Palestine Day 6

I was told that it would be easy to get through the check point to return to Jerusalem, for a day of touring, and then Tel Aviv, to fly home.

It wasn't.

My amazing taxi driver, Ez, arrived promptly at 9 am on Friday to get me. He said we'd be back in Jerusalem in 15 minutes. When we arrived at the checkpoint, a young, wiry, agitated looking soldier with very dark circles under his eyes aggressively demanded Ez's documentation, and after clearing him, came for my passport. After I handed it to him he began to yell and wave both his gun and my passport around, and threw it back at me. He then told Ez something in Hebrew that clearly upset him.

He sent us to another check point, and Ez kept saying "He's crazy. This is not right. This is the right checkpoint for foreigners...this is where you cross."

We had no choice. We drove to the other checkpoint, which was a walking bridge. I had to leave all my bags in the car and he said "I'll get you in 5 minutes, on the other side." When I began to walk, feeling vulnerable, I encountered a line that was so long I couldn't see the other end, and other taxi drivers said "its 1-2 hours. This line is not for you." The line was full of Moslem pilgrims headed to the Holiest Mosque in Israel for Friday prayers. I didn't mind walking, nor waiting in line, but it was pretty clear to me that I might do that and be turned back, because it was a "humanitarian" line for locals. It was also clear to me the soldier had ordered Ez to take me here after seeing my baggage---clearly to much to haul across a footbridge.

I called Ez and said "It will take 1-2 hours" and he said "come back."

We then wound our way for 20 tense minutes through the mountains to an outpost checkpoint that clearly made Ex nervous to cross. It was not a usual place for either a Jerusalem-based Palestinian, nor a foreigner, to cross back into Israel.

As we approached he said "Don't say anything. If they push you, tell them you have to make a flight." I became very nervous, knowing that my ticket showed a next day departure and that if I got caught in a lie, I might not get across here, either.

A beautiful young woman was guarding this check point, and with her colleague, a friendly looking young man, we were given passage after barely a glimpse at my passport. I began to cry, realizing only then how tense I was. Ez grabbed my hand and said "Good. Good team!" He was clearly, deeply, relieved.

There is a part of me that wanted to go back to that unreasonable, mean-spirited soldier and say FUCK YOU. Fuck you for making me drive around looking for a way back to Israel. Fuck you for sending me to a line that you knew was very, very long (as it always is on Fridays) after seeing all my bags. Fuck you for not allowing us the passage I, and my driver, have absolutely the correct papers for.

Poor Ez had never had a hard time with a foreigner (and especially, he said, an American). It isn't good for him to have these run ins and risk losing his permit for Jerusalem--and his livelihood.

I am still trying to find the kind of compassion I have heard Tibetan friends and clients of mine, tortured at the hands of the Chinese, express for their torturers "because they must suffer so much to inflict this much pain on another human being." I keep thinking of that soldier, how agitated and mean and frankly scarily crazy his facial expression and demeanor was, and how crummy, perhaps, his obligatory service is, manning a checkpoint in such a tense and disputed area.

I am conflicted at the anger I feel because this incident was just wrong, and it might put Ez at risk for more trouble at the border area. I feel sad, deeply, deeply sad, that this ancient holy land, just minutes from where someone as significant (Jesus Christ) to the 3 major religions represented here (Christianity, Judaism and Islam) was born, and died, is the site of so much fear, hatred, misunderstanding and inhumanity. I have been to Rwanda, Darfur, Haiti many times after terrible catastrophic events, Indonesia after the fighting and the tsunami, even New York after 9/11...and I have never been so affected by the plight of a people. Perhaps it is because there have been refugees from Palestine since 1948--an endless life of flight and limbo. Perhaps because Palestinians are, in many ways, a people without a name, and certainly a people without a voice, because their claim to a homeland is not recognized, and there are peoples and places that do not acknowledge Palestine as a country. They have tremendous resiliency, hope and pride--and are beaten down daily, by the lack of access to a sacred and historically meaningful site like Jerusalem, to the ocean, to travel into the greater world. This slow strangle is unbearable to breathe in and out--and yet, I only did so for 4 days. My single incident check point struggle is a daily reality for all of them.

