Human Rights March

On December 9th, I went to the annual Human Rights March in Tel Aviv. I could try to tell you all about what it was like to march alongside thousands of Israelis who were there in support of different human rights groups. I could try to express the hope that I felt after meeting Israelis who were not completely hateful toward Palestinians. I could try to explain the different groups that were marching. But instead of trying to tell you, I'd like to just show you.

(Look at the watermark in the bottom corner for info about where the image came from - all images not watermarked are from demotix.com, unless otherwise noted.)

One of my few photos from the march.
From left to right: Eitan Bronstein (director of Zochrot), Ryan, Rachelle, Me, Sarah - all MCC staff.

Me holding a sign with a photo of a Palestinian refugee.
Originially, these photos of refugees were printed at human size and installed in the remains of their villages, which are now in Israel. Photo by Ryan.

Palestinian Arabs marching for equality - these are Palestinians who live in Israel and/or have a Jerusalem ID, as most Palestinians who live in the West Bank or Gaza are not allowed into Israel and therefore are unable to protest.

African immigrants (especially Ethiopian Jews) are often treated unfairly and even allegedly denied citizenship based on their race.

Trauré, an immigrant from Cote d'Ivoire, holds a sign saying "Refugees are not criminals" in front of the municipality building.

In what was definitely the most shocking display for us Americans:
Young Jewish protestors parodied far-right activists by dressing as Klu Klux Klan members holding signs reading "Kahane was right," and "Kill the (non-Jews) in order to save Israel."

The Zochrot signs that we were carrying were too large for just one person, so we paired up and each took a side. My sign-carrying partner (who we'll just call "L") was an Israeli Jew who was born and raised in Tel Aviv. She was so helpful in translating the Hebrew signs, and sharing a little bit of her experience with me. When we walked past these two boys, one blindfolded and tied up and the other with chains around his wrist, we had a very interesting conversation. I literally wrote it down right after it happened so that I could share it with you:

L: "You know, these guys did this same thing at a protest a few months ago and got arrested for it."

Me: "What? Why? They're being completely non-violent. They're not doing anything wrong."

L: "Their message hit too close to home. It was the truth, so the soldiers arrested them."

Me: "But... you can't just arrest someone. You have to have a legitimate reason!"

L: "What do you think this is, a democratic state? You can't just go around saying whatever you want. We're not in America, Meredith, we're in Israel. We don't have freedom of speech like you do. They say we do, but it is a lie."

"It is a lie."

Those words haunted me for quite some time after leaving the protest. I mean, I knew some things were a lie. Well, maybe not a lie, but an omission of the truth. No one ever talks about the Palestinians who lived in the land before 1948. No one talks about the families who were ripped out of their homes and are now refugees. No one talks about the children who saw their parents murdered. No one talks about the injustice, or the permanent damage that has been done to millions. But those aren't lies, they're just... the absence of the truth. But if, as L said, "freedom of speech" here is a lie, well then that's something else entirely.

Something to think about when I've had a little bit more sleep.

One More Death *Warning: Graphic Photos*

When blogging, I do my best to stay out of the politics of the situation here as much as I possibly can. Getting on my soap box and preaching politics does nothing but divide people, especially because I am no expert. I try to stick to what I know, which usually means writing about my first hand experiences here. But today, right now, I have to speak out.

I came back from Tel Aviv yesterday feeling so optimistic. Marching alongside Israelis gave me hope. "Things are getting better," I thought, "look at all of these people who are working for human rights." I was there with a group that advocates for the rights of Palestinians, and despite some dirty looks and some heated conversations, I felt like the majority of the people marching would include Palestinians in their list of "all people" who deserve human rights. But today, my optimism so quickly turned to despair as I heard about another Palestinian man who has been killed.

I need to share this story with you. Please realize that this isn't just about one person dying. This isn't just about today's one death. This is about people being senselessly killed for decades. This is about genocide. This is about the deliberate slaughtering of an entire group of human beings. And this is about our collective decision to ignore it, to pretend that one group of people has the right to destroy another, to fund a nation that is killing civilians because we think it is in our political best interest.

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Mustafa Tamimi was a 28 year old young man who was protesting the route of the Apartheid Wall. The wall is planned to be built on land that belongs to the people of Nabi Saleh, a small village near Ramallah. He was attending a non-violent demonstration that takes place every Friday, and began throwing stones at an armored Israeli military vehicle (which is done as a symbol, not to injure anyone or destroy any property - as a golf-ball sized stone obviously isn't going to damage the heavily armored jeep in any way). A soldier then opened the door to the jeep, and shot Mustafa in the face with a tear gas canister. The soldier was between ten and thirty feet away.

