering what the folks who have been profiled upon entrance to the US must feel like and reminded myself that it was good to go through this humiliation to be able to empathize with them. What else could I say to myself to offer any comfort? So, after this hour and a half of interrogation, looking, touching, I was freed.

I took my Royal Jordanian flight, the only female passenger of ten on the way to Amman. The male flight attendant sat next to me and described his four marriages all over the world. I hoped he wasn’t campaigning for the fifth. Maybe I shouldn’t flatter myself. Upon entering the Amman airport, I noticed the long gazes with which I was greeted. Like so many parts of the Middle East (excluding Israel), folks are constantly checking each other out. I reminded myself that it was time to get used to a new culture and that I needed to suck it up. My friend from Beirut (she flew in) hugged me at the customs boundary and whisked me off to her hotel. Somehow I didn’t have a hotel reservation (oh boy), and she luckily didn’t mind sharing her room with me. I also thought my husband was coming in tonight, but was wrong (it’s tomorrow).

So we went to a Western style bookstore where I looked at hundreds of political titles. Naturally, there were several titles related to the Arab-Israeli conflict. All of them sympathetic to the Palestinians. I picked them up, read their first few pages. One book was full of political cartoons—insulting, many of them—correct only insofar as the author’s narrative was concerned. All I could think was, “Whose narrative is it today?” We walked for miles through Amman, and my world spun around me as I realized these streets look so similar to Jerusalem and not Cairo (I had expected the reverse). I’m just managing expectations here. We’re listening to Arabic music videos, interrupted briefly by the Muslim call to prayer on the broadcast, about to have dinner at a Lebanese restaurant.

I came here for so many reasons.  I wanted to understand the Middle East in a post 9/11 world.  I wanted to learn about religion, identity, history.  My cup is full.  I’ve had some amazing moments, maybe even some of the best in a lifetime.  I’ve also been challenged in ways I hadn’t anticipated.  It’s a lot to come here and try to understand a young country, struggling to form its national identity while facing the constant existential crisis of a world where many in it argue against its very existence.

I’m overwhelmed.  I’m saying goodbye to a group of people I’ve started to refer to as “the tribe.”  They’re fifteen individuals with such vast backgrounds, and I regret not having described them more here.  The conversations I’ve had have been rich and fruitful.  After talking with these people, learning their stories, sharing the struggle of trying to make sense of this experience, I’m ready to start a kibbutz where all our families join up with these people.

Sorry for all the generalities.  You might like some particulars.  We went to the Dead Sea just three days ago.  It’s surreal to get inside the clear turquoise water that has the consistency of baby oil and see the mountains and desert all around you.  It reminded me of a science fiction novel that C.S. Lewis wrote.  We were advised to stay in for only about 15 minutes, as the water isn’t good for your skin.  It was so hot–hot as bathwater– that, despite my love of water, I had to pull myself out.  The next morning I went in to see the sunrise and was relieved to find the temperature of the water had fallen through the night.  We also visited Massada, a UN World Heritage sight where Jews made their last stand shortly after the destruction of the Second Temple.  The views are spectacular… white and brown jagged desert mountains.  We later hiked through some of those mountains. 

I’m wondering what the personal implications of the trip are for me.  I was blindsided by the personal work I had to do to make sense of Israel—just hadn’t expected not having the framework to understand it.  The debate we hear in the US is so limited.  I’ve learned that somehow we have to build means of recognition of the dignity in each person, in each group of people.  I return to that Koranic idea of wanting for one’s neighbor what one wants for oneself.  I listen to the stories here and the way people don’t often dialog and admire those who have the courage to talk with people who represent groups who are often considered a real threat.  We must talk; we must share our stories. 

Yesterday during our morning lecture, a policy analyst and professor described some of the recent history of anti-Semitism in Europe and the Middle East.  We could argue about who in the world is more discriminated against and how and why, but for now I’ll stick to anti-Semitism.  I have little doubt that it’s very real and a barrier to the recognition of the dignity of Jewish people and robs away the dignity of those who perpetuate its lies.  I asked our speaker about whether or not he could find a causality for anti-Semitism, and he explained that he gave that up about fifteen years ago after seeing dramatic and disgusting depictions of Jews, including a recent political cartoon published in a respected British newspaper perpetuating the sick notion that Jews would drink the blood of Palestinian children.  There were other examples of strange manifestations he cited as well, and I am inclined to agree that there isn’t a way to find a causality.  Again, I have my American eyes, so historically young and open, and I was sickened to listen to the accounts of anti-Semitism.  On the other hand, I remember the bizarre conversations I had when I lived in Mexico where I was trying to disabuse people of some ridiculous notions they had about Jews, and I wondered why I was surprised.  Like so many others, I only see as far as I’m willing and able to see.  I have tried as much as I can to leave my eyes wide open.

