Resistance Through Life

Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, Reverend James Lawson, and others used carefully planned strategies of nonviolent resistance in order to bring peace to societies fueled by the flames of hatred.  In the times I have listened to Reverend James Lawson, leader of the Nashville sit-ins during 1960 and a man MLK referred to as the greatest leader of the nonviolence in the world at the time, he has continually emphasized that nonviolence must be deliberately and meticulously organized.  For nonviolence to really be effective, he says, it must be structured.  While I agree with this analysis in terms of nonviolent protests and movements created to capture the attention of the media and the national/international community, I have come to realize that structured resistance is not the only acceptable form of nonviolence.  The Palestinians, though they do carefully organize weekly protests against the Israeli occupation – most commonly against the settlements and Separation Wall (or security fence as the Israeli government refers to it), the Palestinians also resist through another way: life.

In order to understand the Palestinian mentality, we must first understand a little of their past.  The Palestinians have long lived under occupation.  Over the last thousand years, for example, many empires and civilizations have claimed the land: the armies of Sala’adin, the Ottomans, the British, the Kingdom of Jordan, and now Israel, to name a few.  In what Israel refers to as the War of Independence in 1948, Jordan invaded from the east and occupied the West Bank, later annexing it.  Jordan held this area until the Six-Day War of 1967 when Israel captured it.  The West Bank had been “given” to the Palestinians as the space for their homeland by the United Nations, and the border between it and Israel has been named the Green Line.  But after the 1967 occupation, Israel immediately began the construction of Jewish settlements (“colonies” to many Palestinians and “communities” to many Jews).  For many, if not most, Palestinians, these settlements are the number one obstacle to peace in the area.  In 2000, Israeli leader Ariel Sharon marched a large number of police troops to Islam’s third holiest site, the Al-Aqsa Mosque, which sits on the Temple Mount.  This gesture of Israeli power sparked the Second Intifada, during which Israel began construction of the aforementioned Wall.  Though the Green Line itself only runs approximately 350km, the length of the Wall, when completed, is estimated to stretch over 750km.  The Wall is another huge obstacle to peace between Israel and the Palestinians. 

Instead of buckling under the current oppression, however, they resist it by simply continuing to live.  Though life is not easy and mobilization severely threatened by Israeli policy in the West Bank, the Palestinians here continue on with their life routines.  Daily I walk by homes and see the elderly men out drinking tea and coffee together, playing backgammon, or engaged in conversation.  Kids run down the streets kicking soccer balls and riding bikes.  At Osh Grahb, the park of Beit Sahour, Palestinian children and adults come to attempt Paidia’s climbing wall, filling the air with laughter and shouts of “Etla, etla!”  At times at the AIC, Palestinians come together to celebrate local music.  And most recently, families gather every evening at Osh Grahb to eat, drink, and smoke nargileh while watching the excitement of the World Cup as it is projected on a wall in front.  Some even gather at a new place near the Separation Wall in Bethlehem where the beams of light from the projector fall upon the Wall itself, transforming a symbol of oppression into a symbol of community.    

These people have decided that though Israel can deny them mobility, convenience, water – in short, freedom – Israel can never deny them their ability to celebrate life.  In the face of occupation and oppression, the Palestinians still celebrate.  They celebrate through their laughter and their living.  They celebrate through embracing community.  They celebrate by investing in each other’s lives.  Unlike many in the United States, Palestinians do not live isolated from each other.  They live intentionally engaged with those around them.  Their resolve is in-spiring, breathing new life into me.

These are a peaceful people, worn down with injustice, but learning to stand despite their suffering.  Israel can continue to build settlements.  It can continue construction on the Wall.  It can continue harassment of people at checkpoints.  In short, it can perpetuate the oppression.  But still music will sound from the other side of the Wall.  Old men will still drink coffee and tell stories.  Children will still kick soccer balls.  Mothers will still raise their children.  And people will still gather to watch the World Cup.    

Hamdullah (thanks be to God),

Michael

Life in Palestine

Well, we've been spending a lot of days lately working at Al-Basma with our new mentally handicapped friends. I've especially been helping make the recycled paper from which they make notebooks and Christmas cards. I also helped put up some curtains in their guest house over the last week. Sharing in the joy and the smiles has been incredible. I don't know how to put into words what it is like to see music speak to them in such a powerful way, or to explain how intensely the presence and grace of Jesus is revealed here through these people and I commend Michael and Paul for creatively sharing these thoughts that I am incapable of expressing.

We have also continued to work at the Paidia climbing wall on the weekends. Many nights we go to the park and watch the World Cup game that they project onto a big screen each evening. It seems weird to think that something that is such a big deal here is hardly cared about in the US. It is a beautiful thing that this place, which was once a Jordanian military base and then an Israeli military base, is now such a nice park and a place where the community gathers to celebrate the excitement and participate in the atmosphere of the World Cup.

Last night I walked halfway down the valley that sits behind our apartment. Even after 4 weeks here, the view still takes my breath away. I haven't yet gotten used to it or begun taking it for granted. The night before that, Paul and I walked down into the valley. We saw a shepherd leading his sheep in front of us. I told Paul I wondered how different this place looked in the time of Jesus. It is easy to imagine that it looked then quite similar to how it looks now. Perhaps the shepherds were here in this valley when they heard the announcement that Jesus had been born. It seems likely that 1000 years before that David may have brought his flock here, right outside of his hometown of Bethlehem. Maybe he sat on this very rock and wrote a psalm here, long before he ever became king.

