Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Christmas Prayer

"I'm sorry you have to work today."

I had to make a quick stop at Walgreens this morning on my way to my parents' house, where I'd be joining the rest of my family for present-opening and breakfast.  While I was grateful that the store was open, I also truly was sorry that there were people who had to be up and at work on Christmas morning.

"I's OK.  I volunteered to be here. I have grown kids.  They have little ones and have a lot of running around to do during the holidays.  I tell them I don't want them to make an obligatory stop, but to come because they really want to.  I get melancholy around the holidays, so I offer to work."

I wondered what the full story was, what had happened that her kids wouldn't want to see her on Christmas.  I didn't ask.  I hoped that she was amused by the penguin pajamas I had on (opening presents Christmas morning doesn't feel right unless we're in pjs).  She said I might be surprised at how many people come in their pajamas on an ordinary day.

I bought what I needed to, wished her a merry Christmas, and she offered the same good cheer to me.

This afternoon I went with my parents to see "Saving Mr. Banks."  If you're not familiar with the movie, it's about the negotiations between Walt Disney and Mrs. Travers, the author of Mary Poppins.  It was only when Mrs. Travers found herself in poor financial health that she conceded to let her book be made into a movie. Disney had been trying to make the movie for 20 years.  Mrs. Travers was not the most cheerful or trusting woman. The movie provided insight into how she got to be that way.

I thought again of the woman at Walgreens, the woman whose name I hadn't noticed.  I wondered how her day has been and if working helped her deal with her holiday melancholy.

The holidays can be difficult. So can the rest of the year. And so tonight my hope, my prayer is

for all those who are working to ward off loneliness,
for those who are mourning the loss of loved ones,
for those who are simply alone,
for those without homes,
for those who are cold,
for those who are hungry,
for those who suffer from addictions,
for those who are ill,
for those who are fighting,
for those who are innocent but cannot escape violence,
for those who are violent because they don't know any other way to be,
for those who don't recognize the blessings around them,
for so many who struggle through the holidays and many other days,

that they may know hope,
that they may know joy,
that they may know love,

that we may learn their names
and stories

that they may see themselves as children of God,
that we may honor them as the same

that we may recognize Christ
when we look at them

and treat them as such.

To honor this day
(every day)
may we be hope,
may we be joy,
may we be love
for our world.


Merry Christmas

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Out of the Pit

For about a month and a half after returning from Palestine, my back was tight.  My neck was tight.  My everything was knotted in tension.  It was the tears I was holding in. I wanted them to come out and at the same time I was afraid that they would present themselves at the wrong time. They tried to, but I fought them enough to control them and the tension continued.  Last week the tears finally, finally came out.  It wasn't Palestine that prompted them, but some self-indulgence, loss of perspective, and later in the week, allowing myself to be pulled into a drama that ultimately was not very dramatic.  I cried. And I realized afterwards that my back is not so tense.  Neither is my neck.

I don't recommend jumping into pits of self-indulgence or dramas that don't really exists.  They're not fun.  However, if you're there, I do recommend acknowledging that place.  "Here I am.  I am sad.  I am lonely. I am ________.  And that is OK."  We all have pits we fall into.  And that is OK. As long as we know we won't be there forever.  It might take being in the pit for a while, but eventually we will find our way out.

I knew for some time that I was in the pit, but I was clinging to the sides, not letting myself fall to the bottom, for fear of what was there, for fear of how far below the surface the bottom might be.

I did reach the bottom (it wasn't as low as I'd feared) and I could no longer not let the tears flow. It took so much energy trying to keep them in.  When I did finally cry, cry the way I needed to, those very tears I was so afraid to let out did something amazing.

They lifted me up.

They filled the hole that seemed so deep and I floated up to where I could see the light and regain the perspective I needed to know that I'd be walking above ground again soon.  From that place, not quite out of the pit, I could see what I needed to do to step out and that there were people to help me do so.  I could see where I needed to walk so that I wouldn't fall right into another one.  I could see that if I did fall again, there were people nearby who would help me the next time, whenever that might be.

If I let them.

I am good at talking and writing about our inherent interconnectedness.  At the same time I have a warped notion in my head that I should be able to do everything on my own, that even though we are interconnected, I shouldn't really need other people.  This idea is deeply ingrained in me for reasons that seem to multiply as I try to pin them down.  Perhaps I'll explore them on another day.

For today, I'll leave it at this:  I am grateful for tears whose buoyancy I had forgotten.  I am grateful to be out of the pit.  I am grateful for those who were near the pit, trying to help me out, even though it took me a long time to accept their offers.  I am grateful for those who walk with me now.

Friday, November 29, 2013


Ever since I came home from Palestine, I've been waiting for a torrent to burst from me: the emotions that I allowed to surface briefly, but then tucked away.  I expected it would happen on the personal retreat I took shortly after I came home.  My mind would not allow me to think too much about Palestine.  Instead it was more interested in distraction, in taking a break from the intensity of the previous months, in thinking of the future. Knowing I was lying to myself, I thought, "Maybe I did all the processing I needed to do while I was in Palestine." Shortly before I left my hermitage cabin, I shed a few tears, but knew more were waiting inside, that it was only the beginning and that my little pep talk was a sham.  I had a lot more processing to do.  It just wasn't time.

Several times I've opened my blog to write.  It's not content I lack.  It is the forming of the content, the shaping of the words, the interpretation of the bit of life I left in Palestine and the very different life I am entering now.

After two and a half years of living without a clear idea of where I might be or what I might be doing a few months from any given moment, I have now re-entered a life of security: I am living in the house I chose not to sell; I have a full-time job; I have relationships that grew stronger over the last year or so.  Saying that, I acknowledge that even when I chose to give up much of my life's stability, the safety net into which I was born still afforded me a great deal of security.  That security is not a given in the lives of many people I have encountered: my sweet students in India, children begging in an Indian train station, my Palestinian students and friendsa Syrian vendor in Istanbul, and so many more.

Last weekend I was in Nashville and shortly after my friends and I had arrived into the merriment of downtown on a Friday night, I felt my eyes well up and then spill over.


I'm not quite sure what triggered it. My friends seemed to be having a great time, which I didn't want to ruin for them. So as we listened to some great live music and tears streamed down my face, I alternated between holding my breath and breathing deeply until my eyes stopped spilling.  They finally complied and as the night went on, I found myself relaxing more and enjoying the fun.

