olive picking day 1, and the Separation Wall

Tuesday (October 14) was our first day of olive picking! Read the group blog's account of the day here--photos included, as always.

We set out for the field around 8AM armed with hats, sunscreen, ladders, and tarps (to collect the olives as they fell to the ground).

We worked in the field of a Palestinian farmer named Ali. I was up a ladder picking olives near the top of a tree when I was joined by one of Ali's sons, Ahmad. Ahmad told me about their family--he has six sisters and two brothers. His brothers, Mohamad and Nizar, were also there to help.

The morning was spent tackling the trees in Ali's field. Ali, his sons, and the 45 or so internationals used the 'divide and conquer' method to harvest the olives from all the trees. I tell ya, olive picking is hard work!! Not at all the action of picking itself, but rather the climbing up and down the trees/ladders, the constant sweating, and the hours of exposure to the sun and dust. When it came time for lunch, we had certainly earned our keep.

Ali's wife and family hosted us very hospitably. One image that has stayed with me is Ali drawing bucket after bucket of water from the well and pouring it over each of our hands to wash off the dirt and dust. He and his family were so thankful for all of our work, and when we left them it was with the feeling that we had done something worthwhile.

In spite of our sweatiness/dustiness, we proceeded with the afternoon's plan of a tour of Bethlehem. We visited Aida Refugee Camp, one of three refugee camps in Bethlehem. Aida houses Palestinian refugees from 42 villages that were seized by Israel and are now part of Israel proper. Many of these families still have the keys to their homes.

We also spent some time walking around the inner perimeter of the Separation Wall, which essentially makes Bethlehem an open-air prison. Twenty feet high and an eye sore in anyone's estimation, the wall has become an outlet for people's frustrations, hopes, creativity, and desire for justice and peace. It is covered in graffiti, the work of Palestinians and others. Words cannot do this artwork justice. The pain, hope, and suffering conveyed through it is haunting, beautiful, and to be honest, more profound and evocative (for me) than some of the holy sites we have visited thus far.

"We can't live, so we are waiting for death."

noticing differences and a visit to Zebabde

On October 13th (the morning after we encountered the closed checkpoint), we were successfully able to enter the West Bank. When we crossed through the checkpoint from Israel to Palestine (the West Bank--Jenin, specifically), there were some immediate differences. The road went from perfectly smooth to bumpy and in disrepair. While in Israel we had been surrounded by fertile, green fields growing myriad, if incongruous, crops (pomegranates, cotton, olives, corn, and more), the land in Palestine was mostly brown and dry. Signs were no longer in Hebrew but in Arabic; the Palestinian flag flew instead of the Israeli one. License plates were no longer yellow but white and green (the occasional yellow plate belonging to an Arab Israeli). 

We drove to Zebabde, where we visited the Latin Patriarchate Secondary School and met with three members of its administration. They welcomed us with coffee, answered our many questions, and gave us a tour of the school. One of the biggest problems facing the school (and Palestinians in general), they said, is water. The Israeli water company pumps out the water from under the West Bank, uses it for Israel's needs/purposes, and sells back what remains to Palestinians for three times the cost. This explained all the barren fields I noticed immediately upon entering Palestine. Will said it well in the group's blog: "this is a structural inequity that allows Israeli settlements in the West Bank to have swimming pools, while Palestinians are rationed." 

Marietta and I learned that this particular school has hosted volunteers in the past to teach English--an important skill for children to learn if they hope to have a chance at higher education and jobs in the future. Upon becoming aware of my and Marietta's possible interest in such a position, they essentially offered it to us--a prospect that was at once flattering, exciting, and revelatory of how big the need is. They showed us the school's 'language lab,' which has not been/will not be in use until they can get a couple of volunteers (whether me, Marietta, or someone else :)) to fill the position. After leaving the school we drove to Bethlehem. Read the group blog's account of the day here.