I walk back there today. I enjoy the stillness and the quiet. Everything seems so peaceful. I look around and I can see so much of this great world. I see the houses up on the hilltops, the fields down in the valley. There are some children at the bottom, playing under some olive trees. I see a shepherd with his flock over on the side of the mountain. I close my eyes. And I simply listen.

What strikes me first is what I do not hear. I hear no cars, no traffic. Back home, when I try this exercise, even out in the midst of cornfields, it seems I can almost always here traffic in the distance. But here, it is different. I hear children laughing. I can't even see them, but their voices carry from the hilltop on the other side. I hear a soccer ball being kicked. I listen to the sound of sheep and a dog is barking somewhere in the distance. Now I hear a bee buzzing around my head and music, coming from somewhere far off, reaches my ears. The sun sets. The moon is almost full. I see the Big Dipper and the North Star. The same moon and the same stars and constellations that I look at back home. I look toward Bethlehem and I see a particularly bright planet or star that seems to be resting right above it.

A few minutes later I stop at the store to buy some water. Right as I leave a shepherd brings his flock across the street and steps into the store to buy some things. As I make the short walk back to my apartment from the store, the shepherd's dog walks beside me and about 60 sheep and goats follow us. The shepherd catches up in a few minutes, but apparently the sheep dog knows where to guide the animals entrusted to his care. I walk down the dusty road, carrying my groceries, I hear the evening call to prayer in the distance, the fifth and final call of the day, I exchange glances with the dog walking at my side, and look back at our unusual entourage. And we walk on together, under the bright moonlight, down the streets of Palestine.

Where the Smile Never Dies

If you have not heard the song Fix You by Coldplay, you can find it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skUJ-B6oVDQ.  Listen to it before reading.

Basma’s office was empty of life today, save for the sound of my voice singing to the melodies of Relient K, U2, Owl City, and the Decemberists.  In the absence of Basma, the director of Al-Basma, I sat alone at her computer, finishing up a design for the Center’s website.  Whenever I work in her office, I am frequently visited by the beautiful students of the Center who will drop in to show love, whether through sing-song shouts of “habibi!”, never-ending high-fives, all-encompassing embraces, aggressive head rubs, or just smiles.  This place could not have been more appropriately named: Al-Basma, “the smile.”  In this place, the smiles never die.

Yesterday, as I was then too working at Basma’s desk, one of the Center’s students, Rushdi, entered through the doorway behind me.  His short, stout person came waddling through the door with an enormous, love-filled smile.  He walked around to the front of the desk and just stood there with his hands on the table, eyes wide and smile wider.  When you see another human being smile at you in that way, withholding a smile of your own is a near impossibility.  For at least thirty seconds, Rushdi and I smiled joyfully at each other, our eyes locked, the connection cementing.  The Kentuckian farmer and poet Wendell Berry writes that one of the tragedies of modern society is that we have lost the intimacy of looking into each other’s eyes.  We need to look not just into the eyes of the other, but through them, and see into the soul of their humanity.  I feel like I saw Rushdi’s soul in those seconds, and he saw mine.  In all my life, I do not remember ever having someone walk into a room to simply smile at me.  I pray Rushdi’s smile will be forever indelible in my mind.

Today, though… Today, as the folk sounds of the Decemberists came over the small speakers in Basma’s office, Rushdi and his brother Mohammad slowly waddled in to listen.  Not able to resist the invitation of their smiles for one moment, I immediately grabbed two plastic chairs and placed them next to the desk.  They came as an audience but instantly transformed, along with me, into members of an incredibly talented fictitious band.  I took lead vocals and air guitar, while Rushdi quickly claimed air drums, and Mohammad backup air guitar.  Through the likes of The Crane Wife, Part 1 and II by the Decemberists, Rince Dé by Michael W. Smith, and Life in Technicolor ii by Coldplay, the three of us performed in unison.  The excitement was so great for Mohammad that he jumped up from his seat during one of Coldplay’s songs and shuffled speedily away to find one of the female workers.  A few seconds later, he returned enthusiastically to rejoin our music session, with his new recruit hustling close behind.  She looked confused as to she stumbled hurriedly into the room, apparently expecting some kind of emergency.  When all she found was three aspiring musicians, she looked at me questioningly.  I gave her the only answer to her silent question that made sense, “I think he just wanted you to share in the music.”  In that moment, Mohammad reminded me that good music, along with most everything truly good in this world, can really only be fully appreciated and experienced if it is shared.

As the music played, the brothers began to become more immersed in its melodic rhythms.  I watched these two individuals, both developmentally disabled, as they seem to become one with the music.  They had never heard these particular arrangements of notes before, nor did they understand what the words were saying, but the melodies moved them.  Mohammad’s eyes closed as he swayed back and forth in his chair.  Rushdi’s head and neck swung around and around as he shook his hands up and down pretending to play percussion.  I, too, tried to let the music seep into my veins and control my movements.   As I sang the words of the Decemberists to them, Mohammad tried to sing with me, voicing words that, though they did not exist, seem to have a deep meaning simmering beneath them.  Rushdi just smiled, still moving with the music.  Though our different languages do not allow us to communicate much at all, for a few moments in Basma’s office, the three of us connected.  For a brief while, we spoke the same language: the living language of music.  And our smiles never died.