As I begin my journey home, I pray that Ez never has another difficult encounter like that again, and I pray that the young man whose story I heard someday gets to the sea, and that the lovely, inspiring students I taught can travel to the places they dream of--be it Jerusalem, or be it Canada to take university courses---with the same relative safety many of us take for granted.

As Christmas approaches, more and more Pilgrims travel to Bethlehem. Tourism is increasing there, as the area settles down and the Palestinians work hard to make it an attractive, safe and desirable place to visit. I wish that anyone who has dreamed of going there will make the journey, because by doing so, by standing on this land, we recognize the existence of this people and this place, who have really been there longer than many of our societies and cultures. Our visit can support them to belong.

Bethlehem Day 5

Its very difficult to write the reality here.

Last evening, after class, I was invited by some of the participants, all Moslem, to visit the Nativity Church and the manger. Because I was with them, I got access to areas of the Church I did not see on Friday--and they graciously shared their understanding of the significance and power of Jesus life, and the holiness and historic magnificence of this place. As one enters the Church, there is a large sign stating that the roof repairs, taking place now, are being funded by the President of Palestine. Apparently, personally.

As we stood in a small cave under the current Church, I blurted out--without thinking--"Jesus was a Palestinian". My friends laughed, and say "You didn't know he was born in Bethlehem?". I replied that I did--but never had anyone in all my readings, studying, conversations about Jesus' life---ever acknowledged that Jesus is Palestinian. He was born in Bethlehem when the land was called Palestine (I think--or something like that), and Bethlehem is now in Palestine.

So, he might be considered a Palestinian--to the extent that these boundaries have any relevance to his life.

I continue to be not surprised and deeply disturbed by what I am learning about the day to day realities of people's lives here. I heard a story today about a young man from one of the camps that has been home to Palestinians since 1948, who was injured by fighting some years ago, and was treated by a therapist for the trauma. In doing depth work with him, she learned that he--like many Palestinians--has a long history of trauma, and layers of exposure to terrible experiences. And the most significant trauma in his life? WHen he was 6, he and a group of his peers were given permission to go to the beach. Most Palestinian children here today have never seen the ocean--they have no access. Delighted to finally see the sea, they ran into the water, and within 5 minutes, were dragged out by Israeli soldiers who told them "you are not allowed in this ocean. It is for us."

That was the most significant trauma of his life. To have been--and to still be--kept away from the sea.

Palestine, Day 3

I arrived Tel Aviv after a long-way-around journey from Khartoum, via Frankfurt, on Saturday afternoon. I had to travel on 2 tickets, and 2 passports, due to the non-relationship diplomacy between Sudan and Israel. When I arrived, the wild sand and dust storm that has blanketed areas in Palestine and Lebanon and Syria with snow, created dust and sand "fog" so thick I could only see a few feet ahead of me. I tried to walk around Bethlehem, where I am teaching--but the wind was a shrieking cold cyclone that made anything other than staying safe and warm inside impossible. I did manage to get a taxi to Manger square, and visited The Church of the Nativity and the manger. Who knows if this is really the precise place where Jesus was born--but it feels, deeply, like a holy place.

This is a distressing time to be in Palestine. Each evening, I walk around the city, and no matter which way I look, one can see settlements. I may be looking at the same one or two, but it doesn't matter-they are visible, facing sharply into Bethlehem. They appear to be built to be very noticeable. I feel as if cold eyes are piercing through me.

Each evening, we eat dinner together, and I am not surprised, but saddened, by what I hear. One lovely young woman who is devoted to her studies (a Masters in Psychology) asked if she could borrow my group therapy books for the night, to help with her research. Its hard to get something as basic as a text book here. She is unable to get to Tel Aviv to buy books because she cannot (despite repeated attempts) get a permit. She---like many other young Palestinians I've spent time with here--hardly travel, despite their longing to see other places in the world. Because they cannot get through the check points to Tel Aviv, they must cross the bridge to Amman--which takes at least 1 day, each way, and means waiting in long lines for hours, being strip searched, and being asked intrusive questions. Simply put "We don't travel. Its too tiring and its too hard."

Today, when I asked if there were any questions about the activity we had just completed, one of the men in the training asked "How do I apply these methods to my clients, who just called because their houses are being demolished?"

Indeed, how?

A group or women I spoke with over dinner spoke of the sadness their children feel, because they may never see Jerusalem--a place they all have precious childhood memories of. They wonder if they will ever see this beautiful city, with historic and spiritual significance for their people, again.