As I reflected later, I wish I'd felt safe enough to let my friends in on what was going on. I say that without placing any blame on them or on me.  It was what it was and I know that if I had chosen to let them in, they'd have listened with empathy and compassion. I think I also wanted more than empathy and compassion.  I wanted understanding, the deep understanding that comes with shared experience. Later in the night one friend asked how I was doing and I briefly told her what had happened earlier.  However, I didn't have the words to bring her in the way I'd have liked.  At that point in the night, I also didn't want to dive back into the depths I'd swum out of.

Patience.  As I talked about the last month with a friend, she commented on the wonderful opportunity this is to practice patience, not forcing myself to process what I am not ready to process, but waiting for the experiences and emotions to come as they come and to face them in the time they choose (though I'll admit I hope those times don't happen when I'm out and about again).  Striking a balance between adjusting and not adjusting is not easy. Finding ways to honor the people in my life here while equally honoring my experiences in other places is not easy.  Learning how to keep my hands and heart open to both, not with a tight squeeze, but with an openness that allows them to choose their comings and goings, is sometimes a struggle.  Perhaps it is in maintaining that openness that will bring the same kind of balance and security to my inner life that I now enjoy in my outer life.

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

I Don't Plan to Adjust

"I don't plan to adjust." My friend made this statement a few days ago when I asked him how he felt about being in the U.S. for a few months.after spending a year abroad, primarily in Albania.

I don't plan to adjust either.

When I went to Tel Aviv for a few days, it was easy to forget what was happening not many kilometers away in Palestine.  It was a wonderful break and as I relaxed, I thought, "This feels like normal life." It felt much more like the comfort of living in Louisville. However, the thought itself made me uncomfortable.

Normal life (for an international) in Hebron is so different from normal life in Louisville.  Normal life here means frequent encounters with Israeli soldiers.  Normal life means the water runs out sometimes.  Normal life means clashes.  Sound bombs.  Teargas. Normal life means sometimes having stones thrown at us.  Once a tomato.  Another time a banana peel. Normal life means waiting. Normal life means seeing children get arrested.  Normal life means being welcomed into homes. Normal life means sharing tea.  Normal life means sharing taxis.  Normal life means walking through the tunnels of the Old City. Normal life means seeing freshly butchered meat hanging and sometimes seeing the blood flowing towards the drain in the street. Normal life means buying fresh produce from vendors in the street. Normal life means eating za'atar and olive oil, hummus, and freshly baked bread.  Normal life means greeting the street cleaner in the
morning. Normal life means buying mint and sage to add to tea. Normal life means visiting the falafel stand around the corner. Normal life means answering the curious questions of those we meet and taking pictures when children ask us to. Normal life means walking through the lands I read about in the Bible.

I don't plan to align myself to the life I lived before I came to Palestine.  Though I will be happy not to breathe teargas, though I'll enjoy uninterrupted access to water, I don't want to arrive home as if nothing has changed. If I fit seamlessly back into the life I lived before coming here, my time here would be worthless.  I fear that I will settle into complacency.

I anticipate pain when I leave.  Saying good-bye is not easy. I will carry with me the question of whether anything or anyone besides me has changed.  My ego will wonder who will remember me when I return.

I anticipate pain upon arrival in the U.S.  How will I "catch up" with the people I left behind?  How will I respond to a life that shelters me from so many people's harsh reality?  Harsh reality is ever-present here. Will I choose to remain sheltered or open myself?  How will I answer those who ask about my "trip," as if it were a carefree week on the beach?

How am I going to go back, go home (if that's what it still is), and remain faithful to my time here? How will I bring both the blessing and burden of my time in Hebron to those who have never been here?

I want to share both.  I want to share the joy and sorrow.  I want to share the complexity and imperfection of this place and the people who live here and work here.  I want those who have never been here to care as much as I do. I want to keep caring.

I want to feel the depth of emotions that I have allowed to emerge sometimes in my words, but not often enough in my body.

I want to be a pot of stew, where the tastes of my experiences blend but do not mix so much that they are indistinguishable from each other.  I want to nourish others with the flavors of life I offer.

I don't plan to adjust.  I hope to keep allowing life to fill me and empty me. I hope that the mixing and stirring within me will stir others who also don't want to adjust.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Bethlehem Wall

Today some of us visited the separation barrier, aka Apartheid Wall, in Bethlehem.  This was my first and only visit to the wall during this stint in Palestine.  If you want to read/see anything from my experiences last year, try these links: The Wall: Convers(at)ion, The Wall: Photos, The Wall: Action, The Wall: Action Photos.

Rather than use words to talk about the abomination that is the wall, I will rely primarily on photos to tell the story...

There is a place one can look to the other side.  This is a peek through.  It is Rachel's tomb.

The curve in the wall on the left offers
the view above. 
Israeli border policemen enter area around Rachel's Tomb

Israeli border policemen on Palestinian
side of the wall. 

We were surprised to see CPT's mark on the wall. 

A butterfly I drew last year, red color
 washed away, black & green faded

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

And Then There Is the Sunshine...

I write a lot about the oppression, the grief, the anger, the pain of being in Palestine, or more specifically, in Hebron.  I write about them a lot because those are the experiences and emotions that are hardest to process and, as anyone might notice by reading this blog for any length of time, I do a lot of feeling-sorting here.

However, the oppression, the grief, the anger, the pain are not the whole story.  Not even close.

Flowers and the blue
sky in Hebron
For the last few days, our team has been doing a training on non-violent communication.  We've done some talking and listening, sharing, teaching, and learning.  One of our activities today was, in pairs, to write an 11-word poem.  Our facilitator gave us the first and last words of the poem, so we were responsible for the middle nine words. Our first word: Hebron.  Our last word: Peace.  As I brainstormed with my partner, he asked me what came to mind when I thought of Hebron.  My response: Checkpoints.  His response: Sunshine. These two words say a lot about what it means to be in Hebron this time of year and in Palestine, in general.

Today I want to focus on the sunshine.  There is, of course, the bright sun and glorious blue skies that we see every day, at least until the rains start (in a few weeks). But the sunshine here is much more than the actual light that comes from the sun. There is so much radiance in the day-to-day interactions with Palestinians; the spirits of generosity, of kindness and hospitality permeate the culture.

School girls in a village near Hebron
I have written about school patrols and the joy of seeing the children each morning as they parade to school. This continues to be a joy.  There are the teachers and the children (usually boys) who greet us each day as they pass us.

The teenage boy who makes a point to come and shake our hands and ask how we are each morning. Last week he was eating breakfast as he came to greet us.  He offered us some of his pastry.  We declined, but it was clear that the offer was sincere.

