Feast of the Cross

I’m currently in the Galilee area, writing this blog post from the roof top of a school in I’billin. I am staying here (the school also has a guesthouse) with a Volunteer in Mission group from Iowa for the next few days. We will be touring holy sites in the area, as well as doing various service projects here at the school, before heading back to the Jerusalem/Bethlehem area to work with different partner sites there.

It’s 9:30pm, and fireworks are going off in the nearby neighborhoods. Tomorrow is the Feast of the Cross, which, unlike Good Friday, commemorates the cross not as the instrument of crucifixion, but rather celebrates it as the instrument of salvation.

Palestinian Christians in the area have lit up crosses and are celebrating with music and bonfires and fireworks. I came up to the roof to see them better, and to write. I’m very excited to have the Iowa group here – they just arrived this morning – and I am looking forward to hearing their stories and working alongside them these next two weeks; but they have all gone to bed to rest from jet lag, and I have sought out some alone time to collect my thoughts.

Today was a good day: journeying to Tel Aviv to pick the group up from the airport, traveling up north to the Galilee area, and stopping with the group at Mount Carmel and Ceasarea Maritima along the way, two sites I had yet to visit. Ellie (my puppy) is staying with some friends in Bethlehem, and I’ve received word from them that she’s settled in nicely. All is as it should be, and the next few days promise to be busy and challenging and fun – I have no reason to feel anything other than content and happy.

And yet…

There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach that I can’t seem to shake. A heaviness there that you would think I would have grown accustomed to by now, yet for some reason have not.

A taxi drove Kristen, myself, and Ibrahim, our tour guide (he was also the tour guide for the Irish group) to Tel Aviv to meet both the tour bus and the Iowa group at the airport. Both the taxi driver and Ibrahim are Palestinian Christians, both with permits that allow them to travel outside of the West Bank for their jobs.

We passed through a checkpoint on our way into Tel Aviv. I haven’t posted yet about my experiences walking through the checkpoint between Jerusalem and Bethlehem…that will come later. But, for now, it suffices to say that you never really know what to expect when you pass through a checkpoint. If you have an American passport, and are driving a car, it is typically a “smile and wave” kind of affair. If you have darker colored skin though, or any other physical features that might identify you as Arab, you will definitely have to stop and present your ID. Usually also answer questions about where you are going and whether you have any weapons in the car – and then typically have your car searched as well.

Kristen and I were in the back seat talking as we approached the checkpoint today. I wasn’t even paying attention, really, until the driver turned to us and told us to go to sleep. I was confused by this request. He and Ibrahim, in the front seat, had also been talking a few seconds ago – why this sudden request for silence? Had we been speaking too loudly (something I am prone to do)?

When I asked for clarification, Ibrahim explained that we needed to pretend to be sleeping as we went through the checkpoint. That we would be less likely to be stopped and searched if we seemed to be sleeping Americans. Otherwise they might stop and pull us over, delaying us for 30 minutes to an hour while we all get out, present passports, and have them search the vehicle.

So, Kristen and I both leaned our heads back against the seats and shut our eyes. The taxi driver waved at the IDF soldier, and we rolled through. We were then able to continue conversations as usual.

I was still confused, though, and asked the taxi driver further why that play-act of sleeping was necessary. Would it really have made a difference, something that small?

He then pointed out to me a Star of David decal hanging from his rear-view mirror. He said that, by having this where the soldiers can see it, he can more easily pass as an Israeli taxi driver, and therefore not be asked questions. “No Palestinian would ever have a Star of David hanging in his car, so it works, see? The little things, they matter here.”

He then pulled a small bag out from under his seat and showed me that he owned a kippah, too (the traditional Jewish head covering). As well as a small hand towel with the Israeli flag on it that he could lay across his dashboard to further appear non-threatening. He clarified, though: “To me, Star of David does not mean Jew. Star of David is for King David. It’s for Christians too.”

This conversation keeps replaying in my head. So does the sensation of going through a checkpoint with my eyes closed, pretending. It’s not a big thing – nothing dramatic or traumatic or obscene. Yet for some reason, it still struck a chord deep within me.

Just the idea that this symbol, the Star of David, has been used in the past to differentiate those who are “in” versus those who are “out.” Though before it was used by one group of people to mark Jews as a people set apart – a people who the rest of the (Christian) world, decided deserved persecution and elimination. And now it is being used again, though in a different manner.

I don’t understand it. I feel like I’ve stepped back in human history; or perhaps I just have had the illusion of modern change and progress removed from my eyes. To be in a place where racial profiling is simply a way of life, of survival; where religious symbols are used as markers that differentiate “good” from “bad,” and tell you all you need to know about a person before ever speaking to them…

It’s kind of a mess.

But, tomorrow is the Feast of the Cross. And if Jesus can turn an instrument of death into a pathway to life, then perhaps God can also turn a country of war into one of peace. We can hope, at least. And pray.