Roughly 3 months ago, I landed in the Shreveport airport; my
first time setting foot back in the U.S. after a full 10 months volunteering in
Israel/Palestine.
The reverse culture shock was immediate, and surprising:
Inside the airport, televisions blared American programming – FOX news, ESPN,
CNN. The voices all around me were speaking English, not Hebrew or Arabic. I
could eavesdrop on any conversation I chose – and the unfamiliar stimulation
was overwhelming.
I still remember the first time I went to order a beverage, in the airport at JFK. I asked for a medium coffee, my jet-lagged body desperately needing the caffeine. However, I was shocked when they handed me it in a cup far bigger than even the “large” sizes were in Israel. This was a medium? It felt
awkward and heavy in my grasp.
There were many other things in my first month or so of being
back home that appeared foreign or strange to me after being away for so long. Grocery stores seemed massive, the options to choose from vast. Even walking into Petco, after only visiting pet stores roughly the size of a child's bedroom, startled me. So many choices! So many aisles! Such bright lights and shiny floors and wide aisles!
Everything was new and big and disorienting: I had a mix of emotions. I was so thankful to be home, so thankful to once again be with my family. But I also found myself missing the friends I had made and the lifestyle I had come to adjust to. No more public transportation, no more walking an average of 5 miles a day to get from place to place and bus stop to bus stop. No more wondering if the person I'm speaking to is Arab or Israeli, whether I should thank them in Arabic or Hebrew. No more calculating 8 hours of time difference to know whether I can call my mother with a cooking question.
It was an entirely different world.
But, 3 months in, I've mostly adjusted back into normal, Louisiana-American life. I began my first church appointment at Grace Community in July as their Associate Pastor, and I am so excited to be there. I really think I'm going to be a great fit there, and am looking forward to the ministry we will be able to do together.
Though I won't be posting on this blog anymore, I have a new website that I will be posting on:
For those who read and kept up with my blog while I was over there serving, thank you. It made such a difference to know that I had a community back home supporting me through both the good times and the bad. I couldn't have made it through all those months, and back home, if it wasn't for you.
It is Easter weekend, a roller coaster of holy days marking Christ's last days in Jerusalem, including his crucifixion, death, and resurrection. These are arguably the most holy days in the life of the church, and they are typically marked and celebrated with a variety of services, gatherings, and rituals.
This year for Easter weekend, I am in Israel. Living in Jerusalem proper. Able to participate in traditions and events with the local Christian population here, including a Palm Sunday walk down from the Mount of Olives, a Maundy Thursday procession up past the Garden of Gethsemane, and a Good Friday pilgrimage along the Via Dolorosa, or Way of the Cross, marking the 14 stations of Christ's journey to his crucifixion.
Many friends and family members from back home have expressed excitement at this opportunity I have to be present in such an important place during such an important holiday season. And, similar to being in Bethlehem at Christmas time, I am both humbled and appreciative of my ability to be here and experience these things that people travel from all over the world to see and do.
But, similar to being in Bethlehem at Christmas time, there's another side to it...
The events of Holy Week in Israel/Palestine are impressive. Thousands of Christians, both local Palestinians and ones from all corners of the world, gather together to sing songs, praise God, and reflect on Christ's suffering, death, and eventual resurrection.
It's big, it's exciting, it's unique - you can feel the wonder of it in the air; people waving palm branches, singing out in different languages as we all walk together along the same path into Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives that Jesus traveled down so long ago. With similar shouts and choruses of "Hosannah" and "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord."
View of the crowd as we snaked our way down the Mount of Olives
People were here from all different countries and backgrounds
But being here for 10 days, on a Christian pilgrimage, with people from your church who you know, with pastors who you care about, visiting holy sites and reflecting on scripture passages as a community, is a very different experience than being here for 10 months. You see different things, feel different things, return back home with a different perspective.
Ironically enough, this almost-year spent living in the holy land has been the most spiritually-dry year of my entire life. Perhaps now I can better relate to Jesus, wandering in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights before officially starting his ministry on the ground. I feel as if I, too, have been wandering. Unsuccessfully looking for streams of water in the dry beds of religious extremism, Israeli settlement expansion, and violence done by both sides. Faith is hard when you are able to witness, first hand, persecution. Even harder when you don't have a community of believers around you to help you remain strong.
But, even with that being said, it doesn't mean that I do not find God in the events happening all around me. It just means that I have to work a bit harder to...and that, instead of finding God within all of the waving palm branches and strumming guitars and grand processions, I find God in the unholiness. In the brokenness. In the messiness. In the imperfections and just plain reality all around.