The two pre-school boys who, as they walk with their mother to school, stop to give us a high five.  These boys are serious about giving our hands a slap.  For them, it is a full-body experience.  They raise their little hand high above their head and give our hand a good slap.  Today, the bigger boy, who can be no older than four, was wearing a blue cat mask on his head.  A few weeks ago, he was carrying a large (compared to his size) stuffed giraffe.  The giraffe did not deter him from his high-five mission. He handed it to his mom so his hands would be free to go through the ritual with us.

The headmaster of the nearby boys' school who comes to talk to us sometimes and has recently begun to teach me a few Arabic words each time he sees me.

The shopkeepers in the Old City who offer us a seat and conversation over tea or coffee.

The strangers who invite us into their homes for conversation over tea or coffee.

The vegetable vendors who throw a few extra vegetables into the bag as we are paying for the food.

The shopkeeper who gives us a piece of candy every time we go to his shop.

The falafel vendor who gives us a piece of falafel to eat as he makes our sandwiches.

Harvesting grapes
The friend who took us to his land and sent us home with two huge boxes of grapes we'd just harvested.

The man who, when he walked by us one morning while we were monitoring at the mosque, opened his bag of still-warm sweet rolls, and gave us each one.  We didn't know the man, but that didn't matter.

Then there was my shampoo experience in Bethlehem.  I wanted a small bottle of shampoo, so I went into a pharmacy, but found only large bottles of shampoo.  I asked the man behind the counter if he had any small bottles.  We walked together to look at the shampoo selection.  There were some large bottles with small free bottles packaged with them.  The man unwrapped one of the packages and handed me a small bottle.  "It is free."  I offered to give him money, but he wouldn't accept my offer.

Last week I was in Jerusalem trying to buy a ticket for the tram.  I had didn't have enough coins to pay and my smallest bill was 50 shekels.  To buy only one ticket, the machine would not accept a bill larger than a 20-shekel note.  I turned to the people behind me, who happened to be Palestinian.  I asked if they had change for a 50-shekel note.  They didn't, but told me to wait.  I assumed this meant that, once they used the machine, they would have enough money to make change for me.  I waited as they bought their tickets.  Then they turned around and didn't give me change, but gave me a ticket.  I thanked them and offered them all the coins I did have.  "No, no.  We bought your ticket. It is not necessary to give us anything."

 All of these stories are from my two months here.  If I were to talk about past visits, I could add more stories, so many more.  If I were to talk about the experiences of international colleagues and friends who are here now, I could add even more.  Because these stories are ordinary, not exceptional. And in their ordinariness, they are beautiful.

These are rays of the light that shine through Palestine.
Sunrise in the south Hebron hills

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Binding the Wounds

"Love is not a vague feeling or an abstract idea. When I love someone, I seek what is best for them. If I begin to take the love of Christ seriously, then I will work toward what is best for my neighbor. I will seek to bind up the wounds and bring about healing, no matter what the cost may be." -Billy Graham 

Shortly before I came here, a friend told be she hoped I could bring some healing here.  Her comment made me very uneasy, mostly because I felt wholly inadequate for such a task.

I still feel wholly inadequate for such a task.

Israeli military during clashes
How does one bring healing to a place that has been broken and broken and broken and broken, that keeps getting broken down even more?

Off to the side of one of the hot spots for clashes, there are a couple of stone planters.  They don't actually have plants in them, just dirt, maybe some trash.  We've sat on them on several occasions while monitoring the clashes.  A couple of days ago as we were monitoring clashes again in the area, we noticed that we would no longer be able to sit on one of the planters.  It's missing two corners.  Our assumption is that stone throwers smashed off the corners to throw.

We've seen many a tire burn. Glass bottles broken.  Destruction.

By morning, or sometimes just hours after the clashes, the streets are always cleared of the rocks, the ashes, the broken glass of the young Palestinian men and boys. The streets are cleared of the tear gas canisters, sound bombs, rubber-coated steel bullets of the young Israeli men - the soldiers and border policemen.

Does the absence of the remnants in the street bind the wounds of the previous day?

What about the planter?  It can't be put back together.What about the buildings we pass that were partially destroyed years ago to create an access road to a nearby Israeli settlement? What about the olive trees of our friend, standing blackened and burned, dead?

Do these half-destroyed remnants keep wounds open and festering?

Rubber bullet wounds.  Live ammunition wounds. Broken limbs. These physical wounds can be tended, but they still leave their mark on bodies.  Do the men and boys see them as marks of pride or as permanent reminders of the pain of living here?

On Friday a man involved in the clashes was hit in the forehead with a rubber-coated steel bullet.  He was taken to the hospital, but came back to the clashes hours later, bandage on his head, gleefully waving the x-ray of his skull for all to see. On another day, a young man showed me one of his fingers; the top half of it is missing from an injury in previous clashes.  If such wounds are marks of pride, how does one bring healing to someone who sees himself as a proud warrior?  So proud that he may not even see the woundedness that compels him?  Is it even my place to try to do so?

If these injuries leave permanent reminders of the pain of living here, how does one bring healing?

A few weeks ago, I was feeling angry.  It was a combination of feeling voiceless in a few areas of my life, of being really tired, of feeling the weight of being here.  Thankfully, my voice was soon heard and I got some sleep.  I was able to let go of at least some of what ailed me. I felt the healing balm of friendship and rest.
Post-clashes street

But here... when will the voiceless be heard? Where is respite from the constant weight of living under Occupation? I don't have answers.

Perhaps it is presumptuous to think that I would have any answers. Because I don't have answers, I don't know how I can possibly bring healing.

As with many of my posts from here, I feel discombobulated trying to find words.  I can only raise questions and hope that somehow the answers will come.  I wonder if I've learned anything while I've been here, if my own perceptions have merit or if they constitute a horribly skewed and narrow version of what's going on.  The longer I'm here, the more I see that the same story is told and re-told in so many different ways; sometimes it is hard to know what is fact and what is myth.

How can I bind wounds?  I will keep listening and watching. I will offer smiles and my few words of Arabic. I will accept tea and offer gratitude in return. I will pray and pray and pray. This is all I know how to do.  I have no idea if my simple acts, my listening and watching, smiles, gratitude, and prayers are a salve or an irritant.  When I can, I will amplify the voices I hear, the stories I am learning.  And I will hope that somehow this is love and that it is enough.