I expect to add one or two more reflections about the experience, perhaps while traveling through Jordan for the next nine days.  I’m about to have my last dinner with “the tribe,” and I try to make peace with leaving them, leaving this land, leaving part of me here. 

On Monday, we spent most of our day at the US Consulate in Jerusalem learning about Palestinian issues. Prior to that we visited Al-Qasimi Academic College of Education in the Arab town of Baqa El Garbiah. About 19% of the population of Israel is Arab—Muslim, Christian, or Druze (a small sect that is a sort of offshoot of Islam with communities in Syria and Lebanon as well). Just to be clear, those 19% are living within the country of Israel, independent of the West Bank and Gaza (Palestinian territories). The territories have about 4.5 million people, in addition to the Arabs who live in Israel. Al-Qasimi College has about 1600 students, 99% of them being women (an d almost all are Arab, with the exception of exchange program students). They have a model of multicultural instruction where they work with other colleges and universities in sponsoring exchanges, dialog days, and other activities. Their project is to create a sensitive balance between cultural heritage and participation in the 21st century, according to the professors we met. Instructors are both Arab and Jewish. They are working at creating a culture of dialog. Some of the professors discussed some of the difficulties they experience as Arabs living in Israel. They said many Arabs ask questions such as, “Am I Israeli [since this is a Jewish state]? Am I an Arab?” These questions are both painful and probably lead to changing answers depending on the history of the day. Several of the faculty members expressed that they feel they are discriminated against in Israel due to lower funding for their institutions, among other things. They also said they still feel “wounded and injured” by the history and the continued treatment. One member said, “OK, I’m here, but not a Jew. Who am I?” I tried to imagine what it would be like to be an Arab living in Israel, and I can’t say it would be easy. Afterwards, at the US Consulate, we listened to presenters who described what Israel is doing to Arabs as “soft ethnic cleansing,” presumably to try to maintain a high percentage of Jews in the state, as I don’t believe the presenter elaborated. Another presenter also explained how the Koran has claims to the holy city of Jerusalem, just as Jews and Christians do. Several statistics were presented from an Israeli organization which seemed to indicate state-sponsored discrimination (see www.btselem.org). Afterwards we heard a presented from the UN Office for Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs titled, “Occupied Palestine Territory—Humanitarian Situation.” Note the title; seldom do Americans refer to the territories as “Occupied Palestine.” The speaker provided a presentation full of well-documented maps and graphics demonstrating many of the difficulties Palestinians experience in daily life. Because Israel has been building an enormous barrier, Gaza and the West Bank (the territories) have largely been cut off from economic activity, the ability to make it to school or other public spaces with ease of passage. What was most surprising to me was the strange interplay between Jewish settlers (who live inside Palestinian land often for political reasons, but also sometimes because it’s cheaper to live there). Those settlements are mini enclaves of security with special roads that the settlers are allowed access to. To date, approximately 450,000 Jewish settlers live throughout the West Bank. Suddenly, when you see the map of barriers and settlements, you realize there is no easy solution to what to do with in 149 settlements in the West Bank. Obviously, something needs to change, as the Palestinians are subject to 539 checkpoints currently. We also heard from a man who has helped write an innovative textbook comparing the Jewish narrative with the Palestinian narrative, starting in 1920 to the present day. On each page, the left side presents one side, and the right presents another. In the middle is a blank column where students are supposed to synthesize and write their own narratives. This speaker described how it often takes students seven to ten years to finish their degrees because of the political instability. He also showed a series of about eight slides depicting young Palestinians being turned away from checkpoints by angry looking Israeli military forces (usually quite young), obstructing their safe passage to school. I think I heard one woman in our group gasp out loud at the first image. I wasn’t surprised by the images and also realize that Israelis could present their own shocking images as well (perhaps the remains of the work of suicide bombers). I was surprised at the last slide he presented, which read something to the effect of, “If you have a heart, explain to others so the world can know what Palestinians go through everyday.” I was surprised by the simplicity of the presentation—hard to look at images (which are also about six or seven years old now…though he certainly could have found new ones where Palestinians are suffering at the hands of Israeli soldiers) and then a simple message appealing to our emotional response. Finally, a US Consulate specialist and an USAID employee discussed the government perspectives on the situation. As it stands, the US Government is advocating a two-state solution for Israel and the Palestine. The questions which remain at this point are: 1. Who do you trust to broker peace? 2. How can you ensure security of Israelis? 3. How do you deal with the settlers in the West Bank? 4. How you do help the Palestinian territories rebuild? I’m sure there are other questions as well.