Thursday night I attended a Maundy Thursday service, in which 8 languages were used. It was a Lutheran service, with scripture read in English, Arabic, and German. It was impressive. It was an experience. But it wasn't my tradition. It wasn't my church. It wasn't my way of worshiping.
Which is all fine. We can still be a part of and appreciate things that are unfamiliar to us. But I tend to feel more like an observer than a participant at these things - watching as others get spiritually filled while my cup remains empty.
After this service we walked up towards the Russian Orthodox Church of Mary Magdalene. It is a procession, with a large number of people, and we sing familiar hymns along the way.
But it isn't the number of people that stick out to me. It isn't the route that we take, through the old city of Jerusalem, past holy sites and churches, past areas where it is possible that Jesus, at some point, passed through. These are the reasons that people recite to me, of why I should feel God's presence in this moment. The reason why this night should feel holy and sacred:
Walking past the Garden of Gethsemane...
On the night in which Jesus prayed there with his disciples...
In Jerusalem, the holiest of holies...
Yet these are not the things that stick out to me.
These are not the memories that I hold most dear.
Along the way, a young girl of about 4 or 5 years old is walking a few people ahead of me. The streets and sidewalks of the old city are cobblestone and slippery, with uneven steps. The lighting is dim, since it is now well after sun down.
The little girl is walking quickly. She places her small foot on a step, and it doesn't gain traction. She slips and falls, hard, on her bottom. Her parents are a few feet ahead of her, they don't even see her go down. Immediately she begins to cry, partly in shock and partly in pain. Before her parents have a chance to turn around, a stranger, also in the procession, runs to her aid, and picks her up off the ground. He quiets her sobs, telling her she's ok now, that everything is alright.
-----
I laugh with a girl walking next to me, as we desperately try to identify which line of "Amazing Grace" the group is singing. The crowd is large, and the streets narrow, so the line of people stretches out quite far. We strain to hear what words the people ahead of us are on. At one point we find ourselves in the middle of two different groups, singing two different songs, and have to make the decision of which to join in on. We giggle. The choruses come in waves, with people holding notes for varying lengths of time. It's cacophonous, but in the best way.
-----
When we reach the church, the end destination, everyone is handed a long stem candle and bulletin for the worship service that will be conducted. One person begins lighting candles, and then those people light others, and so one and so forth. Mine is one of the first ones lit, and so I move towards the people standing in the back, offering them the light.
I light one man's candle and he thanks me. I turn to walk away, and there is a gust of wind. My candle is blown out. I turn back to the man whose candle I had just lit, and now he is the one offering me the light, which I gratefully accept. This happens several more times, people lighting candles, the wind extinguishing them, people relighting them from flames that they helped create.
These are the memories that I hold on to. The brief moments in which reality slips in - the brief moments in which, I believe, God slips in also. It's hard for me to find God in the pomp and circumstance. In the stones that may or may not be holy, in the sites that may or may not have historical and biblical significance.
But I can find God in the stranger who rushes to pick up a fallen child as if she were his own. I can find God in the hilarious, discordant, messy voices that are made even more beautiful by their dis-unity. I can find God in the sense of calm and peace I feel, even when the wind blows my candle out, because I know there will always be someone close by to light it again.
For me, it isn't so much about this "place" being holy, but about the people and circumstances and just plain life that are inevitably unholy, and about believing in a God who chooses to work through us and them and it, anyway. About believing in a God who took on this brokenness and messiness willingly, in order to show us a better way forward.
Eye exams consist of several different tests. The one that first comes to mind is the reading of the eye chart, line by line, until the letters are so small you can no longer distinguish the Q's from the O's, or the I's from the L's. But another common exam uses different lenses to fine tune which prescription will help someone to see more clearly.
Usually the patient is asked to stare at an object across the room - like the big "E" on the eye chart. Then the doctor moves a mask-like machine in front of the patient's face for them to look through. The doctor flips one lens down, and then another, asking the individual to choose which one allows them to see the "E" most clearly:
"Which is better?" the doctor will ask,
"One?" *click*
"Or two?" *click*
I'm reminded of this simple procedure as I go about my daily life here in Jerusalem. Sometimes it feels as if something as tangible as a lens is being flipped down in front of my vision - and it's up to me to decide whether it makes things more clear, or blurry.
Yesterday morning I watched from my office window as a car was randomly stopped by soldiers on the side of the road. The driver wasn't speeding or doing anything else illegal, but the car looked old, with unpainted door panels, and two young Palestinian men were in the front seat. This alone is enough cause for "suspicion."
