Christmas and Tear Gas

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.

High Dive

Even though we are fully into the winter season now, I find myself thinking about swimming pools. More specifically, thinking about the diving boards most public pools have - the low dive, and the high.

I took swimming lessons as a child at a community pool, and at the end of every lesson the teachers would give us the opportunity to go on the diving boards and jump in. I can still remember what it felt like to climb up the tall, tall ladder to reach the top of the high dive. First you would wait in line, watching as the other kids climbed up and then jumped off in turn, moving one step closer each time. Once you got to the ladder rungs, climbing up it wasn't hard, so long as you didn't look down. It was mechanical, really - first one rung, then another; up and up and up.

No, the scary part didn't really come until you reached the top; the rubbery, rough board underneath your feet, slightly wet and surprisingly long. The stable ladder rungs being replaced by two skinny metal bars as hand holds, the board seeming to rest in mid-air, open on all sides.

It was always this walk down to the edge of the board that did it for me. I've always been afraid of heights, and so to stand up so high with nothing protective around me, with only a thin swimsuit clinging to my skin the way I wished to be clinging to the ground, was terrifying. Especially when you add to that the knowledge that retreat back down the ladder is not an option; that the only way to put an end to the terror of being up so high is to jump out directly into it.

I would use logic to propel myself forward. I'd tell my legs to move, one and then the other, until finally I reached the edge. This is where my logic stopped though. No matter what reassurances I repeated to myself about it being safe, about it not really being that far down, about how I had successfully jumped off in the past without injury, it didn't help.

Instead, there was always this moment in which I would have to unhook my heart from my brain, take a deep breath, and just jump. It was always such a quick moment, five seconds, maximum, and yet so much happened in that short breadth of time: I would recognize the fear spreading through my chest, feel the rapid beating of my heart, process through the options for an escape route, and then, deciding there were none, I would close my eyes, and jump.

Five seconds of being brave (or stupid, depending on one's perspective), five seconds of recognizing the dissonance within oneself and then deciding to just do it anyway, knowing that after that, gravity would take over and do the rest.

I've thought of this feeling a lot lately; this five seconds of abject terror, followed by a surprisingly composed decision to just let go, lean in, and fall.

This is how every new experience feels to me here. Especially in situations where I don't know the customs or expectations. Especially when the lens I must use to view the people around me shifts, depending upon which side of the wall I am on. In Jerusalem, seeing a soldier on the street, for me, means safety and protection. To them I am seen as an American tourist, a non-threat, a welcomed entity in their city.

Cross over into Bethlehem, though, and a soldier signifies questions and unease: to them I am a Christian volunteer, a Palestinian-sympathizer, a tourist gone astray, an audience member who has lifted up the curtain to see what lies behind the fancy magic tricks.

 Crossing an IDF barrier between Bethlehem and a Palestinian Christian school that is one of our Methodist project sites. I had to show my ID, and was asked what I was doing there:
"I'm helping at a school."
"Why you don't help at a school in Israel?"
"I live in Israel. I help out here."

My identity here shifts and changes. "Who does this person want me to be?" is a question I ask myself frequently. "Who is it safe for them to think that I am?" The answer depends on the context, but each time that same five second pause occurs - a pause of fear, a pause of decision, a pause of letting go and hoping that the person hears whatever it is they want to hear.

I primarily work with Palestinian Christians. I live with Palestinian Muslims. I socialize with Israeli Jews.

Sometimes it makes my heartbeat feel like the crosswalk counter sounds: "tick...tick....tick" as the green person glows solid; "ticktickticktick" as it begins to flash and change to a red hand. My adrenaline pulses, I take calming breaths, I jump.

But it's what comes after the jump that makes those five seconds of terror and uncertainty worthwhile. The free fall, the sense of weightlessness, the resulting splash and enveloping of water, the thrill of accomplishment as you come back to the surface for air. Such beautiful moments that would never be experienced otherwise.