Yesterday we began with a lecture on Israeli media.  The lecturer, well-known in circles of folks who study political science and elsewhere, explained several interesting phenomena to us.  First, he said that the Palestinian Israeli conflict is an existential crisis which unites all Israeli Jews—something that is probably obvious but not something I had been able to articulate myself.  He also shared that few Palestinian views make it to Hebrew news.  What a tragedy that Arabs and Jews are largely divided by language barriers.  I understand that Hebrew, a dead language prior to the state of Israel, has miraculously emerged to unite Jews in Israel, but Arabic would have been a lot more practical in terms of being able to get along with the Arabic speakers in the region.  As an advocate of multi-lingual education, I wish there were strong Arabic/Hebrew programs in all schools (and I know there is multilingual instruction, but not on a large and effective scale… and we could certainly point fingers at the ineffectiveness of language instruction in the US… but that can be a later blog post when I’m out of the Middle East).

Our speaker also described class structure as well as distinctions among Jews regarding their original geographic origins.  Some of the class distinctions are blurring, and, surprisingly, the ultra-orthodox Jews are the lowest of socio-economic classes, according to our speaker.  The ultra-orthodox Jews believe the men should spend their lives studying religion, and their wives have many children (eight kids on average).  The state has been supporting them, but it is a large tension as that segment of the population continues to grow.  The speaker described several other cleavages in Israeli society, including the twelve often-changing political parties and the ineffectiveness of the government to govern when the prime minister can basically be thrown out when the parliament sees fit to call for another election.  He compared this system to that of Italy’s, where the government isn’t highly effective but where its civil society manages to fill in the gaps.  He said Israel has over 40,000 civic organizations and has more protests per capita than any other country on earth.

After sorting through these helpful details that help me construct a frame for what I’ve been observing, I took my trip into Jaffa (see previous entry).  I went with several women from our group, along with one of the Israeli administrators (she couldn’t be more accommodating and helpful).  I found myself first inside a winding marketplace full of dimly-lit stalls of Middle Eastern jewelry and clothes imported from India.  A lot of women here wear these great peasant-style skirts and loosely-fitting blouses, so I decided it was time to see if I might find some of the same clothes for myself.  The folks who work in the markets here aren’t nearly the hungry sharks I encountered in Egypt, so I find myself having to encourage them to help me out in terms of picking out items that I might like.  I found a few long skirts that are made of a shiny fabric with great prints and bright colors; they’re also reversible.  Then I met up with our group a half hour later at a large sculpture that looked like a circle of train tracks in a common plaza area where folks had set up their wares on the cement.  It was a flea market where you could find old tools, old clothes, antiques, photos, anything, really.  From there I walked down the street with the group and passed up a bakery and a nut roaster.  The bakery sold bread that looked like the Lebanese bread I liked so much, topped with a pesto of sesame seeds, oregano, cumin, and other spices.  The nuts were fresh, and I enjoyed some lightly salted peanuts and cashews.  These nuts are really only second to the Lebanese nuts I’ve eaten. 

I split from the group and walked up the hill to Old Jaffa, revisiting sites I had already seen, including the wishing bridge where you can see Old Jaffa, Tel Aviv, and the sea.  I walked downhill toward the artists’ quarter, an enclave of stone buildings containing apartments where clothes are hung to dry and studios where artists paint, sculpt and sketch.  I went to a few galleries before they closed for the Sabbath.  I found a photography exhibit called, “Imagenes de Mexico” (right, Images of Mexico) by a man who had spent some time in Mexico in the 60s and more recently since the turn of the century.  He digitally enhanced some of the photos (especially the black and whites from the 60s).  I felt the earth shake as I looked at pictures of my other beloved country, Mexico.  High-cheekboned faces stared out from embroidered headscarves as they carried goods to market and tilled the lands.  Part of me felt like, “Wow, nothing changes.  Here I am in a distant land looking at images of that country where part of my identity formed, and it resonates so strongly here.”  I actually didn’t like the techniques he had used to enhance the photos.  It was against the Mexican aesthetic which I’m used to, but then I tried to dismiss my criticism and think that aesthetics only belong to those of us brave enough to create with them.