Five armed soldiers approached the car and searched it. They brought each man out, one at a time, and did a full body search of them. The first one seemed to take everything in a good humor. He even smiled as the soldier told him to remove his jacket and un-tuck his shirt. They had him turn around and place his hands against the wall while they patted him down. I watched as they searched every inch of his body, putting their hands in his pants pockets, feeling around his waistband, checking for a knife. They shook his jacket out too, checked the pockets in it. When nothing was found he was allowed to stand to the side while the other man was taken out of the car.
This one didn't seem to be in the mood to act as docile as the other. He got frustrated when the soldier told him to put his hands up on the wall. Heated words were exchanged. He was arguing with the soldier, telling him something, but all it resulted in was his arms being roughly twisted behind his back; the soldier held his wrists together in one hand while he used the other to search him.
Again, nothing was found. A more thorough inspection of the car then took place - lifting up floor mats, checking the trunk and the space underneath the spare tire. Finally, after a total of about 15 minutes of searching, the men were released to go on their way.
Tensions are high again. If they ever really lowered. There was an attack two days ago at Damascus Gate in the center of Jerusalem - a place of high tension where many attacks have occurred since things started boiling over the first of October. Three young Palestinian men, in their early twenties, came with a rifle and knives and pipe bombs, assumingly with the intention of carrying out a mass attack. They were stopped before they could carry it out, though, and instead attacked two border police women.
The women were 19 years old. It was their first day on duty. They'd only been recruited two months ago to begin training. One was shot and killed, the other stabbed and seriously wounded. All three attackers were shot and killed on scene.
Before coming into work that morning I had taken Ellie to a small, gated, grassy area, and we played fetch. Hard to believe it was the same morning. Hard to believe these things can somehow coexist within the same 24 hour period, in the same city.
The lenses come down - better, or worse?
*click*
A man being searched for no reason; humiliated, degraded, treated like a criminal.
*click*
Ellie running, carrying a stick three sizes too large for her body.
*click*
She was only 19 years old - what does her family do now?
*click*
My friends and I discuss various stabbing attacks over dinner; realize
that we are unphased, that the topic has become routine, de rigueur; as
if we were discussing the weather.
*click*
Ellie befriends a brave neighborhood cat; their noses touch briefly.
*click*
Demolition orders for the homes of the families of the three men who carried out the attack; work permits revoked for each family member; the town where the men were from completely shut down, no one allowed to enter or leave for the last two days.
Better, or worse? Is it possible that every lens just makes it look more blurry?
The positive things contrast so starkly with the negative that the effect is dizzying. I can lose myself in the joyful excitement of puppy hood and immerse myself with friends and weekend trips to Tel Aviv, but inevitably, reality will hit the second I check the news.
Or is it the other way around? Which reality is the most real? The morning I spent with Ellie playing fetch, sun shining bright, the whole day ahead of us? Or my watching as the two men got searched right outside the window? Do we distract ourselves from the dark sides of life, or do the dark sides distract us from living life?
My alarm goes off at 3:15AM. My apartment is cold, dark. Ellie is still
sleeping, cozy in her crate. I've only gotten about 5 hours of sleep,
but I'm wide awake; nervous. I dress in layers - tights under jeans,
sweatshirt under jacket underneath thicker jacket; gloves, hat, scarf. The
temperature is in the mid-40s, which isn't so bad, except that I know
I'll be standing out in it for several hours.
3:30AM and I'm out the door. It's almost exactly 1 mile from my apartment to the checkpoint by foot; I start walking. My street is quiet - no cars, no people. When I turn onto the main road though, I begin to see faint figures in the distance: it's the first few Palestinians who have crossed into Jerusalem for work.
As I continue, these few individuals become a steady stream of men walking towards me. I'm going against the flow. I play a quick round of "how much do I stick out right now?" - a game I find myself playing multiple times a day here.
The evidence piles up against me:
-I'm the only female on this entire street
-I'm a young female, walking, alone, at 4 in the morning
-I'm walking to the checkpoint, rather than away from it
-My winter hat is an obnoxious shade of neon pink
Like, really obnoxious.
This morning, I have failed this game.
I've written before about some of my experiences crossing through
Checkpoint 300, the main access point for Palestinians with West Bank ID's to get from Bethlehem
to Jerusalem and back again. When I first arrived here, the steel bars
and prison-like appearance of it intimidated me, but now I walk through
without even a second glance at the 25ft high concrete wall that
separates these two cities. It's become part of the backdrop here, part
of everyday life.