Just in case you know nothing about tear gas (I didn't, before I came here), a canister is intended to be shot into the air above a violent crowd from about 100 feet away. It is never, NEVER intended to be shot directly at people, because it's known to be deadly, and it is NEVER intended to be used on one person. Its purpose is to sedate an angry mob.

The impact blew off half of Tamimi's face, and when his friends and family cried out in horror, Israeli soliders laughed and said, "So?" (Mondoweiss)

Here is what happened:

This is Mustafa as he was being shot.
The red circle to the right is the gun, and the circle to the left is the canister.

This is immediately after being hit with the canister.

Palestinians rushing to his aid.

Immediately after being hit.

Friends Comforting Each Other

Here is a video of the aftermath.

Mustafa was rushed to the hospital, and died less than 24 hours later.
The pain of his death will be felt by his family and village for years to come.
The damage done by losing a child, a brother, a friend, will never be erased.

Rest in peace, dear child.

May your life's story be a light in this dark corner of the world.

References: +972, Tikun Olam, Your Middle East, Associated Press, Mondoweiss

We Teach Life

HAPPY INTERNATIONAL HUMAN RIGHTS DAY!

Today, I was at the Human Rights March in Tel Aviv. Such an incredibly powerful experience. I will definitely be posting about it in the near future. Not only do I need a little bit of time to process everything, but I also  need to wait for all of the photos start to roll in. There were so many talented photographers there. I would much rather wait for them to upload their (undoubtedly wonderful) photos, rather than use my subpar ones.

So until then, you should spend the next 4 minutes and 39 seconds watching a spoken word poem by Rafeef Ziadah, a Palestinian activist who is currently a PhD candidate at York University in Toronto, Canada. This video made the rounds on my Palestinian friends' facebook walls when it was first recorded last month, and I think that it is really powerful. Rafeef's experience is definitely worth hearing. Take a listen, and then let me know what you think!

‎"So I give them UN resolutions and statistics, and we condemn and we deplore and we reject, and these are not two equal sides: occupier and occupied. And a hundred dead. Two hundred dead. A THOUSAND DEAD. And between that war crime and massacre, I vent out words and smile, not exotic. Smile, not terrorist. And I recount. I recount. A hundred dead. Two hundred dead. A THOUSAND DEAD. Is anyone out there? Will anyone listen?"

My First-Hand Experience with the Palestinian Medical System

I know, I know, I haven't posted in about two weeks. I promise I have a legitimate excuse.

I was dying.

Ok, slight exaggeration. More like I thought  I was dying. I guess there's a bit of a difference.

So let's set the scene, shall we?
I had just gotten back from a wonderful weekend in Tel Aviv. Monday was a happy, plain, normal work day. Then Tuesday was Palestinian Independence Day, and even though the name is incredibly deceiving, all of the schools and offices were closed in the West Bank. I had plans to go into Jerusalem with a friend, but she called that morning to say that she wasn't feeling well and would have to cancel. I, of course, was a little bummed, but it turned out to be the best thing that could have happened.

I decided to stay in and rest; take a lazy day doing some laundry, catching up on cleaning, and working on grad school applications. Around noonish, I started to not feel so great. Like, really  not so great. I was pretty sure that someone was taking a butcher knife to my abdomen; I had this awful, stabbing pain. Then I started to run a high fever.

"Oh my gosh,"  I thought to myself, "Sharp stabbing pain. High fever. I have appendicitis! They're going to need to remove my appendix. This is bad. I am so not a third-world-emergency-surgery kind of girl."

So what did I decide to do? Wait it out (translation: ignore it). I kept reading that if you have appendicitis, you should go to the hospital right away, because your appendix usually bursts about 24 hours after the symptoms start, and then the pain magnifies by a thousand percent. "Perfect!" I think, "if the pain gets way more intense after 24 hours, then I'll know that my appendix burst and that I actually do have appendicitis. But if it doesn't get more intense, then either I have the Chuck Norris of appendices, or it's something other than appendicitis. I'll just wait, and this way, I can avoid going to the hospital for nothing."

I should put a note in here that I really  hate hospitals. They're always cold, and they always smell funny. I hate being poked and prodded. I hate being asked stupid questions about "on a scale of one to ten." I hate that 99% of the time, the doctor says "go home, drink lots of fluids, and get some rest." I can make that diagnosis on my own, thankyouverymuch. I get flashbacks to when I was 10 years old and in the hospital for a week and a half with Pancreatitis. It's always just miserable.

This process of waiting worked really well up until about 3am. I woke up, got sick, and then tried to walk to my kitchen for some water. Well, on the way, I got light headed and dizzy, and broke out in a cold sweat. I was pretty sure that this was the end. I would pass out while trying to get water, fall onto my tile floor, and either crack my head open or freeze to death (there's a little electric heater in my bedroom, which keeps the temperature up in the 60s, but in my kitchen in the middle of the night, it's probably more around 45 degrees, but that's a whole different story). I made it back to my room, collapsed on my bed, and prayed for a swift death.