Just in the past 48 hours I have:

-Witnessed the lighting of a 30ft. Christmas tree in the center of Bethlehem, surrounded by Christians and Muslims singing together, "Joy to the World" in Arabic.

-Traveled via passenger train from one part of Israel to another.

-Had a group of six Palestinian Muslim children (ages 3-10), follow me for three blocks, excitedly petting Ellie and taking turns walking her on the leash. They speak very little English, yet every time I pass they call to me, "Where's Ellie? Where's Ellie?" and plead for me to bring her down the street to see them.

-Attended my first ever Quaker meeting; in Palestine.

-Experienced my first Hanukkah candle lighting ceremony; in Tel Aviv.

-Been calmed by an elderly Palestinian Muslim woman, who spoke no English, as I nervously crossed through Qualandia Checkpoint for the first time (it separates Ramallah from Jerusalem, and is a much more intense and intimidating checkpoint than the one I am used to passing through from Bethlehem).


Those five seconds are terrifying - the space in which you must decide to move either forwards or backwards; to let go and jump, or simply to cling onto the board and never move.

I think I am finally starting to get the hang of losing my breath and catching it back again. I've reached a point to where I can now recognize that the fear is temporary, but the experiences that come after it will stick with me for the rest of my life.

Checkpoint Experiences

I've been meaning to write this post since my first few weeks here. When I was helping plan the summer camp at the farm, I was traveling back and forth between Jerusalem and Bethlehem every day. This entailed passing through an Israeli checkpoint every day, once in the morning, and then again in the evening.

Separation wall between Jerusalem and Bethlehem, with a guard tower on the left that is manned 24/7. 

Walking through a checkpoint going into Bethlehem is very easy. You walk through a couple of turnstiles, encounter zero guards, and you're in. So entering the city each morning was simple. It was on my return trips back into Jerusalem every evening that were a challenge. Especially since this was my first full week in Israel/Palestine, and each time I went through the checkpoint, including the very first time, I was on my own. Now I have become used to it, and crossing from one side to the next has become routine. However, that first week I was terrified, and each evening brought a new set of experiences that were both illuminating and anxiety-producing - so I'm going to try and explain a few of them with that original mindset, to demonstrate how I felt at the time.

Experience 1: Crowded Checkpoint

Some checkpoint basics: when you approach the checkpoint from the Palestinian side, the first thing you do is go down a narrow walkway made of concrete, with bars on both sides. During peak hours of the day, these areas are filled with people in line, waiting to cross through. In the mornings, when people are trying to get to jobs in Jerusalem, it can take several hours to pass through the checkpoint. Some people wake up at 4AM in order to get to their 8AM jobs that are only a few miles away, simply because they have to allow time to cross the wall.

The walkway has concrete walls, and then bars up almost to the ceiling.

After this ramp, you encounter the first of three separate turnstiles, all of which can be shut down immediately, should the need arise. There is an IDF soldier at each of these points, one of which also involves going through a metal detector and placing your belongings through an x-ray scanner, like what they have at the airport. Finally, after crossing through each of these parts, you must show your passport and ID to a soldier in a glass-walled cubicle, before finally being allowed through.

The week I worked at the farm was during Ramadan, a Muslim holy month of fasting. During Ramadan, daily prayer becomes even more important for Muslims than usual. Kind of similar to the season of Lent for Christians. Fasting ends at sundown every day, after evening prayers. Many Muslims get permits from Israel to enter Jerusalem during this month only, specifically to be able to go up to the Dome of the Rock (the second holiest site in Islam) and pray.

This meant that every evening when I crossed back to go home, many other Palestinians were crossing over as well, in a rush to get to Jerusalem before sundown. This led to several very crowded checkpoint experiences. On this particular evening, there was a line of people along the walkway, waiting to go through the first turnstile. Whenever there are a lot of people trying to pass through the checkpoint all at once, the Israeli soldiers lock off certain access points for the sake of crowd control. They let in only 20 or so people at a time at each point, ensuring that no bottleneck occurs at the final station where ID's are checked.