However, I recently had the
opportunity to experience this checkpoint at its peak time of the day:
between the hours of 4:00AM-7:00AM on a weekday morning. I joined with a
few EAPPI volunteers (Ecumenical Accompaniment Program in Palestine and
Israel) who monitor the checkpoint three times a week during these
hours. They come from all over the world, and help by simply being an
international presence, observing what goes on there, and reporting any
violence or wrongdoing from soldiers that they see. They also count the
number of Palestinians who get through and how long the process takes
them.
To give you some idea of the chaos, roughly 4500
Palestinians cross through Checkpoint 300 into Jerusalem every morning
during this 3 hour time frame. The majority of these individuals (98%)
are men with work permits which allow them into Israel proper. These
permits are not the property of each specific individual, however, but
are instead controlled by the company that employs them. Therefore, if
an employee is late for their shift, their permit is cancelled, and
suddenly they are no longer allowed entrance to the country. This means
that it is imperative for Palestinians to cross through the checkpoint
with enough time to get to their place of employment. Which means people
start lining up at 4:00AM, and it is a constant stream (more like a
rushing river) until 7:30/8:00AM.
I make it to the checkpoint and go through. I pause in the middle (there are basically two sections of the checkpoint, separated by a small parking lot/open area in between). The turnstiles for the first segment are stalled - I can see the people waiting inside to pass through. Then, suddenly, they unlock, and there is a rush of men all at once. I'm startled to see them push through the turnstile and then run across the parking lot to get to the next one. These are men of all ages - old, young; running.
I go through the turnstile in the opposite direction; meet up with the people from EAPPI. I am relieved to no longer be there alone. We stand in what has been affectionately termed, "the cage." It's basically a small square area surrounded by bars, which leads to the first turnstile one has to pass through when trying to enter Jerusalem. There is a guard booth and two soldiers stationed at this station who are able to lock the turnstile at any given moment. Sometimes they do this for traffic flow reasons, waiting until the second area (across the parking lot, where ID's are inspected) clears up; sometimes their reasoning is less clear.
There are so many people here. The "cage" is split into two sides, one for entering Jerusalem and one for exiting. We stand on the exit side, opposite the crowd.
The cage, crowded with men. Some would come up the exit ramp and then squeeze underneath the gate
separating the two sides in order to get through to the turnstile
faster. Just this week a man was knocked unconscious when attempting to crawl through - the turnstile turned on and there was a rush of people; he got trampled underneath.
Men cram into the turnstile, sometimes fitting two or three people into the slot meant for one. I took a couple of brief videos to try and capture the process. The first was taken while the turnstile was locked - and so the number of people piling into the cage just kept growing with nowhere to go. The second is when the turnstile was suddenly turned on again, and people began rushing to go through it.
When the turnstile was locked:
When the turnstile opened back up:
After observing this process for a while, a couple of the EA's and I decide to try walking through to enter Jerusalem. For me this is a necessity - I have to leave from my apartment for church at 9:00AM, and still need to be home in time to walk Ellie and shower before hand (Sunday is the start of the work week in Israel). And, now that I'm in Bethlehem, the only way to get home is back out the way I came in.
There is a concrete ramp that leads up to the "cage." This ramp is also jammed with people.
Younger men climb up the sides and walk along the upper bars in order to
get ahead in line.
Men standing along the bars above while others crowd the ramp below.
Men holding onto the bars as they move sideways, bar by bar, to get to the first turnstile in the checkpoint.
I'm shocked by the sheer number of people; by the density of the line waiting inside the ramp area. We continue down the exit side of the checkpoint in order to get in the "que before the que" - see, the line of people starts way before the infrastructure of the ramp itself. Outside the que of bodies resembles a large funnel, with each individual being one tiny droplet, trying to squeeze it's way through.
People enter from all sides, trying to get to the beginning of the entry ramp.
I and the other EA's add to the disorganized mass straining towards the gateway. One of them tells me that this is the worst part, trying to get through the narrow opening. This isn't a passive line that you can just stand in and wait for it to move forward - instead you have to actively struggle to make any progress. I'm in front, with an EA behind me. It's my job to serve as the battering ram for our small group. Images of Black Friday shopping lines and Mardi Gras crowds come to mind, yet neither of those can compare to the packed-in tightness I feel all around me.
The crowd moves with the opening and closing of the turnstile way ahead, past the cage. We feel the reverberation effects of the people slowly beginning to shift forward, and I fast learn that as soon as this happens you have to fight your way up, one inch at a time. Then, once you can't move any closer to the person ahead of you, you must lock your feet in and brace your knees. If you don't do this, then each hard fought for inch will be immediately lost in the backwards wave that inevitably follows every push forward.