Having witnessed the power the music was having over Rushdi and Mohammad, I decided to play one of my favorite songs, Fix You by Coldplay. This song, particularly the last two and half minutes, has always evoked great emotion for me due to reasons I cannot adequately put into words.  I hoped the same would be true for Rushdi and Mohammad.   As the song began, I began playing on my fake keyboard, singing along with Chris Martin (the lead singer of Coldpay) as our voices recited the opening lyrics in unison:

When you try your best but you don’t succeed,

When you get what you want but not what you need,

When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep,

Stuck in reverse.

As I sang these initial words and then those that followed, I could not help but think that this song could be an anthem of the Palestinian people:

And the tears come streamin’ down your face,

When you lose something you can’t replace,

When love someone but it goes to waste,

Could it be worse?

Then came my favorite part.  The second chorus ended and the instrumental build-up began.  The solo guitar came sounding through the speakers.  I took over on guitar, Mohammad imitating my every motion, and Rushdi held fast to the soft background percussion.  Then, as the moment came for the rest of the band to join in at the climax of the song, I leaned back in my chair and tried again to become one with the music.  At the second all the instruments began playing in unison, I lunged forward in my chair, joining Rushdi on drums, and letting the music pour over me.  Like every other time I have listened to this song, my heart sped up and goose bumps appeared.  But this time, something else happened.

Tears stream down your face,

When you lose something you cannot replace,

Tears stream down your face,

And I…

As I sang these words with Coldplay, Mohammad suddenly let go.  With emotion etched into his face and a smile exploding from his lips, he yelled out in passion with the music.  He lifted his arms and waved them around as he became totally overcome in the melody.  Then, in incredible harmony with the lyrics, tears began to pour from Mohammad’s eyes and stream down his face.  The sound of purely joyful, excited laughter joined the music and Mohammad’s exclamations as both I and Jon, who had become our audience a few songs earlier, reveled in the moment we were witnessing.  I turned up the volume, and in doing so, simultaneously seemed to increase the power of the experience.  Alarmed at the loud cries from Mohammad, others throughout the Center came rushing to the door.  When they too became witnesses to this display of passion and the power of music, they too joined in our joyful laughter.  As I continued singing with the lyrics as the song drew to a close, tears formed in my eyes as well.  When the music finally faded, Mohammad caught his breath and looked at me with eyes full of intense emotion.  His face was damp from the streams of tears.  I looked from him to Jon to Rushdi and back to Muhammad.  We were all smiling.  Never before had I experienced a song like this, and I may never experience music like this again. 

Those moments shared with Rushdi, Mohammad, and Jon today will stay with me for the rest of my life, if I am lucky.  I continue to think of the closing words to that song, “Lights will guide you home, And ignite your bones, And I will try to fix you.”  Today, all of us were guided home, our bones and passion were ignited, and in some indescribable way, I think those two brothers fixed me.  While singing Coldplay with two developmentally disabled young men in a small office in a little town in Palestine, I saw God.  Whatever it means to feel God, I felt that presence in the music and movements of our pretend concert.  And there, in the smiles and tears of the marginalized of the marginalized, God appeared.  At Al-Basma, where the smile never dies, God appeared.  And my smile has still not died…

Salaam aleykum,

Michael    

On the Piano Lesson

Blackman carves the memory

Of his black wife

Sold for Pharaoh’s wife to have the piano he carvin’.

But if she goin’ to play music

She goin’ to play the song that tell the story

Of his black wife’s plight.

Playin’ that story of Egyptland

Where power and fear whip the cotton picker

Who builds pyramids for Pharaoh’s empire.

Playin’ that story of Africaland

Where the AIDS filled penis is the black wife’s plight

And poverty buys guns for children to learn to use.

While Pharaoh slip a diamond on his wife’s finger

And African oil smogs up the Beijing sky.

Playin' that story of a Holy Land

Where walls block the Light

And parched tongues search for Jordan

Still Pharaoh slumps at the piano

His wife banging silent keys

Writing this cacophonous ballad

But Pharaoh's not listening

Playin’ that story of the Southland

Where children live in trash heaps

And U.S. bullets murder bishops.

But don’t you say a word to Pharoah’s wife

She don’t know the piano she plays

Is only made of banana peels.

Playin’ that story here in Freedomland

Blackman carvin’ a new picture here.

His Iraqi son’s face.

Pharaoh sold him for a bomb

So Pharaoh’s wife could play a song she don’t know.

"the songs are in your eyes; i see them when you smile"

"paul, paul, paul....."

i think when i met nasar he hugged me before he asked my name. he decided to love me before he knew my sins. such grace so freely given, nasar must be a friend of God's. no priest or pastor could have absolved the sins forgiven in that moment. Jesus was there, Immanuel. and so i remember that moment in the mass when the priest calls the church to proclaim the mystery of our faith, and chanting we respond, "we're all bastards, but God loves us anyway." the divine mystery prepares us for Christ's presence among us, a healing presence that reconciles us.

after this moment of healing, nasar learned my name. now, every few minutes he calls me, "paul, paul, paul...." until i turn to him. in this place where call to prayer can be heard five times a day, nasar's call, like the muezzin who serenades us from the minaret, is becoming a prayerful rhythm for me. but nasar prefers to pray the minutes instead of the hours. i think i like it that way too. the prayer is simple and always the same. nasar's prayer is simply "HABIBI!" which means "my love." to which the only response is an exuberant exclamation, "HABIBI!" i think nasar is teaching me to pray. and slowly, i am learning.