Though this sounds good in theory, the reality of it is quite unsettling. Before the first turnstile, after the concrete walkway, is a small area that closely resembles a jail cell. There are bars from floor to ceiling, and only two exits - one forward, through the turnstile that is operated by a soldier in a room near by, and one backward, down the concrete ramp that is full of people wanting to go forward.

A corner of the first "room" that you walk through before passing the first turnstile.

The first of three full-body turnstiles one must go through. All of which can be shut down at any moment.

For me, having never experienced anything like this before, it felt very unnatural. Almost like I was an animal in a cage. I couldn't understand anything people were saying around me, and I didn't fully understand why the turnstile was locked and not letting people forward. People don't have as much of a sense of personal space here as they do in the U.S., and so the small caged room continued to fill, until people were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, wall-to-wall. We waited 20 minutes. Nothing happened.

Three young men, probably in their late-twenties/early-thirties, pushed their way up to the front of the bars, closest to the room where the soldier stood guard. And, by stood guard, I mean sat playing on her phone. They addressed her in Hebrew:

"Excuse me? Excuse me, miss?"
"What?" she answered.
"We need to get through. To Jerusalem. I have a doctor's appointment" (at this point they switched to English, which was helpful for me).
"You'll have to wait."

She returned to her phone. The men got frustrated. They were saying more things to her in Arabic, but I had no clue what they were. Just that their tone was no longer friendly or polite.

Fifteen more minutes passed, and I could feel the tension in the room growing. There were parents here with children - toddlers, infants. I thought about what it would be like to go through a checkpoint as a child. To watch my parents be held in a cage-like room, with no information on when they would be allowed to pass through. How hard that would be when your child asked you, "why?" I was also keenly aware that most, if not all, of the people standing around me had not eaten all day.

Finally, a buzzing sound, and a green light appeared above the turnstile. The gate began to turn again, and, all at once, everyone began to push forward. The three men from earlier began pushing forward, too. One of them blocked the other two, though, to let several women pass, myself included. This did not go over so well with one of the other ones, though, and so he shoved the guy who was letting the women pass against the bars. A scuffle broke out, in which the guy who got shoved grabbed the other by the neck and pushed him away. I wondered if being treated like animals influenced people more to act more like them, too.

I might have been freaking out a little bit. I also might have said to hell with my American notions of lines and order and waiting one's turn and instead pushed forward with all the rest of the women to get the heck out of there as fast as possible.

They let about 20 people through, and then the turnstile locked again. I was in the group that made it out, and so continued along through the rest of the checkpoint with no further delays. In total, though, it took me 45 minutes to go from one side to the next.


Experience 2: Closed Checkpoint
One night as I was approaching the checkpoint, I noticed that things seemed...different. There were tons of people gathered around outside of it, just milling about, and police barricades set up all around, blocking the entrance. There were also a dozen or so armed soldiers standing behind the gates. I paused, not really knowing what to do. But it was late, and the only way back home to my apartment was through there, so I timidly approached a soldier.

"I need to go through," I said, my voice probably cracking a little because his gun looked so intimidating, just casually resting against his hip, finger always on the trigger.
"The checkpoint is closed."
"But I live in Jerusalem" (Was definitely starting to freak out at this point).
"Let me see your passport."

I eagerly handed it to him. He examined it closely, then gave it to the soldier next to him to also look at.

"Take off your bag."

I removed my backpack and unzipped it for them to look through. They nodded their heads, then motioned me through, moving a gate to the side for me. I quickly stepped forward, continuing on my way. I was stopped by soldiers two more times as I continued through an abbreviated form of the checkpoint (they had me go through a separate gated area that excluded all the normal turnstiles). Each time they examined my passport and looked in my bag, then pointed me forward. I got the courage up to ask one of them what was happening, why the checkpoint was closed:

"Does this happen a lot?" I asked.
The two soldiers looked at each other and smirked, "During this time of the year, yes."