When we finished eating, they asked me what my expectations were, from Palestine? I said "its exactly what I imagined--friendly, warm, generous people, and its a beautiful place, full of terrible tragedies and injustice; a place that is being strangled and suffocated." They asked what my hopes were, and I said "That all of you-- and your children-- might see Jerusalem again."

Departing Khartoum

The week flew by here, and I am already checked in and preparing to depart this ancient city.

There is a magic here--in the light, the dust, the fluid movement of sand and robes and breezes--that is seldom talked about where I come from. There isn't a whole lot to do here, if one expects the kind of busy-ness we are accustomed to in many parts of the west. But I never tired of watching the sun rise and set here, because the colors that day fades in and out of are not colors I see elsewhere--they are softer, more muted, more gentle.

Today a friend, Sue, who worked with my husband 20 years ago in Uganda, took my colleague and I to the old souks--we visited the bead markets and the place where many old baskets and carvings are available under piles of more touristy-oriented knick knacks. Some of the beads are plastic and tacky, but if one practices the same patience that observing the sunrise and set offers, one can find some true treasures. We found old coral and clay beads, and baskets woven in Darfur 40 years ago. 40 years isn't so, so old...but these are baskets from a time when Darfur was not threatened by the tragic war that it is today; when the weavers likely lived a peaceful, simple, nomadic existence. I bought one of the old baskets, grateful to have a little piece of evidence of the heart of Darfur. One of my dear friends from Santa Fe, Alicia, sent bundles of prayer flags for me to place in Darfur (we were originally to work there) and so they have traveled there with some of the participants from our training. When I introduced the prayer flags, and shared their tradition and intention, many of the trainees were surprised, and touched, to know that there are some in the USA who still tend to older traditions. Their impression had been otherwise.

We hope to return in February to work in Darfur. There is a lot going on in Sudan these days, so our ability to do that is uncertain. Inshallah.

Sudan Day 3-4

I am in Khartoum, Sudan now. This was a really long and not an easy trip. Too many long layovers—which must, I’ve decided, make a significant contribution to jetlag, as I normally don’t get jetlagged, and its been a tough adjustment.

It might also be this land--- Sudan feels, to me, like stepping into the arms of the ancient mother. I was here three years ago, in Khartoum and Darfur, and I was especially captivated by the sand in Darfur (which is here, also, but less visible due to development). The sand is the color of dawn and runs like silk through my hands. In these ancient places, it almost seems as if the sand has absorbed the memories of many millions of years of sunrises and sunsets, of stars in the sky, of footsteps and camel-steps and the advance and receding of older oceans. I have asked a friend currently based in Darfur, but headed back here tomorrow, to bring me some sand, so I can touch all those memories.

The people here are magnificent. Walking through a market (souk) here is like seeing all of humanity in a few faces---skin tone and color, features, ethnicities, all strikingly different face to face, and yet the elements of the many tribes and races and religions and ethnicities that have belonged here can sometimes be seen in one face. I find the Sudanese people unusually warm and generous.

We are here (my friend and colleague John Fawcett and I) to teach a 4 day training on staff care. To hopefully bring some energy to the idea that not only beneficiaries--- but also staff -–living and working in complex emergencies/humanitarian responses must also be cared for, supported, and tended to. The group we are working with brings amazing history and resource to the workshop. Many work in Darfur; several have survived abductions. One of the women is someone I worked with (briefly) 3 years ago in Darfur---we recognized each other, but didn't quite recognize that we recognized each other, until she gave her introduction. She was able to answer my questions about the whereabouts and safety of the people I knew while there, who I have remained concerned about since leaving---and have been really concerned about since many NGO's were expelled from the area, leaving so many Darfurians without aid, work, support, witness. She agreed to carry letters back for me.

We talked about aspects of Sudanese culture that serve as protective factors from the harm that can be caused by exposure to stress, and one particularly moving example was of the practice of seeking counsel from a wise person. It was his description of this practice, delivered with reverence about a practice he described only having heard about, that was moving. Many of the traditions and practices have been lost or sacrificed to politically induced, cultural changes. A focus of our afternoon discussion was on how to “grow” the seed, the kernel, of these practices so that at least the core or essence of them is preserved. This seems a good inquiry for all of us.