"Let there be work, bread, water, and salt for all." -Nelson Mandela

we all dance anyway

We left Ayn Hawd both in awe of Mohamad's lifetime of work and feeling dismal about the whole situation. We carried his stories with us throughout the rest of the day, which included visiting the city of Akko, touring a mosque there, and walking around the Old City. At the end of the day, our ultimate destination was Jenin, an Area A part of Palestine. This would be our first time in the West Bank! (The designation 'Area A' is used for any part of the West Bank that is fully under the control and governance of the Palestinian Authority. Israeli citizens or military are not allowed to enter places that are Area A. I'll have to explain more about Areas A, B, and C in a later post). 

Around 7pm, we approached the checkpoint through which one can pass through from Israel to the West Bank (in this case, Jenin), passports in hand and with a little apprehension about what our first checkpoint experience would be like. We were stopped short by a closed gate--the checkpoint was closed, and apparently had been since early afternoon. There was a group of Palestinian boys who were also stuck on the Israel side of the checkpoint, wanting to get into Jenin. They confirmed for us that the checkpoint was closed, and we were left to brainstorm amongst ourselves as to what to do next. 

The boys stranded outside the gate of the closed checkpoint

Our trip leader, Will, got out and approached the Israeli military complex that was next to the checkpoint. He stood at the fence, looking for someone, anyone, inside who might be able to help us. Maybe they could let us through? We did have hotel reservations in Jenin, after all. Will also made several phone calls to various contacts in the area to try to get around this roadblock. Eventually, a couple of Israeli soldiers came out to talk to Will (the rest of the group, myself included, observed this from inside the bus). After about 10 minutes of discussion, Will came back to the bus to let us know our options. It would be impossible to cross through this particular checkpoint. There was another checkpoint, the Israeli soldiers said, about 40 minutes down the road, and they assured us that it was open. Our driver, however, said that that location was actually about 2.5 hours away…and one of the people Will talked to on the phone said it was more like 4 hours. Being that we were getting very conflicting information, we decided to go back to Nazareth and spend the night there, leaving for Jenin in the morning when the checkpoint would be open again.

Will talking to the Israeli soldiers

The ride back to Nazareth provided ample time to reflect on what had just happened. Frankly, I am glad we couldn't get through the closed checkpoint. Had they for some reason allowed us to pass, I would have been ashamed. Sure, we could have continued on with our day as planned. We could have stayed in the hotel we intended to stay in. We could have started the next day on track. But had I been one of those boys with their backpacks, stranded outside the checkpoint all night, and witnessed such a thing, I would probably hate Americans. For their (our) sense of entitlement; for their (our) expectation for things to always go their (our) way; for their (our) audacity to believe that doors can/should open for them (us) that don't/won't open for others. I am glad we got turned away. I am glad our plans got messed up. I am glad we could know for one instant what it feels like to be a Palestinian who faces these barriers every day. 

These thoughts were still running through my mind when we arrived to our hotel in Nazareth. After checking in and putting our stuff in our rooms, most of the group congregated in the hotel lobby (where there was also a dining/bar area and a beautiful outdoor patio). That place was happening! The room was full of the hum of fellow travelers from all over the world talking and laughing together. Marietta and I elected to sit on the outdoor patio, which had a beautiful view of all of the lights of the valley at night. 

We talked mostly about the events of the day, which as you can probably gather was not entirely lighthearted. It wasn't long, however, before our conversation was interrupted by blaring Arabic music coming from inside the hotel. Upon poking our heads in the door to investigate, we found a Palestinian folk dance troupe performing for the crowd. Immediately we were mesmerized by the music and their dancing; the smiles on their faces. They were incredible, and it was sort of redeeming to see the joy in these young, smiling faces after what we had just experienced earlier in the day.

"We all dance anyway," Marietta said. Even in the face of sorrow, people everywhere dance. In spite of the things that divide us, all people dance. Every culture, every country--all people dance. No matter what we face--the realities of conflict in the Holy Land, the death of a loved one, an unexpected disappointment--we all go on dancing. After performing three songs, the dancers started pulling up some of the audience to dance--and before you knew it, there was a crowd on the dance floor. Even after the dance troupe left, the other hotel guests kept on dancing. When the DJ played "Gangnam Style," at least half the room knew the dance. 

At one point one of our new friends was trying to get us to join in on the Limbo. I had no idea what language he was speaking, but I knew exactly what he was saying. 