That was all the information I got before they ushered me forward. This time of the year? Did that mean because it was Ramadan? Or because it was the 1 year anniversary of the war with Gaza last summer?

It struck me just how little information I had about what was going on. The fact that an entire checkpoint - the sole gateway into Jerusalem for an entire population of people - could shut down instantly, and no one be provided with a reason why. It was similar to how I felt when standing in the cage-like area with other Palestinians before when the checkpoint had been crowded: the feeling that you are completely at the mercy of another person. That you have zero freedom of movement; that you are no longer in control of where you go or when.

I approached the last pair of soldiers. I could see the street that I would take to walk home - relief flooded me, I was so happy to have this ordeal almost over with. The soldiers spoke to me in Hebrew. I was momentarily confused.

"English?" I asked, hopefully.
"Your bag. Take off your bag."

Oh, right. I moved to take my backpack off again, but my nerves were shot, and the adrenaline of almost being through had me almost shaking. I was still walking towards the soldiers as I shrugged my backpack off, and I completely didn't see the crack in the sidewalk. I tripped, the half-on backpack throwing my balance off, causing me to stumble right into the soldier and his gun. Now I was definitely trembling. It was all just too much: the not knowing what was going on, the multiple ID checks by people who only spoke a handful of words in English, the fact that it was way after dark and all I wanted was to get home.

The soldiers chuckled good-naturedly. "Relax," one told me as he flipped through my passport. I could hear my heart beat in my ears. A quick look in my backpack and they sent me on my way. I almost ran past them.

As I was walking the rest of the way home (the checkpoint is about half a mile from my apartment), I walked past several Palestinian men praying on the sidewalk. It was time for evening prayers, and since they couldn't cross the checkpoint to get back home, they had laid their prayer rugs on the concrete and were kneeling there instead. The injustice of it all angered me. The fact that people were trapped in Jerusalem unable to get home, and vice versa, seemed unreal. The fact that they weren't even allowed to know why the checkpoint was closed, or given any information as to when it might re-open again, was insane.

Hot tears burned down my cheeks as I gingerly stepped around the praying men. I felt wronged by what had just happened. As if my rights had been stripped away. My right to freedom of movement, my right to know what was going on around me, my right to be given the benefit of the doubt and not be examined as if I was a criminal. Not only was I overwhelmed by all that I had just experienced, but I was also brutally aware of just how stupid and petty my frustrations fell in comparison to the lived, daily realities of so many other people.

What I had to go through once, they have to go through constantly. Plus, I got through. My U.S. passport served as a ticket out that most Palestinians can't even hope to one day have access to.

I found out later that the reason the checkpoint had been closed was because there was a stabbing somewhere in Bethlehem. A Palestinian living in Jerusalem stabbed another Palestinian living inside Bethlehem. The Jerusalemite fled across the checkpoint back into the city after the stabbing, while the family of the man who got stabbed sought revenge and burned down several shops in the area. The checkpoints were shut down to try and prevent the escalation of violence spilling over into the Jerusalem side of things.

Which I guess I get. But all I can see is the line of men unable to get home to their families, kneeling on the sidewalk, praying.


Experience 3: Passport Privilege
One of the most stressful things about being in this place of contradictions and craziness is that, just as you get comfortable or used to one way of doing something, everything changes and you're back where you started: nervous, unsure, hesitant. On yet another evening passing through the checkpoint, I encountered a large crowd. Again I was in the first jail cell-like room, packed with people, all waiting for a metal buzz that would signal our ability to move forward.

This time, though, standing and waiting there, a couple Palestinians looked at me and addressed me in broken English.

"You want to go through?" one asked, pointing to the locked turnstile.
"Yes," I said while nodding, wondering how there could be any confusion about whether I wanted to move forward or not.