"As long as we are on earth, the love that unites us will bring us suffering by our very contact with one another, because this love is the resetting of a Body of broken bones. Even saints cannot live with saints on this earth without some anguish, without some pain at the differences that come between them. There are two things which [people] can do about the pain of disunion with other [people]. They can love or they can hate. Hatred recoils from the sacrifice and the sorrow that are the price of this resetting of bones. It refuses the pain of reunion. But love by the acceptance of the pain of reunion, begins to heal all wounds." 
- Thomas Merton

Wednesday, September 25, 2013


Gal Kobi
An Israeli soldier, Staff Sgt. Gal Kobi, was killed in Hebron on Sunday, September 22. His death was the second Israeli soldier death in three days.

During clashes, Kobi was shot, some sources by a Palestinian sniper, others say by friendly fire.  Even to write it makes my stomach turn. The Occupation is good for no one.

The Jewish holiday of Sukkoth has been going on for the last week.  In Hebron that means an influx of Israeli tourists and, as a result, a multiplication of Israeli military presence. For several days, the mosque is closed to Muslims, the Israeli military imposes greater restrictions on Palestinian movement, and there is often more-than-usual settler harassment towards Palestinians.  This year was no exception.  

Teargas used during Sunday's clashes
Early Sunday afternoon we monitored the beginning of the clashes near where Kobi was killed. The Israeli military had blocked Palestinian vehicle access to several roads, so that Israeli buses could drive through. The clashes began shortly after school let out. We monitored for about an hour and a half, but left the clashes because we heard two boys were being detained on a roof by the Israeli military. They'd been held since about 9:00 AM.  We went to a high roof near where they were to try to look down on them to document it, but they were sitting too far against the wall for us to see them. Thankfully, while we were strategizing what we might do to help them, they were released, about 5 1/2 hours after they'd been taken there.  The boys looked shaken, but OK; one said the soldiers had kicked him.  

Roof where the Israeli military held 2
Palestinian boys  for 5 1/2 hours
Assured that the boys were back with their parents, we went home to take a break. It was while we were away that Kobi was killed. He didn't die on the spot, but was taken to a Jerusalem hospital where he was pronounced dead.

Some friends of ours from another monitoring NGO were there and saw him right after he was shot.  I was talking to one of them today.  She is a beautiful soul and, as anyone with a modicum of compassion (and she has much more than a modicum) would be, she is deeply troubled by what she saw.  She is struggling to find an outlet for her own grief and looking for a way to express her condolences to the soldiers who are grieving the loss of their friend.

Understandably, his death sparked even greater tension (to put it mildly).  Checkpoints near where he was shot were closed. We tried to go through one to get to the area.  It was closed.  Many soldiers were there and when they told us to go away, I tried to ask why.  One soldier, one who I see frequently angrily lashed out, "Why do you ask so many questions? We told you to go, just go. Stop asking questions!"

We then tried to go to the checkpoint nearest to where Kobi was killed.  Many Israeli soldiers, border policemen, policemen, and settlers were gathered there.

 Two settlers came over to me, one hovering over me.  "You killed the soldier. You killed the soldier. Your Arab friend killed the soldier." At that point, we didn't even know that he'd died, only that he'd been shot.

"I didn't kill anyone. I am a peacemaker."

Another settler behind him, "You are an anti-semite.  You are an anti-semite."

The hovering man continued to hover, "If you don't leave, I'm going to..."

I looked towards an Israeli policeman, who intervened, putting himself between me and the man who was threatening me. I was thankful.  "Go, you must go."  We obeyed.

Through that encounter and throughout the rest of the evening, I felt calm. I can only attribute it to the prayers I'd requested from my church family at home earlier that day.  There was nothing around us to induce any sense of calm.

Seven Palestinians are taken away handcuffed. 
We walked back to the checkpoint we'd tried to go through earlier.  We stood back and observed.  Seven Palestinian men were seated, hands behind their backs, behind a guard post.  Then we watched the Israeli military escort the handcuffed men away. We watched as the Israeli military raided homes and took away many, many young men, sometimes children, for questioning.  We watched the raids for several hours until finally, at least where we were, things calmed down and we decided to head back home.  

Before doing so, we walked back to the checkpoint nearest to where Kobi was killed.  It was quiet, only a few soldiers were stationed there and a few other people, not the settlers we'd seen earlier, were also standing there talking. One was an Israeli journalist who we talked to for a few minutes.

We asked a soldier if the checkpoint was open. He said no.  We asked when it would be open again; he didn't know.  Five mornings a week, we stand at that particular checkpoint to monitor the children and teachers who go through on their way to school.

All of the above is only a small part of the chaos of Sunday.

Thankfully, the checkpoint that we monitor was open Monday morning.  However, very few children came through.  In fact, so few children showed up at the boys' school and girls' school nearest the checkpoint that classes were cancelled.  While we did our morning monitoring, a few settlers came by.  One muttered, "Piece of s**t" as he walked by and looked at us.  The hoverer from the night before came by and spit at my feet. An Israeli policeman stationed near us must've known the man, because when he showed up, the officer immediately stood between us and him. After saying some words we didn't understand but were clearly not nice, the man left. Tensions were high.  The day was not an easy one. Clashes, the beating of a Palestinian child, Israeli tourists parading through the Old City, house raids; I won't go into all the details.  Tuesday was not as bad, but it wasn't peaceful, either.

Tuesday was my day off.  I spent the day in Bethlehem, catching up on sleep, eating well, enjoying the fact that I saw no heavily-armed people.  My mind, my heart, my body got a break from the assault of the previous days.

I returned this morning.  Today life in Hebron is a little calmer.  There were clashes again, but they started later than in previous days and only lasted a couple of hours.  It is quiet again.

This afternoon, an elderly woman was trying to go to her doctor's appointment.  She had a heart condition and requested to go through the gate next to the checkpoint, rather than through the metal detectors of the checkpoint.  The soldiers wouldn't let her because she didn't have a card she was supposed to have.  She sat waiting at the checkpoint for at least 45 minutes. She would not go through the metal detectors and they would not let her through the gate. We approached the soldiers to intervene on her behalf.

We asked them to let her through.  We showed an English-speaking soldier the documentation of her condition, but this was not enough, he said.

"What if this were your mother or grandmother? How would you feel?"

"A soldier died.  No more examples." The soldier turned his back on us. His comment affected me. I didn't wanted to be discounted as someone who didn't care or worse, someone who was happy about Kobi's death. I knew I needed to say something, though I wasn't sure what or how.

We continued to plead on behalf of the woman.  Thankfully, after a few minutes, though the soldiers didn't open the gate, they finally turned off the metal detectors and let her walk out.

The two people I was with went their way and I went mine.  However, before I left, I asked to speak to the soldier who'd made the comment.