Afterwards I met a sculptor in his studio.  I had been admiring the way he used pomegranates (not only a favorite fruit of mine but also an ancient sign of fertility).  He’s an older Iraqi Jew who fled as a refugee with nothing but the clothes on his back as a boy with his parents.  He was also displaying some paintings from Muslim Iraqi artists he works with, and he told me about an exhibit I might try to see in New York in his gallery there.  He works with mothers of both Arabs and Jews who have lost loved ones in the conflict, and in his latest project , he had Arab and Jewish artists use ceramic plates to make images for peace.  He said that in Jaffa he spends time with Arabs and Jews, eats with Arabs, and says he has no problem getting along with Arabs and that a lot of people feel this way.  He also goes back into Iraq and Middle Eastern countries on his US passport, and I was heartened to hear a voice like his. 

I decided to make my way down the hill past the closed shops toward food, as it was getting on 2:30 or so and I hadn’t had lunch.  As I happened upon a bar where I spotted beer on tap, I approached the bar that overlooked the Mediterranean from the hill.  The bartender was also the owner, and he let me test both of the Belgian ales he had on tap (Belgian ale—I felt like I had won the lottery!).  Once I decided which one I liked better (the honey ale), he poured me a glass.  I looked at the water and was inspired to write a few poems—the kind I’ll probably never show anyone, just thoughts about some people I’ve missed and was surprised to be thinking about.  Later, the bartender brought me labneh (a cheesy yogurt) and some pretzels, and we talked at length, and for once we avoided politics altogether.  I found out that he married a Brazilian woman.  They had met in London in the early 80s.  The bar owner was there in order to take in the music scene, where he saw David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Bob Marley, and Pink Floyd,  among others.  Anyway, he met his wife, and five years later when to Brazil where he ended up with her again.  Economically they couldn’t make it, so they went to Israel together.  After five years and at least one child, she finally converted to Judaism, and they married.  I got to see the pictures of the bar owner from his days in Brazil, and it reminded me of my days on Mexican beaches, camping and taking showers inside palm shacks.  We had a sort of kinship, and I was sad to leave, but the beach awaited.

I walked north from Jaffa to Tel Aviv and made it to Fleischman Beach after just over an hour of walking along the lovely Tel Aviv boardwalk.  I entered the water among a bunch of young men who actually had surf boards in the four foot waves.  To their credit, they were actually catching waves.  I rode in a couple of waves and felt like I was encroaching on some sort of brotherhood so pulled myself out of the water and fell asleep on the beach.  I ended up meeting four of my colleagues from the program and had a decent meal with a spectacular view from the roof of a restaurant overlooking the sea.

After our lecture this morning, we have the rest of the day to ourselves—a small gift given us, as I think our advisor recognizes that we’re getting fatigued (or maybe he’s just getting embarrassed by our behavior as an audience?).  Today I’ll be in the old part of Jaffa, a small city that is now part of greater Tel Aviv.  It’s historic, and, most importantly (for my purposes) has a small artists’ village.  I guess I’m craving getting away from the political and being immersed in what I’ll call a higher pursuit—art.  Thank God for artists.  And the artists here are great.  Paintings, sketches, fashion, architecture…  The colors and designs make you want to go swimming, learn to sing, befriend strangers.  Afterwards I’ll go back into Tel Aviv proper and meet up with some colleagues at the beach.  We have dinner reservations to sit outdoors, overlooking the Mediterranean.

Last night we heard six members from a larger orchestra sponsored by Bar-Ilan University (our sponsoring university here in Tel Aviv).  They play the traditional music of many of the countries from which Jews have immigrated, including Morocco, Egypt, Turkey, Armenia, and other countries.  As we listened to a love song from Iran played on the traditional instruments of the region, I found myself wishing I could grab my husband’s hand and share the moment with him.  The connection here is what I was thinking about—art transcending the mundane.  They seemed to love their music and communicated that love through their care for their instruments and the way they played together.