We all dance anyway.

witnessing struggle

Read the group account of yesterday here. For me, yesterday was the day that things started to get rough. I don't know how anyone could see what we saw and say that it is not injustice. 

When considering the conflict in Israel/Palestine, the situation often gets boiled down to two groups: Jews/Israelis, and Palestinians (both Muslim and Christian). But what about Arab Israelis? The Galilee, for example, where Nazareth is located, is all part of Israel (meaning, not part of a Palestinian territory). In this area, there are at least 100 Arab villages--and all of the inhabitants of these villages are Israeli citizens. How have they fared?

Yesterday we visited one such Arab village--Ayn Hawd. Located in the state of Israel, all of the 300 inhabitants of Ayn Hawd are Israeli citizens. We met with Mohamad Abu El-Hejah, a now-elderly Arab Israeli who grew up in Ayn Hawd, and whose family goes back there for generations. Mohamad told us the story of his village.

"Our village was over there," he said, pointing out the window to an area in the distance. In 1948, he explained, the Zionist militia came and the inhabitants of Ayn Hawd had to flee their village to the surrounding land. When they tried to return to their homes, they were prevented from doing so. Their village was taken and settled by Jews, and had even been renamed Ein Hud (the Hebrew-ized version of the old name). The previous inhabitants of Ayn Hawd were told by the government to go live elsewhere.

These families were simple farming families who grew things and herded cattle. They couldn't afford to leave the hills of Ayn Hawd and go settle in Haifa or elsewhere. How would they get there? How would they get money to buy houses? It was an impossible situation. Not to mention the fact that this was their land, and their identity was/is bound up with the land.

So they did the only thing they could do: start over. They slowly rebuilt their village a short distance away from the homes in which they had dwelled and the farmland they had cultivated for generations. But there was no end to the problems they would face. Their old village had a well, which was the source of water for their whole village, their livestock, and all of their farming. This new area of land had no water source--and worse, the Israelis had PUT UP A FENCE to prevent the Arabs from accessing their old well. The Arab children would look through the fence and see the Israelis' cows drinking water and ask, "Why do the cows have water and we don't?"

The Israeli government would not provide their rebuilt village with services (water, electricity, a road, etc) because it was not a recognized settlement. "You are squatters on agricultural land," the villagers were told. Nevermind that it was their land, and that when their old village was taken they had no where else to go. And why should they go elsewhere, anyway? The land belonged to them, whether it had been zoned as 'agricultural' by the new government or not.

Also because the village was not a recognized settlement, they were not allowed to build a school. But they did, in secret. They did not have electricity, but they were able to get it illegally for a while. They did not have water, so going down the mountain to get it and haul it back up (manually--no one had a car) was a daily task. They lived in this manner until 1994, when they were finally recognized by the state as a legitimate settlement--and were finally 'entitled' to receiving something as basic as water. They didn't officially get electricity until 2008.

This brings up one of Mohamad's points--that Arab citizens of Israel are second-class citizens. Even third-class, he added. 

One thing I have neglected to mention is the way in which Israel finally gave recognition (and services) to the village of Ayn Hawd starting in 1994. They did not just decide to benevolently do it on their own accord. Rather, it took 30 YEARS of dedicated work from Mohamad and other village leaders. He told us that during his career of advocacy for the villages he has spoken with leaders from all over the world; spoken repeatedly at the United Nations; and authored or helped author 70,000 publications in newspapers and other types of print media throughout the world. "The story of my village is proof that one person change the world--a country--its laws. I did that."

This acknowledgement of his success on behalf of his village came with a caveat--that there are other Arab villages in Israel--again, whose inhabitants are Israeli citizens--who have a similar story and who have not been as successful, or successful at all (at securing basic services). It was at this point of the conversation that the humorous fatalism that Mohamad had exhibited throughout our time with him became quite strong. "I have worked for this for 30 years," he said. "I 'retired' from it 6 years ago. I could not do it anymore. I was done. There is no future for my village--I know this." He elaborated that there was no possibility of growth for Ayn Hawd--that even though they now had the 'right' to be there, that even to build one additional house required permission from the government--that is, if one could pay the price of $250,000 dollars for the land to build a home--a sum that the entire village doesn't have--not even close--even collectively. "Can you imagine, having to buy the land that has always been yours?" he asked. 