I looked him in the eye and said something like, "I think it is awful that the soldier was killed.  I wish harm on no one."  I felt my eyes well up and a lump form in my throat as I spoke. The heaviness of the death, the heaviness I am sure the soldiers feel much deeper than I, hit me.

It was later in the day that we saw our friend, the one who saw Kobi shortly before his death.  Her grapplings also affected me.

It wasn't until those moments today that I allowed myself to feel anything about Kobi's death.  What's worse is that I wasn't really even aware of how well the defense mechanisms were working to protect me from the feelings.  I am aware now.  I am sad now.

Here in Hebron we most often see the effects of the Occupation on Palestinians. There is no doubt that Palestinians bear the brunt of the cost of the Occupation. This week, there was also a high cost for Israelis.

And so I allow myself just a little space to grieve for Palestinians and for Israelis.

I won't allow myself too much space or I will be overwhelmed, something I can't afford if I want to continue to do the work I'm doing.  The time to fully feel may have to wait until I have a little distance from here.  The best I can do now is to pray with all my heart for an end to the Occupation, for a reconciliation I can't imagine but nevertheless hope for, for an end to the spiral of violence.  I pray for peace. And I ask you to do the same. 

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Visit to Firing Zone 918

I began my week with my first visit to Firing Zone 918, an area in the south Hebron hills that includes twelve villages and is near four settlements. Every week, CPT and other NGOs provide protective presence in the area that the Israeli military declared a closed military zone for training, Firing Zone 918.  It was declared a firing zone despite the fact that people lived in the area, or perhaps because of it.  When military exercises are happening near one's home or school or grazing fields, one might think twice about living there.  The uncertainty and danger might be compelling reasons to leave. However, residents of the area remain.  "To exist is to resist."  They will not be so easily forced out. 
Al Fakheit school & jeep used to
transport children there

Because some children have to go long distances from their own village to another that has a school, a jeep transports them each morning.  We, as accompaniers,  ride into the area with the jeep and visit the schools and/or villages during the day.  We spend the night in one of the villages and leave the next day when another group takes over the task.
Firing Zone 918; soldiers barely visible

From the school of Al Fakheit, the first place we visited, we witnessed the presence of a large group of Israeli soldiers and heard an artillery training activity in the distance. We saw soldiers and a military vehicle near the village of Halawah. It was the jeep driver who alerted us to their presence.  We needed binoculars to see the soldiers.  The driver knew the sight well enough to recognize it without them. We also witnessed two helicopter flyovers while we were visiting the school in Al Fakheit.   When it happened some of the children were in classrooms studying; others were outside playing soccer.  These activities didn't stop when the helicopter flew overhead.  That's how commonplace it is. 
Helicopter flyover

According to the headmaster at Al Fakheit, the school has been open since 2009.  The eight teachers and headmaster drive in each morning, many from Yatta, the nearest city.  The trip to the school can take up to two hours, on roads that can barely be called roads. It is the dry season now, but as we drove and walked through the area, I kept wondering how any vehicle could get through during the rainy season.  Maybe the earth is rocky enough that it doesn't get horribly muddy, but it didn't look that way.   The school in Al Fakheit currently serves about 50 children; about 20 more will come when the season changes from dry to rainy; for economic reasons, some of the local families divide their time between Yatta and their village.

Students busily working at Al Fakheit school
We stayed the night in the school of Al Fakheit and heard several others helicopters flying nearby, though we couldn't see them. The next morning, we heard what seemed to be bomb detonation and machine gun fire. These are not the sounds one wants to hear upon just waking up.  The sounds were incongruous with the beautiful sunrise I watched. Later in the morning, when we visited the village of Jinba (about a 45-minute walk from Al-Fakheit), residents confirmed that the Israeli military had conducted infantry training exercises nearby from about 6 to 8 AM that morning. Such activities are the reality of the area. 

School at Jinba (at top of photo)
Our time in Jinba included a school visit (where there are 30 students) and home visits, where we enjoyed tea and conversation. There we also learned that the Israeli authorities stopped members of World Vision as they were driving from Jinba to Al Fakheit and confiscated their car.  According to a member of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), this occurred on September 11 and Israeli authorities said they would not return the car for at least 60 days. 

 The area has been relatively quiet since May – with no training activities seen or heard, though helicopter flyovers continued even during this “quiet” time and settler violence and a military raid occurred in July.  
Girls at Al Fakheit
On our way into the area, we witnessed the digging of a new cistern.  The south Hebron hills are currently dry, dry, dry.  Palestinian residents generally rely on water tanks for their water.  They also collect water in cisterns when they are allowed to dig them and when they are not demolished.  The settlements in the firing zone have access to as much water as they want- no water tanks needed.  The Israeli government issued a stop work order at the digging site we saw.  The reason given: it's in a “nature reserve.” Military training exercises, however, apparently don't disturb the wildlife there.  

The firing zone is currently the subject of a court case in the Israeli Supreme Court because eight of the twelve villages, where about 1,000 people live, are under eviction orders. Many structures within those villages also have demolition orders. The case came to court on September 2 where the judicial panel proposed mediation.  The case will again come before the court on October 2.   The military exercises we witnessed were the first since the September 2 court date.

The UN’s 2012 Humanitarian Impact of Israeli-declared “Firing Zone” in the West Bank Factsheet reports that in addition to restriction on grazing livestock (the livelihood of many inhabitants of the area, “residents of firing zones face a range of other difficulties including the confiscation of property,
settler violence, harassment by soldiers, access and movement restrictions and/or water scarcity.
Combined, these conditions contribute to a coercive environment that creates pressure
on Palestinian communities to leave these areas... International law also prohibits the destruction or confiscation of private or public property, unless for reasons of military necessity, as well as the
forced displacement or transfer of civilians.”

Unfortunately, the Israeli government and military don't seem to have much respect for international law when it comes to treatment of Palestinians. Thankfully, this case has received considerable international attention.  Our hope is that international pressure will encourage the court to make the right decision.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013


According to at least one person, I am writing "anti-semitic international propaganda" because in the one post (as far as I know) that he read by me, I did not write about Palestinian missiles or about Israel's right to exist. Palestinian missiles and Israel's right to exist are all some people read about and/or want to know about.   There is more, much more, to the story of this place. I am here to delve into those other parts of that story.

I'll admit I don't really know what "international propaganda" is. I am aware that antisemitism is the word some people use to try to shut down criticism of the State of Israel.