To my surprise, as soon as I confirmed my intent to pass through the checkpoint, the guy who had spoken to me called out to the guard in Hebrew. Guessing from the few words I could understand, and the hand gestures used, he was telling the soldier that I wanted to pass through. The soldier looked at me, saw the whiteness of my skin, and the American-ness of my clothes, and motioned me forward up to the bars. He asked for my passport. I gave it to him. He glanced at it quickly, and then went back to his station and pushed a button, opening the turnstile.

I walked through, the other Palestinians parting to make space for me. None of them tried rushing out of the now functioning turnstile. None of them even seemed phased by me getting an automatic free pass. I guess they were used to foreigners being allowed to skip ahead. As soon as I was through the turnstile locked back into place, leaving the growing crowd of people trapped inside.

I moved onward to the next set of gates, expecting to see yet another crowd of people waiting. That was how it was the last time I had to wait - they were spreading the people out, only letting a few through at a time. But this time was not like that. I walked through the other turnstiles without encountering a single other person. The entirety of the rest of the checkpoint was completely empty, even when I got up to the ID check, where normally there would be a few lines of people - - nothing.

I showed my passport and then walked out, wondering why all those other people were being made to wait. Wondering what would have happened if I had shown my American ID, but refused to move forward until the turnstile unlocked for everyone, not just me.

Thanksgiving

American holidays are weird here. The passing of seasons feels different, too. All the normal markers that tell me when summer is changing into fall, and fall into winter, seem to have disappeared.

Part of this is simply me not being a student anymore, for the first time in 20 years. Part of it is being in a new culture that celebrates other holidays that I'm unfamiliar with. Regardless though, it messes with my own internal calendar. Today is Thanksgiving - yet when people send me "Happy Thanksgiving!" texts, it feels like a practical joke. How can it be Thanksgiving already? Where are the turkey decorations in the stores? Where are the sales on chicken broth and pumpkin puree? Where is the hype and excitement of Black Friday shopping right around the corner?

On that note, where were the Halloween costumes lining the shelves? Where were the bags of discounted candy? The parties where friends come dressed up bearing cookies in the shape of pumpkins and ghosts?

It's fall now. A month until Christmas. But the leaves here haven't changed colors. In fact, because the winter season here also brings the rain, flowers are actually beginning to bloom, not wilt. Grass is suddenly growing everywhere, and the countryside has changed, seemingly overnight, from brown to green. Everything that would normally mark the passing of time for me has shifted - there are no final exams or papers in the coming weeks for me to study or prepare for. No multiple weeks of vacation between semesters, no visit home to reunite with family and friends.

It's odd how, being here, time seems to both speed up and slow down at different intervals; and then also simply stand stagnant and still.

I've been struggling a lot here lately. Just trying to figure out what my role is and how I can best help the people I came here to serve. October was a hard month to absorb and process. There were near daily stabbing attacks and shootings, and I was told by people on both sides that those on the other were heartless and evil; that really they shouldn't even be considered to be people at all.

There have been times when I have wondered if maybe I have bitten off more than I can chew, coming here for 11 months. Jumping into two cultures at once, and trying to fully understand and empathize with both at the same time, has proven challenging, and it's been hard to not slip into moments of grief or despair.

I don't like admitting it when things are hard. I like to portray myself as perfect and put-together: strong, independent, sure. I want people to think that I am cool and calm and capable, no matter the situation; that I have everything figured out and under control.

But, the truth is, I don't. I am broken, struggling, and at a loss as to how to "be" in a place where I am constantly wearing one mask or another. Where, by not choosing a side, I isolate myself from both. Where daily life activities require buckets of emotional energy to accomplish, and where my support system is literally thousands of miles away.

For those of you who say to me that I am lucky to be here, that this is an opportunity of a lifetime, that I will take things away from this experience that will forever impact me - you are right.

And also, this is one of the most isolating, disorienting, emotionally and spiritually challenging things I may ever do.

But things are getting better. I'm making friends here, building a community. I enjoyed a Thanksgiving day dinner this evening with a group of professors from the U.S. here on sabbatical. And tomorrow I will have another Thanksgiving day meal at a Lutheran church that many internationals regularly worship at. People have been taking me in and welcoming me into their circles.