That was two paragraphs without mentioning conflict.  I tried to avoid it, but it’s almost inescapable.  I keep wondering how Israel continues to grow as a country, how its people can be such inspired artists…  I guess like people everywhere, they learn to manage and even thrive, despite the circumstances.  One or our speakers said that Israelis are so good at living the present moment because they don’t know if they’ll see the next day. 

We began yesterday’s lectures with a speaker on conflict in the region and the particular Arab Israeli conflict.  The more I hear and read, the more I picture an impossible octopus.  The head would be the geography of the Middle East, and the tentacles are ever-increasing, with new ones sprouting as each new tension arises.  I spent the first part of the morning reading in the social sciences library at Bar-Ilan, examining the academic journals I could find related to Palestinian and Jewish issues (political and social, particularly).  I found a broad spectrum of publications from both perspectives and was further confused by what I read.  Again, the octopus.  One writer portrayed the anti-Semitism still found throughout the world and its effects on policy.  Another showed cultural reasons for anti-Semitism in the Middle East.  Others showed the way Palestinians suffer at the hands of Jews (historically and in the present).  I made some notes and will attach what I read below.  Warning:  This wasn’t scientific, and my citations aren’t perfect, but, if you’re interested, read through to the end.

If I can go back to our first speaker, he couched his argument in terms of the lack of development in this region.  He compared the number of books translated in Arabic to those translated to Greek.  The Greeks, a smaller country than the entire Arabic speaking world, had more books translated last year.  I take this to mean that the Arabic-speaking people don’t read much?  We also heard about the relegation of women in the Middle East and that a society can’t thrive without equality between the sexes.  Extend this further, and you find Israel among a sea of countries that don’t share the same values?  It’s problematic, for sure. 

Well, I’m finding this post is meandering quite a bit.  I’m also afraid that some of my reflections are getting redundant, and for now I’ll exercise the free will to make it on time to our lecture and then head out to Jaffa.

Shalom.

***

“Hatred of the Jews as a Psychological Phenomenon in Palestinian Society,” Daphne Burdman, Jewish Political Studies Review, Jerusalem Center for Public Affairs, Fall 2006, Vol. 18, Nos. 3 & 4, p. 51-64.

A well-documented article which argues that because Arab societies have different means of childrearing, including unpredictability toward children, abusiveness, traumatic events (including circumcision during years when children are aware of the procedure) in addition to a collective identity, Arabs tend to project their internal conflict and hatred toward Jews as scapegoats.  This often happens in the case of a leader, like Saddam Hussein (who, according to the author, had an abusive childhood), and then the people can identify with that leader who refuses to accept blame and casts himself and his nation as the victim.  Through education, Islamic education, and other means, the cycle is perpetuated.  In the West, the author explains, the individual who grows up in an abusive environment will perform individual acts of criminality, not collective ones.

 “Malaysia:  Anti-Semitism without Jews,” Moshe Yegar, Jewish Political Studies Review, Fall 2006, Vol. 18, Nos. 3 & 4, p. 81-98.

I didn’t read the entire article.  Outstanding points…  Islamic countries bind themselves together, even without a history of relations with Israeli or Jewish populations in anti-Semitic ways, including refusal to trade or negotiate as well as expanding propaganda.

“Palestine Voices:  The 1948 War and Its Aftermath,” part of a 36,000 word “life history,” as recorded in the oral history of Um Jabr Wishah, Journal of Palestine Studies, Vol. XXXV, #4, Summer 2006, p. 54-62, University of California Press for the Institute for Palestine Studies.

This account shows the Jews forcing Arabs from the land during the 1948 War.  She describes the sympathy she received from the Egyptian Army and how the Jews were bombing villages so that no one was left in them.  She had to live in a tent for at least two years, where she lost two of her boys to illness and almost lost her third son because their tent collapsed on him.  She described how a Jewish soldier wanted to know the sex of her baby, which she lied about and said was a girl.  She said the Jewish soldier said he would have sliced its throat had it been a boy.

Journal of Palestine Studies, same issue:  A literature review, photos from 100s of sources (only about 15) showing the “situation on the ground,” including Palestinians with toddlers crying at checkpoints, Palestinian prisoners in raids in their underwear being marched into custody, teachers protesting suspension of foreign donor aid and in support of Hamas, crying Palestinians evicted from East Jerusalem homes by Jewish settlers, Fatah gunmen demostrating in Ramallah in support of PA Pres Mahmud Abbas

“From the Hebrew Press” section of the Journal of Palestine Studies, same issue:  Eli Ashkenazi and Jack Khoury, “Poll: 68% of Jews Would Refuse to live in Same Building as an Arab,” Ha’Aretz, 22 March 2006. 