It is not the fact that Israel is a Jewish state that I object to.  I do object to the fact that non-Jews are subject to different laws than Jews.  I do object to the fact that Israel continues to build settlements in the occupied territories in violation of international law. I do object to the fact that Israel denies 95% of Palestinian building permit applications and then issues demolition orders for structures Palestinians build anyway. I do object to the fact that Palestinian access to water is limited, but Israeli access is not.  I do object to the fact that Palestinians suffer far more violence from Israelis than vice versa, and yet we rarely hear about it in the news.  A recent UN report (and a report from earlier this year from UNICEF) highlights Israeli abuse of Palestinian minors.  This, too, I object to.  I particularly object to the fact that all of these things are done in a place that is referred to as "the only democracy in the Middle East." These are objectionable acts regardless of where they are happening, but certainly don't belong in a democracy. The State of Israel, a nation to which my own country gives vast amounts of money, is carrying out these actions and I am most definitely going to speak out, not only for the well-being of Palestinians and Israelis, but also because I want my own country to uphold and support the values we claim to hold dear.
Remains of a demolished home in Hebron

Anyone who knows me personally or has read this blog for any length of time knows that I am critical of injustice wherever I see it;  my most intimate experiences with injustice have been in Latin America, in India, in the U.S., and in my own community.  Right now I see it in Israel/Palestine. I have written, do write, and will continue to write about the occupation until it ends.  That may mean I will be writing about it for the rest of my life.

This does not mean that I think that Palestinian missiles are acceptable.  I don't.  I don't believe that violence, wherever it comes from, solves problems.  But as I wrote above, Israeli violence towards Palestine is far greater than Palestinian violence towards Israel and the above examples point to the fact that it is systemic.

Two days ago my teammate and I were awakened at 5:30 AM because Israeli soldiers were on our roof, shouting to the soldier across the street (the building across the street from ours is part of an Israeli military base). When we went to find out what was going on, the soldiers told us that they'd heard someone was throwing rocks. No one was throwing rocks from our roof that morning. No one throws rocks from our roof ever. Even if someone did, was it necessary for six soldiers in full military gear to barge into our home before dawn to investigate? These kinds of home invasions happen all the time, though not often to us. For Palestinians, the stakes tend to be higher than disrupted sleep.

Such a rude awakening did not get me started off on a good note.  To try to temper my mood, I put on my T-shirt from His Holiness the Dalai Lama's visit to Louisville.  The back of the T-shirt reads, "If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion."  I hoped that my very literal way of being "clothed with compassion" (Colossians 3:12) would help me to act with compassion.

I was still fired up when we went out for our morning school patrol.  As we went through the mosque area, I chose to challenge the soldier who told us we had to take off our hats and vests.  "Why?" I asked.

"It's an order," he said. I replied that I knew it was an order and was polite but insistent that the soldier explain the reasoning behind the order.  He directed me to the police and border police at the entrance to the mosque security checkpoint (different from the checkpoint to get into the mosque area).  After consulting with each other in Hebrew, they said I needed to call the spokesperson for the police (a response I hadn't heard before).  I asked who that was and how to contact him/her.  They said they didn't know and that I should do a Google search to find the information.  I did a Google search, found a name, but have not yet found contact information. I have my doubts as to whether or not he'd have the answers I seek anyway.

While on patrol later in the day, my partner and I saw an Israeli soldier limping down the street.  He was using a cane.  We asked what had happened and he said he'd gotten hit in the knee with a stone.  He didn't specify whether or not it happened during the clashes of a few weeks ago. Finally, the words of my T-shirt moved from outside of my being to inside. I wish I'd expressed my sorrow that he was injured.  I had the thought, but I didn't voice it.

I do not wish harm on the soldiers I encounter.  I do not wish harm on the settlers I encounter.  I do not wish harm on Israelis or anyone in the larger Jewish community. I do not wish harm on anyone. Period.

If speaking out against injustice, working for peace, and wishing the best for all people leads some people to believe I am spreading "anti-semitic international propaganda," then so be it.  I cannot control what they think.  But I will continue to speak out, to work, to wish, and to pray for a more just, a more compassionate, and a more peaceful world.

Saturday, September 7, 2013


Today, in response to an invitation from Pope Francis, people around the world, including myself, are fasting and praying for peace, in particular, peace in Syria.. My prayers for peace extend well beyond the Syrian border.  There are so many, too many, places in the world suffering from violence. I am living now in a place that knows violence too well and too often.

It is evening here and I've already broken my fast, but the prayers from many different traditions that I've been posting on my Facebook page throughout the day continue to dwell within me.

Thank goodness.

If I had already let the words escape my mind and heart, the day would have been for naught.  Or would it have? If focusing on peace today made someone else's day better, then it was a worthy day, and perhaps just a hair more peaceful than if I hadn't fixed my attention more fully on peace.

However, while concentrating my energy more deliberately today on peace is good, doing so every day is better, particularly since I claim to be (and honestly strive to be) a Christian peacemaker.

Today is Saturday, normally the day of the settler tour.  It didn't happen.  It didn't happen last Saturday either.  We (international observers) don't know the reason. But I am grateful that one obstacle to peace here in Hebron did not materialize, now twice. For the most part, today was another quiet day. Again, I am grateful.

I am grateful that I had time to spend on peace prayers, on the rich words that my own and other traditions offer to bring us to greater harmony with each other and within ourselves. Of all the prayers I read, prayed, and posted, the one that resonates with me most is from St. Teresa of Avila:

May I be at peace.
May my heart remain open.
May I be aware of my true nature.
May I be healed.
May I be a source of healing to others.
May I dwell in the Breath of God.

Whatever your beliefs may be, may you be at peace.  May you dwell in the breath of life that sustains you this and every day.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

A "Quiet" Day

"How are things in Hebron?"  I ran into some ISMers (volunteers with the International Solidarity Movement) in Jerusalem today.

"It's been pretty quiet. No clashes this week." Then I thought a little more about yesterday. "An 11 year-old boy was detained at the mosque, taken first to the military base, then to the police station, and released a few hours later."

"Yes, we heard. We also heard tear gas was used on young children?"

"Oh, yeah.  On their way to school, some small kids were throwing rocks at a checkpoint.  The soldiers' response was a sound bomb first and then teargas."  At small children. When Israeli soldiers shot out the teargas, a mother carrying her young child was also walking through the area.

"But this morning they only used a sound bomb, no teargas." Pause. "There is something wrong when 'only a sound bomb' constitutes a better day."

Let me repeat: There is something wrong when lobbing a sound bomb at young children on the way to school, even if they throw rocks, is a sign of a better day.