"Wave" really is the best way to describe the pitch back motion that occurs. It's like one step forward, three steps back every time. If you don't plant your feet, it is impossible to go anywhere. I am so packed into the crowd that it's a struggle to get my phone out of my pocket to take a picture - I'm willing to bet that if I stuck my elbows out to the people next to me and lifted my feet off the ground, I'd remain upright; we are that tightly squeezed into the mass.
My view from inside the group of people trying to get onto the ramp.
At one point a guy a few feet in front of me bends down. It is unclear what he is doing, but there is no room for him to bend over - any time one person takes up more than their allotted amount of space it is felt by every other person within a 5-person radius. His bending causes the people behind him to push towards me, and suddenly I'm even more crushed than I was before.
Then, the man pops upright again, his fist raised high into the air - and in his fist...a box of chocolate milk. He cheers, and the men around him cheer too. My eyes meet those of a man a couple people to my right, and we both chuckle and shake our heads. The tension is released like air from a balloon: smiles and laughs are exchanged around the huddle as the man happily drinks his milk ahead of us.
That small moment was like a brief flicker of humanity; a small reminder that we're all still human, even if our present circumstances make us feel more like cattle being herded to the slaughter than people heading to work.
Over the course of 45 minutes, we have traveled about two feet forward. The crowd is too big. We aren't dedicated enough in our pushing to get in. We decide to give up and try again a little bit later.
Surprisingly, it is quite easy to exit - people readily fill in the small gaps we leave, and we're back again where we started. It feels strange to be able to move freely again - to breathe without the distinct sensation of someone sitting on your lungs.
Closer to 7:30AM the crowd has lessened significantly. The line inside the ramp is still full, but there are no more men climbing along the bars above, and the "que before the que" is only 3 people deep now, rather than 30. We decide to try again.
My view from inside the ramp walkway - still packed with people, but at least this time I can breathe.
I make it through the checkpoint in about 45 minutes and am able to re-enter Jerusalem. This is a significant change from the hourand 45 minutes it took one of the EA's to walk through earlier that morning. I begin my walk home to get ready for church, my head spinning from all that I have experienced and seen.
I can't imagine going through this process every morning. What do you go home and tell your family in the evenings? Your wife? Your children? Do you tell them you skipped ahead in line today by climbing on top of the metal bars? Do you recount your successful crawl underneath the gate of the cage without being trampled by your peers?
How do you explain the crushing, rushing, animal-ness of it all?
Or do you just say nothing - work was fine, checkpoint was fine, now I'm home to eat and sleep and wake up to do it all over again.
How does one rinse and repeat this kind of life and still manage to maintain a sense of pride and dignity and human-ness within themselves? Within one another?
View of the sun rising over Bethlehem from inside the checkpoint.
I miss bookstores. The big, awful chain ones, like Barnes and Nobles. I miss the smell when you walk in of fresh pages and ink and uncracked book spines. I miss the colorful displays of new fiction novels, the aisle of "NY Times Bestsellers," the blue carpet, the fluorescent lighting, the central heating, the cliche' Starbucks coffee shop in the corner with overpriced lattes and people typing on laptops.
I miss my car; having access to transportation any time of day, any day of the week. I miss the independence of it, the freedom of not depending upon any other person, or bus schedule, or weather (walking is my number one way of getting around here, so when it rains, it changes my entire day's plans).
I miss having a mailbox just outside my door, and an address where things can be delivered to - an address that doesn't cause taxi drivers to raise their eyebrows in dismay, an address that Pizza Hut recognizes and that the pet store will agree to deliver my 33lb bag of dog food to (again, walking as primary mode of transport). I miss the convenience of Amazon online two-day delivery, of having access to almost any product I can think of.
I miss my pots and pans and kitchen appliances. I've been living on my own/with room mates for the last 5 years, and so have accumulated a full kitchen's worth of cookware, which is now boxed up in a storage unit back home. I used to cook 90% of my meals, and would spend the weekend preparing and cooking for the week ahead. I now feel like I'm back in undergrad, living with one pot and one skillet, resorting to pasta and scrambled eggs as daily food staples.
I miss my electric blanket - how I could turn it on 10 minutes before bed and then climb into pre-warmed sheets. I now sleep with a hot water bottle every night instead to try and thaw out the covers.
I miss Valentines Day candy that would normally be all over the grocery stores by now in obnoxious pink and red. No Russel Stovers or heart-shaped candies here though - it isn't a holiday celebrated in Israel.
I miss Mardi Gras decorations and weekend parades and Shrove Tuesday pancake suppers. I miss king cake and Lenten bible studies and helping prepare for Ash Wednesday services.
I miss clothes dryers and dish washers and full-sized ovens with temperatures written in Fahrenheit. I miss 1/2 cup and 1/3 cup and whole cup measuring cups, and not having to convert things from mL and grams.