"paul, paul, paul....." i turn.

"HABIBI!"

"HABIBI!"

may we learn to share such a prayer.

peace and stuff,

paul

the sacrament of dance

the other day at al basma we paused from our work to dance. all work stopped when the call to dance came from basma. we pushed the tables back, turned up the music, and danced. everyone laughing, everyone clapping, everyone sweating as we poured out all our energy into the spasmodic, unrhythmodic, ecstatic movements that consumed our bodies. the make-shift dance floor was transformed into a holy space that embodied something like a Catholic mass, where we celebrate the suffering love of Jesus, and a Spirit-filled pentecostal tent meeting. as confused as my body was at the beginning of this euphoric liturgy, slowly my flesh and my muscles were sanctified. my blood quickened through my veins, purified by the grace of God freely given through the sacrament of dance. we shared this atoning dance that at once filled our souls with joy and healed our ailing bodies. Heaven collided with earth, the saints descended and the Kingdom was filled with dancing feet. i think Jesus was there too. maybe in nasar or khalil, maybe in jon or michael, maybe in all of us. we celebrate Christ's presence, its mystical form, a species not the norm for the eucharist, but in living, breathing, dancing bodies filled with the spirit of Jesus.

Hamdullah (thanks be to God)

peace and stuff,

paul

Christ and the Checkpoint

I walked where Jesus walked.

This last week Jon and I joined my uncle Rob on the tour he was leading through the biblical sites of the land.  My excitement building to this tour was twofold: I would be getting to travel throughout Israel and Palestine visiting the sites mentioned throughout the Scriptures, paying essentially only for the roof over my head, and the best part was I would be doing this with my younger sister, Anna! For those who have not been around when Anna and I are together, suffice it to say we have a very close, uniquely exciting bond.  We tend to get along quite well, so I was certainly excited to be traveling again with her.  I had not traveled internationally with her since 2001.

Last Saturday, then, Jon and I traveled the approximately 7km distance to Jerusalem (which is about a 30-40 min trip from Beit Sahour due to the hassles of the wall and checkpoint) where we checked into our hostel in the Old City.  We had some time to spare before the tour arrived so we walked down King David Street to our good friend Mahmoud's shop where we sat and talked with our dear Palestinian Muslim friend about the situation of the land.  His eyes were sad as he talked of the plight of his people.  He told us how he, as a Palestinian with permanent residence status in Jerusalem, pays more taxes than Israeli citizens, but receives hardly any of the benefits.  According to Mahmoud, he pays approximately 45% of his income to the Israeli government in tax, for which he receives very little in return.  I wondered at the justification of a heavier tax on Palestinian non-citizens than on Jewish citizens...

From there, we met up with the group and traveled in the footsteps of Jesus and other well-known biblical figures.  We spent 3 1/2 days in Jerusalem, covering the city extensively.  We walked through the Garden of Gethsemane, the Mount of Olives, Hezekiah's tunnel, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Temple Mount, etc.  From there, we drove into the West Bank to visit Bethlehem.  After seeing the traditional site of Jesus' birth, we spent a day hiking the historically significant mountain Masada and floating in the Dead Sea.  Our week ended with a journey to the Galilee, the Golan Heights, and the coastal area.  The Galilee is always an amazing place to visit.  At one point, we were sailing on the Sea of Galilee, and I took a moment to take in my surroundings.  Just behind me was Capernaum, where Jesus lived with Peter (we even know which house among the ruins was Peter's!) and taught in the synagogue.  Just beside those ruins rises the Mount of Beatitudes where Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount.  Further along the lake front are the hills where Jesus probably fed the 5,000.  On the other side of the lake was Gergesa, where Jesus cast out the legion of demons into the pigs.  And beneath me was the water on which he walked.  In the north, when we visited Tel Dan, we saw an ancient mud gate that is known as "Abraham's Gate."  The reason it is named such is because it apparently dates from the time of Abraham....which means the gate before which I stood was about 4,000 years old.  I didn't quite know how to let that sink in, so I tried telling myself this:  Essentially, everything I have ever studied in human history - all the rise and falls of empires; all African, Middle Eastern, American, and European history; everything in the Bible after about Genesis 12; most every well-known war or peaceful conflict resolution - all of it happened after this gate was built.  This mud structure has existed there as a silent bystander through it all.  This realization was mind-boggling for me.

Of all the places we visited, though, two stood out as particularly significant, and these due to my faith.  The Church of the Holy Sepulcher, though ornately decorated in a manner unlike most every church building in which I have worshiped, is a place of profound reflection.  Constantine's mother constructed this building, along with many biblical monuments, over the most likely site of Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection.  To walk up some stairs and see part of the rock of what very well may have been Golgotha, and then to descend the stairs and see the place where Jesus may have been emerged, resurrected from the grave...I find words too ineffective.