And then as soon as I could move again, I caved and called one of the other MCC service workers to take me to the hospital. At 3:15 in the morning. I definitely have the world's most fantastic coworkers!

So we head to a little private hospital in Beit Jala, the village where I live. I am the only patient in the entire emergency room, and am immediately wheeled back (oh  yeah, I got a wheelchair... so embarrassing) into the only room. A doctor and nurse, both men, come into the room and start speaking to me in Arabic. My coworker (who is Canadian, but fairly fluent in Arabic) explains that I don't speak much Arabic, but am having sharp pain and we are worried that it is appendicitis. The doctor and nurse just kind of stare at me and then ask me where I'm from, then they talk to each other in Arabic, and then the nurse starts giggling, and they leave. I was totally confused, and a little frustrated. I was in pain! I just wanted them to fix me and let me leave, but at this point, no one has touched me, done a single test, or asked me a single medical question.

My coworker, also a female, eavesdrops and explains to me that the nurse is giggling because he is embarrassed that his English is poor, and because I am a single Western woman, they are hesitant to touch me. They don't often see Westerners, especially not women (I assume that this is because if Westerners get sick, they usually go to hospitals in Israel, not in the West Bank). The culture here dictates that it is highly inappropriate (and very disrespectful) for men to touch women, and even though my doctor was a trained medical professional, it was obviously still difficult for him to overcome this deeply ingrained cultural rule.

Before long, they come back in, take some blood to run some tests, and give me an IV and some medication. My nurse put in the most painless IV that I've ever had, and I've had a few. I didn't feel anything, not even a sticking sensation! I was thrilled by his obvious IV inserting/blood drawing skills. After about five minutes, I realize that they had just given me medicine, but they didn't have any of my medical records, and they had never asked me if I have any allergies... which I do! So we called in the nurse to try to figure out what kind of medicine they gave me, but he didn't know, so he went to ask the doctor. They couldn't figure out how to translate it, but they'd never heard of the drugs I'm allergic to, and assured me they gave me something different.

We got the tests back, and the doctor said that it was not appendicitis (hurray!), but that it also wasn't viral, which meant it probably won't just go away on it's own (not hurray). So he told me to come back in for an ultrasound and some more blood tests in the morning, handed me a prescription for a drug, and gave me permission to leave.

Being me, I never went back in for the tests, but I did get the prescription filled, googled it, and found out that it is used to treat "acute abdominal bacterial infections." Gross. I took the meds. They started to make me feel better. After 6 days in bed, my fever finally broke and I was able to go back to work!

The bright side of this whole experience was that without any sort of medical insurance, my hospital stay, blood tests, IV, and medication all amounted to 100NIS, which is around $28. That just blew my mind. Also, I was in and out of the hospital in under 2 hours, which I think is an all time record for me!

Usually, people only have wonderful things to say about the hospitals here in the Middle East. Despite the fact that I was a little frustrated by the cultural differences, I'm so grateful that I am in a place where emergency care is available to those who need it - there are so many places in the world where it's not. And the fact that I can go to a pharmacy and get medication? Such an incredible blessing.

So this is my excuse for not posting in the last two weeks. I hope it's sufficient. With the Christmas season in Bethlehem fast approaching, I'm sure that I'll have many more exciting stories to share leading up to December 25th.

Stay safe, and stay healthy! 

Adventures in Tel Aviv

While I absolutely love living in Palestine, there are times when I think that my heart is just going to break from all of the pain and devastation here. The weekends are my prime time to mentally escape, to detox from my emotionally devastating weeks. Sometimes I do this by sleeping all day. Sometimes I watch mindless American TV shows for hours on end. Sometimes I just sit and breathe. None of these have been working too well for me lately, and this last week I felt like I was at a breaking point.

I haven't had a completely-break-down-and-sob-for-eight-hours episode yet, and while I know that it's coming eventually, I'd like to postpone it for as long as possible. Being here is devastating. It's hard. Most times I step outside my house and just feel this weight on my heart. It's difficult to live with. So often, I feel like I'm barely holding my head above this pool of emotions, and one tiny thing is all that it will take to push me under.

This past week was an especially difficult one. Working with a humanitarian organization means that I have the opportunity to meet incredible people, but it also means that I sometimes see the absolute worst side of this occupation - the ways in which it devastates families and ruins lives. Day in and day out, I deal with the human component, and it's often tragic.

Last week, I was invited to go to Tel Aviv with two other international volunteers, and I debated back and forth for a while. I mean, I really wanted to go, but it didn't seem fair that when I got overwhelmed with the situation here in Palestine, I could just leave. None of the people that I live or work with have that option.