I miss the U.S., and all the random little things that made life convenient and easy and comfortable there.
As the warning said, this post is most definitely whiny, and also paints me as awfully shallow and high-maintenance. But I guess we all get to complain sometimes.
On the other hand:
I went with a friend to a beautiful Shabbat service Friday night, and was excited to be able to read the Hebrew in the prayer book well enough to sing along.
I took Ellie to the dog park today and she made friends with a couple of other high-energy puppies. The playing wore her out, and so she's been sleeping next to me on the couch for the last several hours.
I helped lead the communion service at the Church of Scotland this
morning in Jerusalem to a congregation of locals and internationals from
Britain, Scotland, Ireland, and the U.S.
I have made wonderful friends here, one of which I got to experience snow with the other day in Bethlehem. (At one point you will hear her say, "nobody loves us!" This was because we were attempting to hitch hike since our bus never came. Eventually a nice Jewish woman living in the next door settlement stopped and gave us a ride).
So, really. I can't complain. Or, well, I can. But I shouldn't.
This was my first Christmas away from home. Back around Thanksgiving I began feeling sad about being far from friends and family, wondering how I would manage to make it through the holiday season while living in a place that doesn't even recognize it as one. And then I mentioned this to a friend I met through west coast swing dancing in Tel Aviv, and he took it upon himself to throw a Christmas party for me so that I wouldn't feel alone.
To fully grasp the enormity of this undertaking, you must first understand that this friend had never celebrated Christmas before. That, in fact, most of the people coming to this party would have never celebrated Christmas before. Everyone there was raised Jewish, and so were completely unfamiliar with the traditions celebrated or the decorations used. Some of the questions I was asked as plans were being made for the party:
-What are stockings used for? Are they different than presents?
-Does Christmas start the night before? (Jewish holidays all start the evening before - it was a really strange concept for people to grasp that Christmas Eve was a separate thing altogether, with its own set of traditions and customs).
-When can you say "Merry Christmas" and have it be ok?
-What is a nativity scene?
Even with a lack of knowledge about the holiday, they were all willing to come together to create a Tel-Avivian-Israeli-Christmas for me - it was amazing.
One example of how things can get mixed in translation...this was the welcome sign on the apartment door where the party was held. It's supposed to read "Ho, ho, ho!" I about died when I saw it. It encapsulates perfectly the amount of effort put into making this a real Christmas party, and also the hilarity and irony behind it being thrown by someone who has never celebrated Christmas!
Let me explain that even the obtaining of Christmas decorations is next to impossible here. Of course, in Bethlehem and other Palestinian Christian areas, they are easy to be found; but in Israel proper? No way. If you want to find Christmas things in Israel, you really have to look hard. All throughout the month of December I felt like I was in some land where seasons didn't properly exist, since there were no visible reminders of the approaching holiday. And so, you can imagine my surprise when I walked into his apartment and saw the many decorations around the place! I later found out that most were brought in from Canada and England weeks before - he'd arranged for friends who were visiting to bring in Christmas supplies from abroad!
The tree after we decorated it, with lights hung across the room, stockings on the door, and Christmas book and candy under the tree!
There was an actual Christmas tree in his living room! Decorated with lights and garland. The ornaments were not yet put on when I arrived - that would be an activity we would do once all the people were there, "because that's supposed to be fun or something, right?" (Actual quote from his roommate when explaining why the tree was only partially decorated).
There were ornaments strung up on the wall, lights across the doorway, and stockings filled with candy (and candy canes, even!). A 3 hour long playlist of Christmas carols had been prepared before hand, and was turned on the moment I, and my friend Hannah, walked in.
Hannah is a friend I made in Jerusalem. She's from the U.S., but recently immigrated here so is now a dual citizen of America/Israel. Her father is Christian and mother Jewish, so she also found herself missing some of the Christmas traditions from back home. We showed up to the party early to bake Christmas cookies, prepare apple cider, and make eggnog before the guests arrived. No one had experienced eggnog before, so we were happy to expose them to it. Both of us were made speechless by the amount of Christmas contained inside this one apartment, after having been so starved for it in Jerusalem in the weeks prior.
Hannah and myself, helping decorate the tree! And yes, it was fun!
Ellie joined us for the festivities, but the celebration was a bit too much for her!
Guy, who hosted the party (pictured on the left), managed to also acquire a Reindeer Christmas sweater for himself and several Santa hats. Also a Christmas light necklace for me. It was also required dress code for everyone who came to wear either red or green.