Perhaps the most significant visit for me last week was the Mount of Beatitudes. I sat alone on a rock neath the shade of a tree, peering out into the calm waters of the Sea of Galilee.  I read aloud to myself the Sermon on the Mount from Matthew 5.  I cannot describe the feeling I had while reading those words, words upon which I am striving to mold my life's wandering, as I sat in the place where they were first spoken. "Love your enemies," "do not resist the evil person with violence," "blessed are the peacemakers," "do to others as you would have them do to you," "you have heard that it was said...but I tell you," "pray for those persecute you..." These words haunted me Sunday morning as I sat on that rock, and they haunt me now.

I don't know how to love my enemies.  Perhaps this is because I do not know who my enemies are.  My enemies, and the enemies of the United States, or any nation-state for that matter, are not synonymous.  I suppose I could say my enemies are those who perpetuate violence and injustice, wield power over others, and oppress the weak.  But since I am not really the victim of violence, injustice, power, or oppression, but in fact am often the exact opposite, how do I know who my true enemies are? But now, as I think about this question, I am beginning to wonder if I am totally missing the point of Jesus' statement.  Maybe Jesus was not intending for me to figure out who my enemies are and then remind myself to love them.  Maybe Jesus was directing me toward a world where enemies are nonexistent.  Maybe I am not supposed to be finding my enemies because if I follow the teachings of Jesus and love all because they are made in the image of God, then I will never find an enemy but only another broken human being searching for a purpose.  I think Abraham Lincoln was on to something when he said, "I destroy my enemies when I make them my friends." Perhaps I should not be worrying about discovering the identity of my enemies but instead on creating a world where the concept of "enemy" is not understood because I am friends with all people.

But I must question myself.  I have been struggling a great deal recently on the balance between idealism and realism and how to incorporate my ideals into reality.  I do not want to fall into the trap of disregarding the enormous implications of Jesus' teachings because of the commonly used excuse of the "fallen" state of our world, as if the world was not in a similar state at the time Jesus taught.  No, I want to take his teachings completely seriously.  But at the same time, I am aware that such theorizing of being friends with everyone is very likely a statement I am able to make due to the fact that I essentially have no enemies.  I am wary of my theorizing because such ideals are emerging from a position of privilege and comfort.  As I sit in my apartment in Palestine, I am acutely aware that some people in the world do have enemies, and for understandable reasons.

As Jon and I left the West Bank yesterday to travel into the outskirts of Jerusalem to pick up the newly arrived Paul, we had to cross through the Bethlehem checkpoint.  The time was around 6:30am and the checkpoint was full with Palestinian men heading to their jobs on the other side of the Wall in Jerusalem.  On the Palestinian side of the Wall runs a long fenced-in corridor.  Tall, spiked metal rods make up the walls, and razor wire covers the gap between the spikes tops and the tin roof overhead.  The path between the fenced walls of this corridor are wide enough for perhaps three grown men to stand shoulder to shoulder, fairly tightly.  When you stand in this corridor, you feel like you are in a cage.  Gradually, the Palestinians seem to have become the animals the Israeli government has tried to create.  I have heard stories of Palestinians in such desperation to reach the other side that they begin pushing and shoving in this narrow cage, climbing over and under each other, yelling angrily.  Then once they reach the exit to the checkpoint they are greeted with a poster of a happy family on an Israeli beach with the words "Israel: Where It's Vacation All Year Round" looming overhead.  These checkpoints are robbing the dignity from both the Israeli soldiers who run them and the Palestinians who are the victims of them.  Jon and I chose not to use our privilege of carrying an American passport and thereby having the option of skirting the long lines (this is because American tax dollars are paying for these checkpoints and barriers).  Instead, we chose to wait in line with the humans who were being forced to behave like animals.

The week before, when I went through this checkpoint, I watched as the Palestinian man in front of me was sent back and forth through the metal detector at least ten times, emptying his pockets of coins, then taking off his shoes, then his belt, then emptying his bag, then taking out his wallet, etc.  I felt as if the soldiers were just playing a game with this man, causing him obvious frustration and anger.  Then, when my turn came, I walked up, dropped my backpack on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector with shoes on and belt on and metal (money and keys) jingling in my pocket.  The detector sounded, but not a word of protest from the soldiers.  I didn't even have to show my passport.  Because my skin and hair were lighter and my face not that of an Arab, I somehow am no threat to Israeli national security.  But yesterday as Jon and I went through, we encountered something different: Nothing.  This time, instead of harassing the Palestinians by making them go back and forth through metal detectors and searching them meticulously, they did nothing.  As I looked in the booths where the soldiers sat who were assigned to the metal detectors, watching the computers, and checking IDs, I was amazed to find them doing nothing!  Every time someone walked through the metal detector it sounded, but not one person was stopped.  One of the female soldiers assigned to watch the computer monitoring the conveyor belt was chatting away enthusiastically on her cell phone, while another bunch stood joking and laughing.  If the Palestinians pose a threat to the survival of Israel, then these soldiers are being very lax with the continuing existence of their country.  For me, this further showed that the wall and the checkpoints are not actually about security but instead harassment and humiliation.

As I stood in line at the checkpoint that day, I thought to myself, I understand why Palestinians see Israelis as their enemies.  If I were a Palestinian, I have no doubt I would feel the same way.  Similarly, if I was an Israeli who had felt the impact of an explosion due to a suicide bombing and smelled the stench of burning flesh as innocent people died due to the violence of one hopeless individual, I have no doubt I would see the Palestinians as my enemy.  So I ask myself, How, in the midst of such a complicated situation, do I begin to be a peacemaker?  How, when living with the Palestinians and witnessing their plight, do I love the Israeli soldiers?  For me, I am not satisfied to simply say that the IDF soldiers are humans and I love them too.  I want to know how to show that, concretely.  How do I embody love to the oppressor?