I have hope that the worst has passed and that things can only get better from here. I also have Ellie, who reminds me to laugh everyday as she slips and slides on my tile flooring, or chases her tail with a determination that makes absolutely no sense.

Rose Art Crayons

It's hard to explain what life is like over here. I've written before about the conflict, the separation wall, the many different people with many different perspectives all trying to live together in such a small geographical space. But it is still challenging to get across some of the little things that make life in Israel/Palestine so different from life in the U.S.

I was pondering these things this weekend as I took a much needed trip to Tel Aviv to recharge and relax after such a stressful month in Jerusalem. These two cities, though both in Israel proper, are radically different from one another. Going to Tel Aviv is like experiencing reverse culture-shock: it's like a mini-vacation back home to the states, where culturally things make sense again and life seems to run as normal. No random, hastily set-up checkpoints in neighborhoods, no newly installed metal detectors on the street, no groupings of soldiers carrying M-16s at every bus stop. It's a whole different world.

If I had to describe my life here in these last 4 months, I would say that it has been a lot like coloring a picture with Rose Art brand crayons, instead of Crayola. They still get the job done, color is still smeared onto the page, the blank spaces are filled in - but it looks waxier and paler than it should be. And the experience just doesn't feel as smooth as it does with a box of good ol' Crayolas.

Going to Tel Aviv is like being gifted a box of new Crayola crayons: everything just feels so much easier, like how it should be. I'd been coloring with Rose Art for so long now, I had almost forgotten that Canary Yellow could be so bright, that Tickle Me Pink could be so dazzling.

My poor hosts for the weekend must have thought country had come to town:

"Wait, you mean you actually flush your toilet paper? In the toilet?"

(In Jerusalem the pipes are too old to handle paper, you have to throw it in the trashcan instead.)

"Where's the hot water button for your shower? What do you mean you have a timer for that?"

(Most houses require you to flip a switch to turn the boiler on, 20-30mins before you plan on taking a shower or doing anything that requires hot water. The people I stayed with in Tel Aviv had a timer set on their boiler that ensured hot water during normal shower times.)

"Whoa! You have a bath tub! I haven't seen one of those in so long!"
(My shower is a drain in the middle of my bathroom floor.)

"It's Friday night. How am I going to find a place for dinner? Oh. So, anywhere then?"
(In Jerusalem, almost everything shuts down for Shabbat, which runs from Friday afternoon through Saturday evening. If you want to go out to eat on a Friday night, you better chose a restaurant owned by Palestinians. In TLV, Shabbat doesn't have as much sway. Restaurants and stores are still open, and even buses still run throughout the city.)

"I CAN GET CHEESE ON MY BURGER?!"
(Almost every restaurant in Jerusalem is Kosher certified, which means they can't mix dairy and meat products together. Which means no cheeseburgers, ever. Not an issue in TLV, apparently.)

These are such small things, and yet they add up fast. Everyone I spoke to in Tel Aviv knew English, most of them fluently. Every restaurant I entered had a menu in English, every convenience store clerk could hold a conversation. People dressed in clothes you would see on the streets of any big city - there was no fear of turning a street corner and suddenly finding myself surrounded by women in skirts and long sleeves with their hair covered, men dressed in knee-length black coats and top hats, unable to look me in the eyes because their religion forbids it (this is the case in many Ultra-Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods).

I felt comfortable, I felt happy, I felt at ease. It made me want to move there, especially since I would then be so close to a dance community that has already taken me under its wing and made me feel so at home. But then I remembered that I didn't come to Israel/Palestine to enjoy coloring with Crayola crayons. I came to experience life with a box of Rose Art - to not just hear about Palestinian's lives here, but to live the way that they live. Or as close as I can get, with my white skin and American passport that grant me automatic privilege wherever I go.