34% agreed that “Arab culture is inferior to Jewish culture,” 57% disagreed.

Poll released by Center for the Struggle Against Racism

Inclination toward segregation rises as the income level of the poll respondent drops and also as the level of religious observance rises.

Palestine-Israel Journal of Politics, Economics and Culture—

Seemingly balanced points of view of Jews and Arabs—Vol 14, No 1 2007 discusses Jerusalem as a divided city, 40 years after 1967 war

Israelis commonly use this expression.  In Hebrew, it’s “Leat, leat.”  It’s used to express encouragement to take time with things, to be methodical, to not make the mistake of being rash.  Something like, “We hope to make peace in this land slowly, slowly,” or, even, “We should study the Talmud slowly, slowly.”  They also say, “Quickly, quickly,” to describe when more time should be taken but isn’t. 

I’m on a bus looking at the Sea of Galilee.  Slowly, slowly.  I was just inside it up to my knees.  I took a picture of my shoe-clad foot in the water just in case anyone has doubts (it’s a land/water shoe and has also proven useful along a rocky Mediterranean shoreline).  My feet are still wet as we head away from three Biblical sites.  The first site was the Church of the First Feeding of the Multitude at Tabgha.  It’s run by Benedictine monks—a former Byzantine church that lay in ruins for centuries and was reconstructed in the first half of the last century.  I talk about time here in centuries, as do the Israeli Jews when thinking about their history—again, slowly, slowly.  We saw the rock where Jesus ate fish and bread after the miracle of the multiplication of the bread and fish.  A Byzantine mosaic just before the rock (it’s beneath the altar as well) commemorates it in typical tan, white, light orange and brown tiles.  It’s a quiet space, one where I found myself imagining who I would be among the 5,000 who were fed.  Would I have been complaining because of my hunger?  Would I have been humbled to be in the presence of Christ?  Would I have helped pass baskets of bread?  Would I have been feeding my own children? 

From there we went to the Church of Peter, where Peter was named as the founder of the Catholic Church.  A few yards behind the simple stone Franciscan church, the rock where Peter was told to establish the church extends beneath the foundation of the building and near the Sea of Galilee.  You walk along the rocks of the shore and see straight through. The water is fresh water and also a major source of Israel’s drinking water.  A few schools of minnows happened past, sometimes larger fish that looked like bluegill swam along the shore as well.  Some of my colleagues walked into the water as well.  You couldn’t help but imagine what it must have been like to see Jesus walking along the water.  And I couldn’t help but feel humbled by the fact that I just sank.  Of course I didn’t expect to walk on the water, but you recognize the weight of your flesh, your human nature, as you step into the waters.  And that weight isn’t always a burden, just a reminder of being in the flesh, a flesh calmed by cool waters in the staggering heat of the land here.

Right now we’re driving through the Golan Heights looking at some Israeli settlements.  This land is contested and was fought over by God knows who.  It’s great wine country; apparently the Israelis discovered this as they looked at the terrain and noticed various altitudes a soils suitable for vineyards.  We’re about to go to the Golan Heights Winery.  I’m going to ignore the fact that we’re in contested lands right (some of which still have uncleared landmines, according to our academic advisor) now and try to refocus on “Slowly, slowly.” 

Yesterday we went to the Church of the Annunciation in Nazareth.  I didn’t expect it, but my knees went weak as I imagined Mary receiving the angel’s news and the courage she must have had.  I also thought of the saying of the Cairo Marriott (ridiculous, I know, but stick with me here):  “Yes is the answer, what is your question?”  Life is daily existence and how the sacred reveals itself, so why not the Marriott slogan?  I thought about that, “Yes,” and what it means.  It’s the acceptance of following your path, your circumstances, of understanding the questions we’re asked and embracing them in “Yes.”  I smiled to myself at these little revelations, partly thanks to the Cairo Marriott, and I also contemplated Mary.  I could go on about my respect for her, but I fear I’m crossing the line of the pedantic/pious and can’t risk representing myself that way.

