Encounter

As I'm writing this, a crisis is escalating in Gaza. Reading about barrages of rockets and deadly air strikes, my thoughts go back a week when I spent two days in the West Bank. There are times in life when we must speak, and there are times when we must remain silent and listen to our fellow human beings. Even though I've spent almost four months listening (to teachers, students, children, adults, rabbis, myself etc.), I felt the listening I did during my two days in Bethlehem was different.
We began the program with a communication contract: we will listen respectfully, we will only ask questions that pertain to the expertise of the speaker...From the beginning, it was very clear that this experience would be about listening. We were about to hear personal narratives (and political narratives) from people we had only encountered through small words in newspapers and whispers brushed aside to avoid controversy and tension. I wanted to go to Bethlehem so I could begin an attempt to feel the situation, and not sit (literally) on the other side of a wall, fruitlessly trying to understand a massive and seemingly unresolvable conflict. My goal was to see a different way, not to change my mind.
We arrived in Bethlehem on a beautiful Thursday morning. Our first stop was to the Hope Flowers School, where Ibrahim Issa spoke to us about his personal story and the goals of the school. With the philosophy that "violence only yields more violence," Ibrahim's father (also named Ibrahim Issa) founded the Hope Flowers School on values of peace, democracy, and equality. His land confiscated, his home demolished, Ibrahim made a decision to focus on amal, hope. He wanted to raise a generation of Palestinians and Israelis who wanted to devote themselves to making peace. The school uses a "peace curriculum," to instill peaceful and democratic values in the students and the community.
Someone asked Ibrahim about his personal attitude toward the conflict and how he maintains hope. Ibrahim answered: "we are all one color; our color is humanity."

After our visit to the school, we took a brief driving tour of Bethlehem. We walked along the separation wall and saw graffiti left by internationals who had come to show solidarity or leave their mark on controversial landmark. "Freedom for Everyone." "Here is a wall at which to weep." "All kids deserve peace, safety, health, security, and life." "Justice is a collective effort, not a gift." Inspiring and angering slogans marked the walls, covered partially by advertisements for nearby restaurants, and great deals at the gas station across the street. It was bizarre to walk along the gray line I had seen from a distance, and see splashes of angry color.

We re-boarded the bus, drove past a 5 star hotel and refugee camps, and arrived at our home base for the trip, the Bethlehem Hotel. We heard from the Deputy Mayor of Bethlehem whose daughter was killed accidentally in an ambush by Israeli soldiers. He organized a group called "Bereaved Families" for families (Palestinians and Israelis, I believe) who had lost a loved one due to the conflict. "We are human beings like everyone else," he said. Faith, he emphasized, helps him through difficult times. He doesn't hate anyone, he believes in everyone's humanity and wants to work for justice and peace. While it was incredibly inspiring to hear him speak, we had to remember that he is one man, and was not speaking for his entire community. We had to remember this for every speaker we heard: left wing and right wing.

After several more eloquent and passionate speakers, we began a more informal part of the program. We played games to break tension and lighten the mood. After several silly games, we formed a circle. The group leaders would read a statement, and everyone who it applied to would step into the circle without speaking. Statements included: "I am wearing blue jeans," "I have family in Jordan," "I have family in Israel," "I need a permit to visit my family," "I am an only child" (no one stepped in for this), "I sometimes feel afraid when I hear Arabic," "I sometimes feel afraid when I hear Hebrew," etc. The game was eye opening and conversation sparking.

With our minds whirring, we headed to dinner at the Tent Restaurant where we ate Mujadra and met our host families for the evening. A delicious meal ended, and dancing began. 11 year old Agnes showed us some moves, and then two young men stepped in to perform two folk dances. We finally headed home with our host families.

"These are my daughters!" And so Saud welcomed us into her home, her family, and her Palestine. She patted my back and held my hand and made sure I had ample time to talk to her 17 year old grandson. As we drove home, teenage boys (her grandson's friends) jumped on the car, racing us home. Saud guided us to couches, where she introduced us to her entire family: fifteen people total. They sat with us on the couches (and on each other), taught us words, and talked about their daily lives. They value education, respect, family...Their generosity and hospitality was incredibly moving.

I left Palestine in a bizarre state. I didn't know if I was depressed or inspired. A beautiful and relaxing shabbat gave way to a busy week and I have not had time to reflect on these powerful days until now. I don't expect revleations, but I'm grateful for new insights.