Perhaps the first step is to realize that, for many of them, they are oppressed too.  Every Israeli citizen, with very specific exceptions, must serve in the military, men three years and women two.  If you refuse, you are sent to prison, often from three to six months, and you give up most privileges that the State supplies, social security being one of them.  Essentially, you become like the Palestinians - outcast.  Many of the soldiers do not want to do what they are asked, but they are stuck between a rock and a hard place.  Not all soldiers, and certainly not all Israelis, are militant or racist toward or even dislike Palestinians.  Many stories exist of soldiers who have shown compassion to the suffering Palestinians around them and who experience remorse for the things they have done to Palestinians in the occupied territories.  Once again, generalizations prove to be unhelpful.

But some soldiers are racist and militant.  How do I find a way to show love to those soldiers that arrest children and hold them without trial, inflicting psychological and physical tortures on them?  How do I love those soldiers who open fire on Palestinians who bang pots and pans together in protest at a Jewish settlement?  How do I love those soldiers who force Palestinian men out of their car at a checkpoint and line them up to use them as human shields to stand behind as the soldiers open fire on children throwing rocks?  How do I love the antagonists of the stories I hear and the doers of most of the violence I see?  How do I help them retain their humanity and not become soulless monsters?  As of now, I have no answer for these questions.  But I am searching.  I am wandering, but this time I feel lost.

Lord, I walked this week where Jesus walked. Now help me walk as Jesus walked.

Michael              

(Pictures top to bottom:  Abraham's Gate, bougainvillea in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jon and I sailing on the Sea of Galilee, Palestinians crowding to get through the metal detectors at the checkpoint, shot from inside "the cage."

a compromise with technological tyranny: my first blog entry

Sisters and Brothers, Parents, Grandparents and Friends,

I write to you from London where I am restless with the anticipation of shared stories, meals, song, dance and work awaiting at the end of the coming day's journey. Tonight, as I sit down to mull over hopes and fears, I am reminded of the words of Middleton and Walsh, from their book Truth is Stranger than It Used to Be. Reflecting on the grip of the powers of death M&W write, “The pain of the oppressed was disregarded or censored because if it was acknowledged it would bring into question the legitimacy of the empire and the creation order that that empire was erected upon.” I hope this will become a holy space, a space where I might reflect on the violence employed by the powers of death and the resurrection of hope in the midst of oppression, paranoia and pain. Still, I am not so numb to the pain of the powers of death to think that we, Americans, have escaped such tyranny and achieved liberty and justice for all. I have not come from a liberated people to assuage all fears and settle all disputes. No, I too come from a broken land where the powers of death coerce the masses with fear, violence and poverty masked with ambitious promises of safety, democracy and prosperity. I travel to the West Bank to learn from a people's struggle for peace and justice, to share in work that has created new hope and to celebrate a common humanity. I hope the reflections, stories and poems to come will serve to question the myths that defend the powers of death as well as offer hope in the resurrection power of the Kingdom of God.

As I lie down to rest would you take a moment to silence both mind and body and share this Merton prayer with me....

Go tell the earth to shake

And the thunder

To wake the sky

And tear the clouds apart

And wonder

Where the old world is gone

For a new world is born

And all my people

Shall be one.

So tell the earth to shake

With marching feet

Of messengers of peace

Proclaim my law of love

To every nation

Every race.

For the old wrongs are over

The old days are gone

A new world is rising

Where my people shall be one.

So tell the earth to shake

With marching feet

Of messengers of peace

Proclaim my law of love

To every nation

Every race.

And say

The old wrongs are over

The old ways are done

There shall be no more hate

And no more war

My people shall be one.

So tell the earth to shake

With marching feet

Of messengers of peace

Proclaim my law of love

To every nation

Every race.

For the old world is ended

The old sky is torn Apart.

A new day is born

They hate no more

They do not go to war

My people shall be one.

So tell the earth to shake

With marching feet

Of messengers of peace

Proclaim my law of love

To every nation

Every race.

There shall be no more hate

And no more oppression

The old wrongs are done

My people shall be one.

may the work of my hands like the words of my mouth become my prayers this summer.

peace and stuff,

paul

Jerusalem

Last night I was relaxing on a rooftop looking out at the city of Jerusalem. It almost seems like I can't really possibly be here.

There is so much history here. It is overwhelming and hard to fully appreciate--well, hard to adequately appreciate and impossible to fully appreciate. I find it interesting how a place can help us see our connection to the past. A shared location gives us a glimpse of how we are connected to people of another era, of ages gone by.

My location is a youth hostel in the Old City of Jerusalem. The last few days I have gotten used to walking through the Old City: the Christian, Muslim, Jewish, and Armenian Quarters and passing in and out through Jaffa Gate, Zion Gate, Damascus Gate, etc. I have even walked along the top of this great, ancient wall. Funny that this wall was only built in 1538, not really very old for Jerusalem.