I wanted to experience the frustration of trying to color within the lines when the only tools one has are sub-par: blunt, waxy, cheap. I wanted to experience the dissonance that comes from living in between a developed country, and one that is trying to develop. I wanted to experience being that kid in class who knows their picture could be just as pretty and neat as Susie's, if only their mom had been able to afford the 120ct. Crayola bonus pack with colors like Vivid Tangerine and Sunset Orange.

But mostly, I wanted to learn how, even with limited resources and crappy Rose Art crayons, one can still make something beautiful and worth putting on the fridge.

Text of Sermon Delivered at Church of Scotland, Jerusalem

John 11:32-44
When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
 
Psalm 24:7-10
Lift up your heads, O gates!
    and be lifted up, O ancient doors!
    that the King of glory may come in.
Who is the King of glory?
    The Lord, strong and mighty,
    the Lord, mighty in battle.
Lift up your heads, O gates!
    and be lifted up, O ancient doors!
    that the King of glory may come in.
Who is this King of glory?
    The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory.

Today is the first Sunday in November, and also the day that we celebrate All Saints Day.

In the Protestant Church, we tend to view all humanity as having the capacity to achieve sainthood, through right and holy living. Therefore, on All Saints Day we celebrate loved ones and family members who have passed away in the year prior, rather than recognizing saints that have been canonized and documented historically. We remember the contributions of those who have come before us and rejoice in the fact that one day we shall meet them again; that death does not have the final say. 

I had a difficult time writing this sermon. Though I have been fortunate enough this last year to not have experienced the death of any close loved one, living here in Jerusalem for these last four months – especially this most recent one – has been extremely challenging. For those of you also living here, or even visiting during this difficult time, I’m sure you can relate. In the last 31 days, just in the month of October, over 80 people have been killed in Israel/Palestine. At least 70 of those being Palestinians and 11 Israelis. Thousands more have suffered injuries. 

With statistics as bleak as this, even for me, a clergy person, it has been difficult to come to church this last month. It has been difficult to talk to God – difficult to have hope for peace in the midst of what feels like war. And now today, All Saints Day, we are called to remember those lives that have been lost, and rather than despairing over their deaths, we are called to have faith that all will be made right in the end.

It’s a tall order.

The Lazarus text is a great one for times like these, though. I find myself in the same position as Martha in this story: a bit angry, frustrated; confused as to why Jesus took so long to show up. Her brother, Lazarus, was sick and dying, so she did as any good and faithful person would do – she sent word to Jesus to come immediately, to help. But he didn’t. He waited. And so Lazarus died.

 So then, when Jesus finally shows up, four days later, her words to him are simple, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died;” and she begins to weep. Though this is only one short, factual statement, so much is hidden beneath it. Like the painful question, “God, where were you?” 

Sometimes we feel like, as Christians, we aren’t allowed to question God. We aren’t allowed to doubt, or wonder, or not understand. But here is Martha, one of Jesus’ closest companions, expressing the depths of her despair and disappointment. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Others also begin to question Jesus’ tardiness in helping to save Lazarus’s life: “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” they ask. It’s what happens sometimes when people of faith are faced with tragedy and suffering – we get angry at the injustice all around us, and ask, “God, where were you?” In these recent weeks, I have found myself asking this as well. Asking, “God, where were you when children were being stabbed by other children? God where were you, when stones were being met with bullets? God where were you, when an 8 month old baby, died of tear gas inhalation? God, where were you?” 

At some point though, when faced with violence and tragedy, the initial anger we feel begins to dissipate, and in its place comes a deep sense of hopelessness. The accusations and questions turn instead into resignation and despair. We read the news every day and hear about more stabbings, more shootings, more injustices being done. It all gets so, so heavy.

           

I have a new puppy at home. She’s almost 4 months old now, and growing bigger every day. I went to go buy her some more dog food the other day, and, since I have no car here, I went by bus and then walked a half mile or so to the pet store. I brought my back pack with me, and put the 3kg bag of food in it to walk and ride back home. 3kg might not sound like too much – that’s about 6.5 pounds. But after a couple half mile walks to and from different buses, it feels pretty heavy – the straps were digging into my shoulders, and my back was tensing to try and handle the weight.