Toward the end he came out of the reverie of storytelling, and with a deep breath and shake of the head said, "anyway, I can only look forward. I don't like history. I can't look around me," gesturing to the village in the distance that has for years been inhabited by strangers.

leaving it all on the shore

This post was written on October 12, re: October 11. I'm only describing one event from the whole day, but there was plenty else that I could have written about. Read the group blog's account of the day, entitled "Dancing on the Sea of Galilee, Holy Sites, and a Jewish Mystic Peacemaker" here.

Had you told me prior to this trip that I would dance on a boat on the Sea of Galilee with people from all over the world to both Jewish and Arab traditional music, I probably wouldn't have believed you. 

This happened yesterday. The sky was blue, nearly cloudless, the water of the Sea of Galilee calm. We set sail around 12:30pm, and so began what was no less than a magical boat ride.

Our group was joined on the boat by a group of Japanese tourists, only one of whom spoke English. As we departed the shore one of the Arab boat operators hoisted the Israeli, American, and Japanese flages on the ship's mast, and we listened and stood respectfully for each country's national anthem. 

It was already at this point that I was marveling at the many juxtapositions--Arab and Israeli, Japanese and American. Though both events happened long before my lifetime, my mind immediately went to Pearl Harbor (1941) and Hiroshima (1945). These events are still part of people's consciousnesses; in Japan, there are those who still suffer negative physical effects from the radiation. And there we were, on the Sea of Galilee, a group of Arabs, Israelis, Americans, and Japanese, honoring each other and enjoying this beautiful day together. 

Then the real fun began. One of our boat operators (a couple of whom were Arab), started blaring over the speakers the traditional Jewish song Hava Nagila (literally, 'let us rejoice'). At first there were just a couple of brave dancers in the middle of the floor--Marietta and our (Arab) guide Raedwan (I'm sorry to keep belaboring the point of who was Arab as if you didn't read it the first time, but this is just a detail that can't go unnoticed.  An Arab and an American, dancing to a traditional Jewish song!). 

A few moments went by and I joined them, followed by other members of our group, as well as some from the Japanese group. As we held hands and danced in a circle, I had a moment where time seemed to freeze and I really saw what was happening...all of us dancing, together, on the Sea of Galilee, as if this were the most normal thing to do, following Raedwan's lead. There wasn't one face without a smile among the dancers, or among those observing and clapping to the beat. 

Next, one of the boat operators put on an Arabic song. The dancing continued, and someone even pulled out a couple of white paper napkins to wave around as we danced. The napkins got passed around from person to person, and almost everyone had the spotlight at some point. 

It was a time of joyful being among people who left the things that normally divide us on the shore. There was no memory of or resentment for past or present conflict; no isolation due to the language barrier; no suspicion because of differing religious beliefs or political ideologies. We simply danced.

Not quite walking on water, but still pretty miraculous, if you ask me. 

"And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh." -Friedrich Nietzsche 

peace for our--everyone's--sake

Our trip leader, Will, has posted a fabulous blog with a full recap of yesterdays people, places, and events--including photos! Check it out here.

This saves me the time of repeating ad nauseum what has already been described perfectly well. Instead I would like to elaborate on the most memorable (for me) part of yesterday: meeting with peacemaker Elias Jabbour in his home. Elias is a Palestinian Christian living in Shafer' Am, an Arab village in Galilee. His father, now deceased, was the mayor of Shafer' Am for 36 years, and saw three different regime changes during that time (Ottoman, British, and Israeli). Elias is committed to honoring the legacy of his father and carrying on his father's work of servanthood and peacemaking.

Our group had lunch with Elias in his living room, listening raptly to his stories. Growing up under British rule, he and other children learned English in school, in aspirations of doing higher education in England one day. He remembers very clearly July 14, 1948--the day a Jewish army commander knocked on the door of his home--the one Elias still lives in today--and captured his father. It was surreal to look at the front door; to imagine being a child and hearing such a knock.

Elias spent the majority of our time together talking about peace. "It will not just happen," he said. "We have to intentionally seek it. This requires effort, and education, just like anything else."