There has been so much history here over the past 2000 years and many changes. Straight ahead of me I see the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which marks the spots were Jesus was most likely killed, buried, and resurrected. I look over a little ways and see the Temple Mount were he turned over the tables of the money changers and where as a child his parents finally found him. I can look over to the Mount of Olives. I can see the Garden of Gethsemane. Right here was the climax of the life of the one I claim to follow.

I walked around on the Temple Mount on Monday. This is where the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque now stand. The third holiest place in Islam, said to be from where Gabriel took Muhammed up to heaven to meet with God and the prophets. The Western Wall from the Second Temple period still stands and is the holiest site for Jews.

Even long before the ancient temple that was destroyed in AD 70, Jerusalem was the city of David and Solomon and Solomon's original temple. In the time of Jesus it was 1000 years after the legendary King David and so much happened during that time. Even in the time of King David, though, this was a place of legend. The first temple was built on Mount Zion, previously called Mount Moriah and believed to be the very spot where Abraham prepared to offer his son.

This is where Melchizedek is said to have ruled the city once just called Salem (meaning peace), when he was a priest of God. This of course was before any of the three great monotheistic religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam had been born. I never really thought of this before, but it is kind of funny that all claim Jerusalem as belonging to them, when the city predates all of them.

Whether you are talking just about the time of Abraham and Melchizedek or David and Solomon or Ezra and Nehemiah or Jesus and the Apostles or Muhammed or the Crusades or the Ottoman era or the modern state of Israel, this would be quite an important city. But with thousands of years of history literally stacked on top of each other, it is simply mind-boggling.

I wonder what all the future holds for this city. I wonder what it would have been like to live here or to pass through here, say, 4000 years ago and catch a glimpse that over the coming centuries this seemingly random, insignificant hill would be considered by many the holiest and most important place in the entire world. A place where thousands would be born and thousands would die, where great buildings and monuments, temples, churches, and mosques would be built and would be destroyed, a city that would be defended, a city that would be captured, a city destroyed, a city rebuilt, a city divided, a city united, a place where monumental moments of the past repeatedly give rise to world-changing events of the present that become the legendary tales of the future...

Etla, Etla

We have been busy, which is one of the benefits of working and living within the same group of people.  As I wrote before, one of the organizations with which we are working is Paidia International Development.  They are also the people who are renting us an apartment in their building.  We have been forming close relationships with the people of Paidia, spending our evenings with them over a grill or in front of a movie or in the cool Palestinian evening air talking of life and peace and stuff.  I find so many similarities here to the South where I'm from.  Having spent essentially my entire life in Tennessee, Palestine feels like home in a sense because the cultures are quite similar.

Beit Sahour feels much like a small town in rural Appalachia to me.  For one, everyone knows everyone else.  Three major families (and they are BIG families) live here and then, of course, many other smaller ones.  But chances are everyday, a Palestinian from Beit Sahour will see a relative across the street or run into someone dear.  They are such a loving and affectionate people.  The common greeting here is "salaam aleykum" - peace be with you.  They embrace one another with multiple kisses on the cheek and hands strongly grasped to the other's.  Love is prevalent in Beit Sahour.  Community is everything.

In the South, most every house has a front porch.  The front porches of the South are the places of community.  They are where stories are told, friendships are begun, cemented, and nurtured.  Theologian Walter Brueggeman once said that for centuries, the weapons of the poor have been "meals, stories, and songs."  Well, in both Palestine and the American South, the front porch is the factory for this peaceful weapons manufacturing, if you will.  Palestinian homes are built differently than American homes, though.  Palestinians, for the most part, do not move far from the home of their youth.  In fact, traditionally, when children begin to start their own families, they simply build a new flat on top of their parents', making houses here grow up instead of out.  Many of the ground-floor apartments do not have front porches, but the people act like they do.  Everyday when I walk down the streets of this town, I see men, young and old, sitting in plastic white chairs in a circle engaged in conversation while either playing cards, drinking tea or coffee, or watching the passersby.  I do not understand their Arabic, but I imagine they are just discussing life, like everyone else in the world.  I suppose they are just trying to learn what it means to be who they are, to be Palestinian.

I have been finding such peace living here.  Whenever Jon and I were preparing to leave to come here, everyone kept telling us, "Will you be safe over there in the West Bank?" I even got the occasional but expected, "Isn't that where the terrorists are?"  How do I answer that?  Those people we call "terrorists" (a term, I believe, far overused within a certain stereotype and hardly ever deconstructed) have existed in most every civilization.  People who use terror to accomplish a goal are not unique to the Middle East, and are actually extremely rare here in Palestine.  I walk through these streets, seeing the old men talking over tea, see the women carrying their babies and cooking meals for their families, and see the children playing soccer or riding bikes in the street or walking down the road arm in arm, and I wonder where those "terrorists" are.  All I see are people who love each other and want to live in peace and justice.  I see a people who are committed in their service to God, whether Christian or Muslim.  I just see living beings, humans with names, families, and histories.  I see faces that smile and cry.  I see hands that make bread and friendship and not weapons and war.  I see eyes full of emotion, confusion, but yet understanding.  I see people.  Just a beautiful, tired, peacefully broken people.  