It really was a great time, especially because the main tradition of Christmas that I find important is being with people you care about. Since it couldn't be family this year, it was really nice to be around a group of friends and a community that has taken me under their wing and welcomed me in. Though I still missed being home for the holidays, I was certainly not alone - and it will for sure be a Christmas I never forget!
Shortly after Christmas day, I headed to the airport for a trip to London, where I spent five days at a dance event there. It was my first time in London (first time in Europe, actually), and I was excited to have a completely new place to explore on my own. Being there really let me see how much I've grown in my 6 months here; I navigated public transportation like a pro, explored London all on my own, and even dealt with having my suitcase lost for my first 30+ hours there with only the tiniest smidgen of stress and frustration. I really do think that after this year living in Israel/Palestine, I will be able to handle anything.
Mandatory touristy photo of me by a red phone booth. It was so great having everything in English again!
I had a wonderful time while there, meeting people from all over the world, dancing five nights in a row, visiting grocery stores and relishing in the fact that I could suddenly read all of the labels. Both my time there and my time in Tel Aviv allowed me an escape from the realities of Jerusalem/Bethlehem living. I got to feel like a normal person again - a person who doesn't constantly think about occupation and oppression and how to live a life that recognizes the humanity of the people on both sides of the wall. I got to recharge and blend in and just be for a little bit, which was very much needed.
But I also recognize that, even this ability to forget, this ability to shove things down into a box for a little while and simply not think about the conflict, is itself a mark of my privilege. So many people living in Bethlehem can't just escape to Tel Aviv for a weekend. They aren't allowed to fly out of Ben Gurion airport for a trip to London. And, more importantly, they won't be able to move back to the U.S. in a handful of months, to begin a career where I could essentially just forget all that I've seen and experienced while living here.
The break from Jerusalem and life here was a really, really good thing. But I worry that sometimes it is too easy to forget. I'm never one to just choose the easy path, but after so many days away, I could see the temptation of walking down that road. I hope that I'm strong enough to resist that when I'm back in the states and no longer here. I hope I don't forget.
Sunset at the beach in Tel Aviv, a few days after Christmas.
I went to a Christmas party this morning in Bethlehem. It was the first of many that are scheduled for the week ahead. This one was at Wi'am, a Palestinian conflict-resolution center that focuses on initiating dialogues about peace, and also works to empower women and children in the West Bank so as to improve society there.
This party was held for the staff at Wi'am, all local Palestinian Christians, and also for several international volunteers working through EAPPI (Ecumenical Accompaniment Program in Palestine/Israel). We had 15 people gathered around the table from a variety of countries: Palestine, Brazil, South Africa, Singapore, Australia, Finland, the UK, and the US.
We did a white elephant gift exchange (which I learned is something that people from other countries have never heard of before), and played "dirty santa" in which you take turns either opening a gift from the pile, or stealing an already-opened one from someone else. This game was new to almost everyone there, and so led to many laughs and playful squabbles over gifts that ranged from colorful, fuzzy socks, to a can of tuna fish. We shared home baked cookies and pastries, many cups of tea, and basked in the warmth of the portable space heater.
We also went around and recounted a favorite Christmas memory from each of our pasts. People told tales of being home around family, of unique traditions and special moments. We discussed slight differences in how Christmas is celebrated in each of our home countries. I learned that, in Australia, a glass of cold beer is left out for Santa, rather than cold milk. And in Brazil, though Christmas day is usually the hottest day of summer (with temperatures averaging over 100 degrees!), they still decorate with snowflakes and images of frosty landscapes.
At the end, we sang familiar Christmas carols, alternating between english and arabic verses, and I felt such a sense of peace and calm come over me. This year will be my first time ever being away from home, and my family, for Christmas. And as the 25th draws closer, I find myself missing both them, and our traditions, more and more. So to have a morning of good cheer and holiday spirit was refreshing and nice. I didn't want it to end.
But then, there was the sound of a pop on the roof. And the room fell silent.
We'd waited too long, you see. Lost track of time in the midst of the gift-giving and the laughter. Friday afternoon prayers had ended, and the weekly demonstration had already begun.
Wi'am, though an organization that works for peace, is located in one of the least peaceful spots in Bethlehem: right next to a guard tower along the wall. This is a high-tension spot, because it is where teenage boys direct their stone-throwing to (the tower is manned 24/7, so they know someone is always there, watching), and also because there is a metal door here that can be lifted up from the other side so that Israeli soldiers can come through once a situation escalates.
Wi'am is just out of range of this picture, to the left of the guard tower. The metal door is also immediately to the left of the tower. The small black rectangles on the tower serve as observation points, and can also slide open to allow tear gas canisters or rubber bullets to be shot out.