In my conversation with the ISMers I forgot to mention how we were again stopped while between the two turnstiles at the mosque checkpoint as soldiers consulted with their commander over whether or not we could wear our vests.  We could.  Well, the two of us who simply walked through the area on the way to another checkpoint were allowed to.  However, the border police told the two CPTers who stayed in the mosque area to monitor that they could not stay with vests and hats on.  They took them off.

I forgot to mention how later in the day border police threatened to arrest members of TIPH (Temporary International Presence in Hebron) who were taking pictures at the mosque checkpoint. TIPHers have diplomatic immunity. It is highly unusual for border police to harass them.  ISMers who were in the area when the argument happened started taking pictures and filming.  The border police also threatened to arrest them.

I was not present at most of the above events.  Perhaps that's why the day seemed relatively quiet to me.  However, for Hebron such a day is a pretty quiet day.

As I write, I am aware that "quiet" is a more relative term than I had thought.  My notion of the word has certainly changed in the last month.  I look forward to a few months from now when a quiet day no longer includes checkpoints, arguments over wardrobe, arrests, and sound bombs.  I look forward to a time when no one's day includes any of those things.  I will likely never see that day, but I will nevertheless keep working to inch the world a little closer (if not an inch, even a millimeter or two would be OK) to such a reality.  

Monday, September 2, 2013

Who Am I Really Mad At?

Note: I originally wrote this on Saturday, August 31, but due to Internet issues, was not able to post it until today.

Four of the five previous days' work has involved monitoring clashes.  Today is my day off.  If there are clashes in Hebron, I remain blissfully unaware.  I'm in Bethlehem.  For these 24 hours I hope to see no soldiers and hear no firecrackers, sound bombs, or gunshots.  I hope not to ingest the noxious fumes of teargas. So far, so good.

I spent my first few hours here reading a novel in my air-conditioned hotel room.  As I begin writing this, I am sitting at a restaurant, drinking a mint lemonade, and waiting for eggplant parmigiana to be placed in front of me.

Over the last week, within the range of emotions I've experienced, the one that particularly rattles me is anger.  In occupied Palestine, there are plenty of reasons to be angry.  However, several of the times that sentiment has struck me, I've wondered if my anger is misplaced.

At certain times I felt angry watching young men and boys gather in the streets to throw stones and firecrackers.  On Monday, the first day of clashes, the day of the deaths in Qalandia, I understood the outburst of fury.  As a proponent of nonviolence, I didn't necessarily like the actions, but I knew where they came from.

On the second day... on the third day... and then yesterday (after a quiet fourth day), the crowd got younger and younger.  They looked to me a lot like kids taking advantage of a situation to make some trouble. They didn't seem outraged.  They seemed bored.  "Bored" can lead to trouble.  To me, it looked like boredom did lead to trouble. And so, as I watched young men and boys throw stones and firecrackers, as I watched them set fire to boxes and whatever other flammable things they found, as I felt some of them a little too close to me saying things that, by their tone, I was pretty sure were not nice, I got angry.  As I watched Palestinian adults stand or walk by the clashes, I got angry.

The "What are you doing?" echoing in my head was not the same sorrowful "What are you doing?" that I felt when I looked into the eyes of soldiers during a settler tour.  Instead it was an exasperated "What are you doing?"

The scenes I witnessed seemed to reinforce the stereotypes many people have of Palestinians- violent and uncontrollable.  That reinforcement made me mad.

Then I looked at the scene again.

No Palestinian had a gun.  This was in contrast to Israeli settlers watching the clashes from the settlement roofs, some with semi-automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.  This was in contrast to the heavily armed soldiers towards whom the Palestinians threw stones.

No Palestinian wore any more protection than a scarf around his face. They looked no different than any other civilian on the street. This was in contrast to helmets with face shields of soldiers.

The level of the boys' actual violence or potential violence was nothing compared to that of Israeli soldiers and settlers.

In response to one of CPT's Facebook updates about the clashes, someone wrote: "Simple solution: Stop throwing rocks." A part of me agreed with her.  But I also felt a gnawing from within.

While a cessation of rock-throwing stops clashes, it doesn't change the larger picture.  It doesn't change the random ID checks that occur.  It doesn't make checkpoints go away. It doesn't end home demolitions or settlement expansions.  It doesn't change the laws that defend the humanity of Israelis and deny the humanity of Palestinians. An end to rock-throwing will not end the occupation.

Rock-throwing is one way to relieve the tension of living under occupation.  It is a form of expression.  It is a form of resistance.

Does this mean I am happy about young men and boys throwing rocks?  No.  But as I reflect on all of the above, as I acknowledge the anger that I feel, I must also recognize that the source of my aggravation is not actually rock-throwing.

Writing this is my way of digging in the dirt until I find the source of my anger. I am shoveling, throwing the dirt over my shoulder, exposing roots.

The boys are not the problem.  Saying they are is like blaming an abuse victim for acting out against the abuser.  Rock-throwing is a symptom of a sick organism.  It is a physical expression of emotional and spiritual pain.  Both the symptoms and the sickness must be tended.

When I put myself in the shoes of the boys in this moment, my anger turns to compassion.  My exasperation turns to sorrow.

Who am I really mad at?  I am not mad at any "who."  I am mad at a system.  I am mad at the system that makes it difficult for Israelis to see Palestinians as regular people and for Palestinians to see Israelis as regular people.  I am mad at a system that demands that I choose a side - Israeli or Palestinian.  I choose neither.  I choose both.  I choose the human side.

And after writing what I have written, after acknowledging my anger, I will try to release it, to fill the space I've dug out with rich soil that will nourish the roots of an ailing manifestation of creation. Feeding off the love of friends and family who nurture me, I know I have spiritual nutrients to share.  But I also know this is a process I will have to repeat. And repeat. It is a process I need help with.  I don't have enough within me to fill the hole, to give the roots the sustenance they need to produce a vibrant outpouring of life. It will take many people releasing anger and offering love to change things here. 

Thursday, August 29, 2013


I loved the years I taught at an all-boys high school, but there was one event each year that I dreaded more than any other: the pep rally.

As one of the few females in a crowd of 1300 or so screaming boys, I always felt extremely uncomfortable.  While I know that the event was meant to unleash school spirit, to it felt like an unleashing of undiluted testosterone, which, to me, felt a lot like aggression.  As I stood in the crowd, trying to pretend that I wanted to be there, my imagination took me to places where the power of collective masculine energy was not focused on winning a game, but on far more ominous pursuits.  Those places were not pretty. Over the last couple of days my reality has included scenes like those I had imagined.