We walked out at 6 pm, and the bells rang and rang.  It was a moment of grace.  I felt like those bells were bathing me in some kind of blissful peace.  I left the gates briefly as the rest of the group entered a market to shop and then decided to return to the church.  I had to beg to get back in; it was only time for the faithful.  The man at the gate said sternly,  “It is closed,” he hesitated, “to tourists.”  My eyes welled with tears.  “What about Catholics?”  He looked me up and down, “Only if you want to pray.”  “Ok, if you’d just let me,” and with that, I entered. 

***

I spoke with our academic advisor—he says he has seen a couple of my posts and that there are some mistakes.  The same problem occurs in my Israel posts as you’ll find in what I described in the Egypt posts—mistakes, misinterpretations.  I asked him to post comments—so hopefully he can correct some of the misinformation (though he’s certainly not obligated to and has plenty of other more valuable work to do).  In any event, please recognize that my interpretations are subject to subjectivity.

This is my last entry of the day.  I’m listening to Egypt’s most famous singer.  I just want to hea r her voice to help me digest the scenery—golden grasses, lines of cows lining hilltop ridges, olive trees, reservoirs.  Somehow I want to make Egypt and Israel intersect in my head.  Maybe that’s not right.  I could extend it and say that I’d like to see all the countries intersect, all traditions, all peoples.  I guess that’ the dreamer; idealistic, naïve, but impossible to dispel. 

Slowly, slowly.

Last night I realized I forgot to download a post.  Unfortunately, I am finding out this morning that I wrote right over it and lost the post.  I won’t be able to reconstruct it.  I wrote it the day before yesterday during the break in a three hour session about Zionism.  I had written about what defined Zionism and other thoughts.  I also shared thoughts about an Israeli Arab who spoke to us.  I hope to be able to weave some of those perspectives into future posts. 

Today we went to Tel Aviv (we’ve been staying in a suburb of the city and have been into town for dinner and swimming).  Modern.  Clean.  Great architecture.  The young and fashionable populate the streets alongside those who care less about fashion in their strappy Velcro sandals and worn T-shirts.  The Mediterranean beaches offer sand as soft as flour and clear blue waters.  We also went to Jaffa, a port city now connected to Tel Aviv, full of 4,000 years of history.  We finished the day by listening to traditional music in Hebrew, Yiddish and Ladino.  I was mesmerized and didn’t want the violinist to stop playing.  Two hours later, I could still be listening to her.

But tonight I feel like relaying the experience more in poetry.  I’m leaning more toward an impressionistic sense of life here, and prose won’t help me convey that. 

Peace at the Last

Distant cousin, I thought you were younger,

Though I had never seen your face in person, only glanced

At hard images from newspapers suggesting

The precocious, even insolent, adolescent

Smoking unfiltered cigarettes at midnight, inviting trouble

From the rowdy neighbors you might provoke

If you got the idea that you’d enjoy a fight.

Instead,

I find a saddened sage,

Deep creases around eyes that penetrate

And yet don’t assume they know the only answer

But rather seek distinct voices,

With a high tolerance for dissonance and discord.

On the other hand,

I sometimes find you fixated

On one story, like a catchy tune you can’t rid from your mind.

So, like you, I dichotomize yet at the same time conjure

Chaos as unity, where multiple voices are synthesized,

In search of a higher solution.

You are sands and mountains and skyscrapers,

History and modernity,

A miracle of a nation and at the same time

A bloody scar that won’t heal over,

Picked and scraped by your nearby brothers

Who you don’t seem to recognize as such,

Who don’t treat you as blood, who scratch

To draw more blood to the surface, and

Neither you nor your brothers are willing

To let scars heal or allow blood to comingle

In a way that might allow for peace.

And I watch you, seducing land,

Place for which I would fight and die

If I considered it my birthright to live on this land,

And I marvel at what you have achieved

In a finger snap of history and weep at what you

Have failed to accomplish, what my own land

Has lost and denied through history.

I want to lose myself in your religion, your chants

And prayers and Sabbath and people, want the sands

To caress and then swallow me, waters to cleanse

And purify me, want the streets to unfold in below

Feet that can tread for miles and miles on mosaics

From thousands of years ago, streets paved by your

National project, which I want to believe can coexist

With a strange and hostile and beautiful world.

And I can only offer a prayer as conciliation:

Peace and peace and peace,

At the last.