Every Friday after prayers, there is a demonstration here. Also every Tuesday at 11:00am. In October, when the conflict was at its highest point, there were clashes every day.
We immediately went up to the roof to get a better look at what was going on. There were two teenage boys on the street below - one less than 10 feet from the building, the other maybe 30 feet further down. Both had slingshots, and were shooting marbles up towards the guard tower. One begins kicking at several metal dumpsters lining the sidewalk. He knocks them on their side, then positions them along the street. They will be used as shields once the soldiers start retaliating.
The roof of Wi'am is littered with marbles and rocks that never quite made it to their intended targets. I look down towards the boys. One has a scarf around his face, the other has a gas mask. They're maybe 16 years old. I wonder what their goal is. What are marbles and rocks to a 25ft. high, concrete wall? Even with the knowledge that soldiers are inside the tower, it's not like the bullet-proof, tiny, rectangular windows can be penetrated with items slung from sling shots.
But I guess it's not about that. It's about expressing frustration, anger. It's about doing something to show that you're still alive - that you won't take things sitting down. So many teenagers are exasperated by the current government, by their tired parents who have given over to hopelessness and resignation. They're taking things into their own hands, in the only way they know how.
We hear the sound of a different kind of pop - the firing of a tear gas canister. One of the Wi'am staff members yells up at us to come back inside. That it's no longer safe to be up there. We come down and view the scene from a window that has two separate metal screens outside of it. Wi'am is no stranger to the damage demonstrations can do. Even though they take no part in them, their building bears scars from misfirings from both sides. A few weeks ago they had an awning catch fire and burn up because three gas canisters landed on it and sparked an electrical wire.
I've circled Wi'am in yellow. The guard tower has a line down it in pink, and the dumpster-barricade set up down the street has been outlined in blue.
I'm surprised to see the tiny tendrils of smoke coming from the tear gas canisters down the street. So far, it was only the two teenage boys with sling shots. Not a riot, not a protest. Just the beginnings of a demonstration. Three more pops, three more tendrils, and the street begins to cloud. Soon, more boys will be joining.
We discuss our options. The volunteers from EAPPI have an arabic class soon, and need to leave. I have Ellie at home, who needs to be let out. The problem though, is how. If we go up towards the Palestinian teens, we have to walk through the growing amounts of tear gas. If we cross the street instead, we must pass directly in front of the wall, and so risk being hit by flying stones. We decide that we have only a small window, and so should leave now, before things get worse.
We gather our things, say our goodbyes. We look outside again to double check the situation, and discover that in that 10 minute interval, things have escalated. The teens are burning tires now, in the middle of the street. Yet another cloaking strategy, for the burning creates thick waves of black smoke that they can hide behind. There are pops of rubber bullets now, coming from the soldiers. More tear gas canisters as well. More loud cracks of rocks hitting against the wall.
The staff at Wi'am tell us that if we leave as a group now, before things get worse, we should be ok. We nod our heads and line up near the gate leading outside to the street. We've each come prepared with a scarf, which we wrap around our mouths and noses. Zoughbi, the director at Wi'am, calls out to the teenagers in Arabic, telling them to stop for a minute, that people need to pass through. Some seem to listen, but a few rocks are still coming; one skips on the pavement outside the gate and rolls to a halt along the street, stopping 10 feet from the wall.
Zoughbi tells us to go. We run. A couple more rocks fly over our heads. We hear shouting in Arabic, see the smoke. We successfully make it across the street, and observe for a few minutes from a safe distance. My stomach feels tied up in knots. One of the other volunteers turns to me and says, "I don't know why we're all so shocked." He's right. We know this happens all the time. We knew it would happen again today.
And yet it's different, being there. Knowing that what we were seeing was only just the beginning. That it was going to get much, much worse before the day was over with.
View from the other side of the street, once we had left Wi'am.
We continue the walk back towards the checkpoint. With every step I get further away from the conflict, and also further away from being able to make sense out of any of it. I don't understand why the teenagers continue to throw stones when it accomplishes nothing except put their lives in danger. I don't understand why the soldiers retaliate, when their personal safety is not even slightly at risk.
I don't understand how my morning started off so warm and comfortable,
sharing Christmas memories with new found friends, and then ended with
tear gas and fear. I don't understand how all of these different things
can coexist in one place: in Bethlehem. In the town known for Christ's
birth.
Accumulation of rocks thrown at the wall. The orange metal container was shot from an IDF tank, containing several canisters of gas. (Picture taken on a different day, following a demonstration.)
View from the center of Bethlehem. From left to right: Bell tower at Church of the Nativity, Christmas tree in Manger Square, and Minaret of Omar's Mosque.