This week we established our schedule.  Mondays and Wednesdays we will give our time to the Al-Basma Center.  Tuesdays and Thursdays we work with Paidia, and Thursday and Friday evenings we help with Paidia's climbing wall.  Our time with Al-Basma this week was encouraging and productive.  Jon and I helped the students make olive wood ornaments; he and I did some wood work for Basma, the director; and I helped Basma with some administrative tasks, mostly dealing with writing in English and helping her work through some financial things.  Whereas they insist our help is so beneficial to the Center and we are invaluable, I think Jon and I are receiving and will continue to receive far more from the Center than we can ever give.  The students are wonderful! Jon and I are learning Arabic phrases everyday and can now ask "What's your name?" which I think is a central question in acknowledging someone's humanity.  We must learn to put names with faces.  So Jon and I doing our best to learn the names of the students there.

One student, Khalil, brightens my day every time I see him.  Khalil is quiet.  He usually sits peacefully in his chair, working on whatever craft his small group has been assigned that day.  Though he is developmentally disabled, Khalil always looks to me as if he is somewhere deep in thought, and I am sure he is.  I wonder where his thoughts go.  Like with most of the students there, we can't verbally communicate with each other due to the language barrier, but his eyes and smiles... Every time Jon and I walk in, Khalil looks up, and when our eyes meet, his whole face lights up.  A smile wider than an ocean appears and his eyes shine.  I can't help but smile back and laugh out of sheer joy.  I have been amazed to find that I can feel such tremendous love from someone with whom I have never spoken and with whom the "progressing" world has rejected.  I came here hoping to give love to the loveless and hope to the hopeless.  But with Khalil and others, I have found love from the loveless.  I have received hope from the hopeless.  I have been accepted by the marginalized of the marginalized.  And I am happy.

Our time with Paidia has been rejuvenating as well. Our work with them is essentially construction.  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Jon and I go to their Center to help them build.  The Center is a plot of land that they have renovated and are developing into the place where students will come to do high ropes courses and other activities in order to learn conflict resolution, team building, and leadership skills.  The Center is also very eco-friendly and sustainable.  As of now, we are working on building a compost bathroom, with walls made from old car tires, rocks, dirt, bottles, and other "unusable" items.  Our days of work there are full of laughter and conversation...as well as sweat due to the 100 degree sunny days!

Also with Paidia, we spend Thursday and Friday evenings at the climbing wall.  Last night was Jon and my first night of many to help with this.  The climbing wall is located at a beautiful park on the outside of Beit Sahour.  The park has a central building with a cafe, pavilions with benches and tables and grills, a basketball court, fenced-in soccer area, and, thanks to Paidia's creativeness, a climbing wall.  Recently, the park has been graced with an illegal military outpost by the IDF (the Israeli Defense Forces) at the top of the park's hill.  Last night's experience at the climbing wall was tremendous fun.  Hundreds of kids were running around the park and probably between 30-40 came to climb.  I was saddened as I looked into the faces of these beautiful children, knowing that these are the faces of those who the world says will grow up to be terrorists. For the record, I don't believe it.

Most of the evening, though, I was quite happy.  Jon and I belayed the kids. (For those not familiar with climbing, belaying is where you stand on the ground holding the rope to help the climber scale the wall and then giving them the slack they need to repel down.  When you climb, you are putting your life in the hands of those belaying you.)  Some young girls would get their harnesses on, have the rope secured to them, and then would scamper up the wall like they were Spiderman or something! Others would make it 20 feet up, freeze, and start crying.  In fact, the worst case was with a boy who was probably the oldest person to climb the whole night.  He made it up ten feet, looked down, and then stopped. He would not let go of the wall grips to repel down to save his life! For ten minutes at least, we tried to coax him down.  Finally, Andrew, our boss, had to climb up and help him.

At one point during the evening, Jon was belaying a young girl who had almost reached the top but had now found herself at a stalemate with the wall.  For ten minutes or more, she tried many different approaches to scale the final five feet to the top, but all to no avail.  We kept yelling up, "Khalas? Bedak tinzil? Finished? Do you want down?" And every time the answer was the same, "La! La! No! No!"  After one such call and response, Jon turned to me and said, "Well, she has had a tough time but she sure isn't giving up!"  Immediately I thought, "That sums up the Palestinian people."  We are standing in the midst of a people who have been living under occupation and oppression from Israel for over 60 years.  The youngest children are a growing generation that has never known life outside of the 700+ kilometer wall that illegally surrounds the West Bank.  They have faced military violence at peaceful protests, humiliation and harassment at the scores of checkpoints throughout the West Bank, forced evacuation from their homes, water shortages due to illegal confiscation of their water supplies, and racial and ethnic segregation, very similar to that of the United States pre-1960s.  They have endured this occupation and watched as the world sits back and does nothing.  And, moreover, they have welcomed us, citizens of the United States, into their towns and lives, when it is our government that has been funding this occupation from the beginning with $4,000,000,000 per year.  Even so, the Palestinian people persist.  They do not give up.  In the midst of occupation, they find time to climb.  Their faith remains ever strong, continuing to use common phrases like "hamdillah, thanks be to God" and "inshallah, if God wills it."  Even when they see no way to reach the top, they keep on climbing. Etla, etla, up, up.

Grace and peace,
Salaam aleykum,
Michael

The pictures from left to right are: The climbing wall, the high ropes course at the Paidia's Center, the plaque that hangs on the wall at the entrance to Al-Basma, and a picture of my brother and Khalil (this picture was taken in March when I was here, but I do not have a more recent picture of Khalil).