Yesterday I traveled wide territory in an emotional sense.  We started our day at the Herzl Museum and Educational Center a site that commemorates the founder of Zionism in its culmination in the form of the Jewish state.  Several famous Israelis, including Herzl, Golda Meir, and Shimon Peres, are buried there.  The museum part helps you understand why Israel was founded.  I tried to imagine what my experience would be like if I were Jewish.  The museum uses multimedia techniques where you feel like you are really part of the International Zionist Congress at the turn of the 20^th Century, it reminds you of the anti-Semitism that existed in the world leading up to the creation of Israel, and then it highlights Israel’s achievements in more recent years.

I left the Herzl Museum feeling confused.  I am forced to confront the fact that the Israeli narrative is so different than the Palestinian one.  Both sides describe their feelings and attachments to the same land, but when you hear the narratives, you might imagine that either side were discussing a completely different place.  It’s frustrating and causes a lot of dissonance.

From there we went to the Holocaust Museum, Yad Vashem, just over the hill from the Herzl Museum.  The facility is only two years old, and the landscapes are incredible—reminding me of the trees of Lebanon and the wide-reaching mountains and desert.  We began in a hall that commemorates the death of more than 1.5 million children.  All the names they have are read inside a dark hall of glass and mirrors full of lit candles.  You get the sensation of being in the night sky while being confronted with the senselessness of this loss of life.  From there, the exhibits are laid out in switchbacks, and you have to walk through the entire exhibit to get to the end (no shortcuts).  Each station had recorded personal anecdotes from Holocaust survivors.  The emotional effect is similar to the US Holocaust Memorial Museum in DC; you are riveted and left with few words after the experience.  I wanted to cry throughout the museum, but I felt somehow that I didn’t have the right to.  It was only upon leaving when someone asked me how I was that a sort of desperate sound of weeping escaped. 

The only sort of answer I can provide to this is that there are things beyond my control that I can’t understand.  I have to accept tragic, widescale suffering as part of my faith.  And so during the three hours of free time during the afternoon yesterday, a colleague on the trip and I went to the Via Dolorosa in the Old City of Jerusalem to mark the steps of Christ’s Passion through the fourteen Stations of the Cross.  Our trip leaders had to work to get special permission for our trip to be “sanctioned” by the embassy (we were told not to go during night hours as our only restriction). 

We arrived at the Lion’s Gate and entered the Muslim part of Jerusalem (Jerusalem is carved into different sections since the 1967 War).  There I heard Arabic again, was able to use my seven or eight useful words of Arabic, gave water to a beggar woman who asked for it (I think I mentioned the desert people culture in Egypt of asking freely for other people’s water in a former post).  We found the first station almost by accident along the cobblestone pathways.  It is marked with a small brass plate.  From there we followed a group of Nepalese pilgrims for a few more stations.  I bought a small pamphlet which labels each of the stations and tried to imagine Christ suffering through each stop.  Then a small boy offered to show us the remaining stations, and we welcomed his assistance, as we got confused with the labyrinth of streets and alleyways (cars cannot pass through most of the Old City).  We finally arrived at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher , where Christ died and was resurrected (if you believe the story like I do).  Pilgrims from all over the world waited patiently for a moment to touch his tomb.  We arrived when mass was ending.  The final wafts of incense perfumed our entrance.  I was humbled and amazed to think that I had actually seen these places which are fundamental to the practice of my faith.  Certainly it helped me gain perspective on the earlier reflections of the day.

***

We also observed the beginning of the Sabbath, yesterday evening (goes through today until sundown, or, more technically, until three stars can be spotted in the sky) with our Jewish colleagues in the evening.  We witnessed some of the ritual singing and even took part in a bit of it in the evening.  I wondered if our religious practices, despite being so distinct, could somehow unite us, transcend these political issues on the ground.

***

Just a few final notes…  We have also visited an artists’ village where I had to be pulled away.  I could have hung out all night there.  In the mountains, stone brick artists’ studios, lots of colorful art (many of it being Judaica as well).  We’ve seen some amazing archaeological sites as well, including Caesarea and where David supposedly fought Goliath and where Armageddon is supposed to take place.  I just don’t have the time to fill in the details.  Rest assured that I am taking pictures and trying desperately to keep these good memories alive.  The people here have been very kind.  I am fighting to separate out the political and the conflict from the souls of all the people I encounter here, trying to make a space to understand and be understood.

Final note—when we went to the Via Dolorosa, we spoke with a man who lives in the West Bank at a small café.  His story was just so polar opposite in the political terms.  Yet he was also very peaceful and says he, too, wants peace.