Even once I got home, and took the backpack off, I could still feel the pull of it – my muscles were tight and sore, shoulders stiff. This is the same thing that happens to me when I turn off the news at night and crawl into bed: even though I’m no longer hearing new information, the weight of it all is still there, heavy on my back, digging in. When you’re living in the midst of a conflict as heated and historical as this one, it becomes hard to make the tension go away.

The death toll rises. The fear rises. We get to where we feel like, maybe this is all there is. Like maybe we are powerless to stop it. This is what I hear in Martha’s voice, when Jesus asks her to take away the stone. She appeals to his common sense, “Lord,” she says, “already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.”

Again, I hear what is underneath her words, “Jesus, you’re too late. Not only is he dead, but the life that once was is so far gone, that his physical body has begun to decay. Give it up. It’s finished. It’s done.”

And, don’t we find ourselves sometimes saying these things too? “God, you’re too late. The peace accords are null and void. The hatred has grown too deep. The wall has been built, lives have been lost. It’s finished. It’s done.”

And yet, even when things look the darkest – even when Christ has been crucified; it is not the end. We believe in a God who does not let death and destruction have the final say. We believe in a God who can bring light out of darkness, who can bring life out of death. Jesus goes to the tomb and commands, “Lazarus, come out!” And he comes. Even after four days, even after being stinky and smelly and decomposing, he is alive again. Because suffering and death don’t get to win.

But what do we do then? We believe in a God who can triumph over evil, who can set all wrongs to right, who can raise the dead to life again – and yet, here we are. Over 80 people killed in the month of October. Lazarus has been dead four days. And hope seems hard to come by.

The Psalm we read this morning may provide an answer: “Lift up your heads, O gates! And be lifted up, O ancient doors! That the King of Glory may come in.” This Psalm calls us to action. Lift up your heads! In spite of the weight on our shoulders, we are called to look out – to open our eyes to see God working in our midst.

We get so bogged down with despair and sadness, it becomes hard to see the glimmers of hope all around us. The Psalm tells us to “lift up our heads” so that we will then “be lifted up.” We are called first to action – to change our own outlook, our own posture – and then after doing so, we will be acted upon. God is working beautiful, amazing things right in front of us every day – we just have to open our eyes enough to see them. Lift our heads up enough to notice them.

For me, these moments happen when I’m going for a run. When I’m forced to look around me and see the little things I normally just pass over: the olive trees, some harvested, some still waiting. Sunsets with purple clouds that remind me of cotton candy. Children playing in the park. Kittens chasing one another down the street. These small, simple things that remind us that life is still going on around us. They remind us that God is so much bigger than we can ever imagine.

In the midst of pain and suffering and defeat, it is an act of resistance to insist upon continuing to see God in our day to day lives. An act of resistance to keep looking for God’s presence as it breaks in through every day ordinary events and circumstances.

This doesn’t mean that we turn a blind eye to the existence of suffering. It isn’t about turning our heads to look the other way, but rather about lifting our heads up to see hope through the sadness all around. We are told that when Jesus hears of Lazarus’s death, and sees the sadness and despair of those who loved him so well, he weeps with them. The passage says that he was, “greatly disturbed” as he approached the tomb where Lazarus’s body lay. Even though Jesus knew that Lazarus would live again, he still felt the pain of his present death.

So we, too are called to mourn the injustice that takes place, to stand against it and help those who are hurting – and at the same time to not forget that the ultimate battle has already been won. We must hold the reality of the present suffering in tension with the expectant hope of a future peace.

We are called to lift our heads up and to have faith that our God can bring the dead back to life, even after four days of waiting. Even after all negotiations have failed, even after it seems like a line has been crossed that can never be undone. We are called to look outwards and upwards, not down. To trust in a God who can bring good out of the utmost bad. To trust in a God who weeps alongside us, and who refuses to let death have the final say.