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.