Elias travels the world speaking about peace in the Holy Land. He is the founder of House of Hope, the first Arab-initiated International Peace Center in the Galilee area, and is a major proponent of peace education, starting with children as early as preschool.

One of the most difficult parts of Palestinians' current situation, he said, is the feeling of invisibility to the larger world. "Palestine is almost gone from the map. The most difficult thing is to be left alone...We are really afraid of being forgotten. What I want is for people to remember us. Pray for us...we ask for prayer because prayer is safe. When people ask me what side to take, I say, "don't take anyone's side. Take the side of peace and justice, for everyone.'"

"Palestine is almost gone from the map." Some of Elias' words felt hopeless...and yet he spoke them with such hope. It is his opinion that peace in the Holy Land is inevitable--meaning that it's just not possible for the present conflict to go on forever. History, to him, shows that it won't. "We don't want to die for the sake of the problem," he said. "The problem must die for our sake."

At some point, Elias stressed, people have to forgive. Peace will be the eventual outcome, he is sure. The sad qualifier he added, however, was that this may not happen for another 60 years--long after the time he will be alive to see the fruit of his work. In spite of these sad realities, to hear Elias speak is to be in awe of his candor, congenial nature, and joviality. He can express even deep pain with a smile that conveys not only sadness, but wisdom and hope. 

Elias compared the Holy Land to a house, saying, "you live in half the house, and I'll live in the other half." Our tour guide, Sadeek--who is also an old friend of Elias'--was also present for this entire conversation. In response to Elias statement regarding the shared house, Sadeek, somewhat cynically and sarcastically, added, "that would be great." I appreciated Sadeek's comment because I think it reveals the pain and hurt felt by many Palestinians, who are not necessarily content to wait around for 60 years or for eternity for simple things like dignity and equality; who are tired of being promised such things and not receiving them; who are tired of being treated as 'less than'; who want justice now.

"There is no way to peace; peace is the way." -Mahatma Gandhi

the royal treatment

This post was written on October 9.

Shalom, salaam, peace to you from Nazareth! It has been a long road to get here, but the journey was worth it. As most know, even the best laid plans can go awry when traveling, and while we did miss our connecting flight to Tel Aviv (due to a mechanical problem with our first flight), this little mishap resulted in an upgrade to Business First on our later flight.

Our obvious giddiness upon seeing our seats (huge, fully reclinable, fancy menu for the multiple course meal, etc.) made it quickly apparent to any other first class-ers that we clearly didn't belong. As I watched the other common folk shuffling past to Economy, I exclaimed, "Marietta, we don't belong here!!" She chided me for acting as if my chair were made of gold, and seeing that she was, unlike me, naturally first class material, I proceeded to address her as Queen Marietta for the duration of the flight.

All good things must come to an end, but the Queen and I were equally excited to finally be on the ground in Israel. We met up with the rest of our group in the Tel Aviv airport and boarded the bus to Nazareth. We arrived to our hotel fairly late and have spent the evening settling in. Tomorrow will be a full day of sightseeing, including Tel Meggido, the Church of the Annunciation, and more. 

The security measures we have encountered throughout our journey have been interesting. In the Newark airport, after we had already gone through regular airport security, there was an additional security checkpoint in order to get into the waiting area for the Tel Aviv flight. We were individually searched, and our carry ons were manually searched, as well. Throughout the whole process, our boarding documents and identification were checked at least three different times. Once on the plane, however, things were relaxed. Nine hours later, we were notified that 45 minutes before entering Israeli airspace, the bathrooms would be locked and no one would be allowed to get out of their seat for the remainder of the flight. 

Somewhat surprising in light of these measures, it was relatively easy to get through passport control/customs in the Tel Aviv airport (although I have heard that getting out of the country is a different story).

So here we are, at the end of day 1! My favorite part about our short time in Nazareth thus far has been hearing the Muslim call to prayer sounding out over the city. It took me back to India :) We also went on a really nice after-dinner walk with some of the ladies from our group. The air was cool, the night quiet, and we found a lovely outcropping overlooking the many lights of the city of Nazareth by night. 

Peace be with you!