On Monday morning, Israeli soldiers raided the Qalandia refugee camp to make an arrest.  As the soldiers moved through the camp, crowds gathered, and protests, which included stone-throwing, began. In response, the Israeli military killed three Palestinians and injured 15.  In a place of constant stress (to put it mildly), it doesn't take much for the tide to turn from calm (relatively speaking) to turbulent.  The events in Qalandia created waves throughout the West Bank, and particularly here in Hebron.

Monday afternoon as I was clicking "save" for my last blog post, a teammate told me we needed to go out, that clashes had begun in response to the Qalandia deaths.  How did I feel about going out?

I said I was ready.  So the three of us on team left the house, unsure of what we'd encounter or when we'd return home.  We walked through the Old City (which is in H2, the part of Hebron under full Israeli control), into H1 (the part of Hebron under full Palestinian control) and crowds of men and boys had gathered near a checkpoint.  Stone-throwing had already started.  Israeli soldiers were stationed on roofs.

A few blocks from the checkpoint, (and in H1,where Israeli soldiers are not allowed to be), soldiers had set off sound bombs.  As we approached and observed, they were retreating back towards the checkpoint; while most of the soldiers seemed relatively calm, one soldier was clearly agitated and momentarily focused his anger towards us.  Only for a moment; his companions urged him on and they continued their retreat back towards H2.

With this going on, businesses were open, women and children walked in the streets, cab drivers vied for our business, and "welcome" was shouted to us as we surveyed the goings-on.  However, as the scene got more contentious, taxis and collective taxis left the area, some businesses closed, vendors packed up their carts and rolled them away, and the number of women and young children in the streets dwindled.

The reaction of Palestinians to our presence was mixed.  Whereas we are well-known in H2, many don't know us in H1.  Some people were curious, others mistrustful.  Without the personal benefit of Arabic (though one of our teammate is Arabic-speaking), sometimes it was difficult to interpret their reactions.  Our team stuck together and our Arabic-speaking teammate moved us when she didn't get a good vibe from those near us. Intermittently, we also checked in or gathered with internationals from other NGOs.

Israeli soldiers on the roof and on the street in H1
Stone- and sometimes firecracker-throwing.  Sound bombs. Tear gas.  From time to time soldiers came into the streets, shot sound bombs or tear gas near the protesters, and retreated.  Protesters burned boxes in the streets, then tires. Taking advantage of the open streets, several men sped their cars through the area, tires squealing.   A few drove in tight circles before speeding off. Such displays of bravado looked a lot like those of my teenage students. Later, some of the protesters brought water tanks into the streets to form a barricade. We watched.

That morning, I had used the Mumford and Sons song "Timshel" to begin worship. As we observed the clashes, the song, particularly the line, "You are not alone in this," ran through my head. I found myself humming the song as we monitored the clashes.  It served both as a reminder for me and a prayer for those who were expressing their grief and anger over the Qalandia deaths.

After a few hours of monitoring, we went home to eat dinner and take a break, knowing that the night ahead might be a long one.  When we went back out, the streets were emptier, but not completely empty, things were still burning in the streets, the water tanks had been moved into a pyramid formation.  Soldiers continued to shoot sound bombs and tear gas.  I went back to the house after about an hour.  My teammates came home within an hour of that.  The clashes had stopped for the night.

Palestinian police
On Tuesday afternoon, there were clashes again.  Stone-throwing began in H1 and within one minute of the first air-born stone, a sound bomb went off.   This time Palestinian police in riot gear and Palestinian Authority (PA) officials intervened. With their presence in the streets, the crowd moved into H2, where the PA is not allowed. There clashes were not as volatile as the previous day, nor as long.  However, they still involved rocks, fires, sound bombs and teargas.  During lulls in the action curious boys and young men approached us to talk.

At one point the crowd of protesters retreated for reasons we could not immediately discern.  We found out later that an Israeli settler had fired on the crowd from a rooftop.  Israeli soldiers had stood nearby, doing nothing.

During the retreat back, several young men stopped to talk to me, urgently pointing to my vest pocket and saying something about cigarettes.  I thought they were asking me for cigarettes and told them in my limited Arabic that I didn't have any.  They persisted, saying ,"No," "Cigarette," and pointed at my pocket.  One tried to put his hand in my pocket. With this I looked in my pocket and discovered a lit cigarette there.  It had burned two holes in the vest. The young men, including one with face covered and stone in hand, apologized profusely multiple times about the cigarette.  I have no idea how the cigarette got there, but appreciated the warning (and quite frankly, the comic relief) they gave me in the moment.  The incident served as a reminder of the complexity of people - at once fierce and gentle, angry and caring, abrasive and polite.

Slowly, the clashes moved back into H1, where eventually the PA dispersed the remnants of the crowd.

On Wednesday afternoon without provocation Israeli soldiers set off a sound bomb in H1.  PA authorities were again present there. Clashes again erupted, but only in H2, and still less volatile than the previous days. Israeli soldiers were stationed on rooftops.  When the stone-throwing began, some soldiers came out into the streets.  They closed some streets to foot and vehicle traffic for about 3 hours.  We observed the back and forth of stones and sound bombs for several hours.  No tear gas was used when we were there, but when we patrolled later in the evening, we noted that the street was littered with used sound bombs and tear gas. We felt a sting in our noses from the bit of gas lingering in the air.

Today the city has been blissfully quiet.

Watching the events of the last few days, particularly as they are juxtaposed against the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington and Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech, has given me reason to consider the potential, for good or bad, of a collective mindset. My thoughts and feelings are complicated and conflicted.

As I write, I realize that I am still unable to put many words to them.  I have written and deleted sentence after sentence.  Perhaps after more time has passed the words will sort themselves out.  I won't force them now.  What I do know is that watching the (generally young) stone-throwers in action, often without the intervention of adults, elicited in me a similar reaction as I'd had to pep rallies.  I know that the actions happen within the context of the occupation, a context of limited rights and stifled freedom. Given my own frustration after three and a half weeks here, I cannot imagine the burden of living one's entire life in this context.  I know that the show of Israeli power is exponentially larger than that of the boys with stones.  What I don't know is how things will change here.

However, I hold onto hope.  I hold onto a thoroughly unexpected scene currently making world news, a scene of Israeli soldiers dancing with Palestinians, a scene that was filmed here in Hebron the same night the clashes began.  (The soldiers were disciplined for their actions.  However, abuses generally go undisciplined - a story for another day.) I hold onto hope that someday Israeli/Palestinian interactions will not involve undiluted testosterone, stones and teargas, but rather undiluted joy and music.