After talking about it, a friend reminded me that I don't have the same support network here as the average Palestinian. I don't have deep family roots, and that is a huge part of how people endure life here. Plus, I am not only trying to emotionally deal with the occupation and it's effects on me (and it's much deeper effects on the people around me), but I also have the added stress of living in a completely foreign culture and trying to speak a completely new language. While it still felt like a bit of a cop out, I decided to take a mini-vacation to Tel Aviv.

Since I went on an adventure, I decided to document it for you guys, so that you could feel like you took a mini-vacation too! In the West Bank, I don't take many pictures. I live there, so walking around with my camera out like a tourist is super weird and embarrassing. Luckily though, I had no such qualms about being a mega-tourist in Tel Aviv, where no one knew me and I'd never see anyone again. Therefore, I have plenty of pictures to share!

_____________________________________________

When we left the West Bank, it was around 50 degrees, but when the bus doors opened in Tel Aviv, this incredibly glorious 75 degree air swept in! I almost died of happiness. We dropped our things off at the guesthouse where we were staying, and then we visited the Tel Aviv Museum of Art. Totally awesome. I highly recommend it.

Next, we hit the BEACH! We started out walking down the majorly huge and commercial Tel Aviv boardwalk, but eventually it turns into the old port town of Jaffa (you know, where Jonah got swallowed by the whale).

Although I was dressed for winter,
 I was ecstatic to have been magically transported to this summer-time wonderland!

Tel Aviv at Sunset

Fishing boats in Jaffa's port.

Old Town Jaffa

WHALE fountain!
Tribute to the whole Jonah thing.

Fishermen on the Wharf in Jaffa

Sunset in Jaffa

When we got to the end of the Jaffa port, we started walking around Old Town Jaffa, which is more inland. By that time it was dusk, and I took some pictures of the buildings.

The next day, we decided to go back to the beach. Palestine is land locked and water is scarce, so being at the beach feels like heaven.

Clock Tower in Old Town Jaffa 

There were so many of these tiny fishing boats dotting the water. It was basically the most beautiful thing ever.

Me and my two darling mamas for the weekend.

Souher (next to me) is Egyptian, but has lived in Canada for the last 45 years. She is at the Bethlehem Bible College teaching for a year, and has taken many of her students under her wing. She is so incredibly sweet and caring, and she also speaks Arabic fluently which means that she can connect with people much more easily than most other Western volunteers.

Mary (across the table) is from England. She and her husband run the BBC Guest House. They came to Palestine after living in India for five years. They're on their second year here, and will be leaving to return to England permanently in March. Mary is adorable and says things like "jolly good" and "oh bugger!" and "right-o" that make me giggle.

My last view of the ocean before heading back home.

After an incredible weekend in the sunshine, I felt refreshed and renewed and ready to get back to work in the West Bank. Having two days without soldiers everywhere, and without having to look at that heartbreaking Wall had left me feeling almost giddy. We caught the bus back to the checkpoint, and of course, this is the beautiful sight that greets me when I walk back into the West Bank: fires in the refugee camp.

My vacation is officially over.

Welcome Home.

Rain in Palestine!

If there is one thing that we are all desperate for here in Palestine, it's rain; the water situation here is quite grave. Because Palestine's water supply is controlled by Israel, there never seems to be enough to go around. In my neighborhood, the water is usually turned on for a few hours, once every 1-3 weeks.

Now, coming from a country where the water is on 24/7, this made absolutely no sense to me. At first I thought that the reasoning behind this had to do with a water shortage in the Middle East, but then I discovered that Israel has 24/7 water, as do the illegal Israeli settlements in the West Bank. So every day, we cross our fingers that we don't run out of water, but right up the hill from my village, the settlers living in Gilo, an illegal settlement that is currently in the process of being expanded, could leave every single faucet on all day every day and never have to worry about not having enough water. Hey, if they use too much, the Israeli government can just postpone turning on the water in my Beit Jala neighborhood for a few days. Many would care, but no one would have the freedom to speak up.

I tried to figure out why the schedule for getting water is so random, and I discovered that we get water depending on... well... nothing. There is no rhyme or reason to how often our water gets turned on; the timing is completely arbitrary. I have heard that the rationale behind this is to prevent the Palestinians from relying on anything, or getting into a routine. It makes sense from an occupying force's point of view: if you never know when the water will be turned on, then you are kept on your toes. You have no way to ration your water or plan how you will use it. You are completely at the mercy of your occupiers for one of the most basic human necessities.

These tanks would be expected to supply a family of between 5-10 for 1-3 weeks.

To help avoid running out of water, every home has huge water cisterns on the roof. In the few hours that the water is turned on, the goal is to get as many of those tanks filled up as possible. Then you use your stored water slowly, and pray that it doesn't run out before the next time that your water is turned on. This is a huge frustration for people, because if you run out, then you run out. You can buy small bottles to drink, but those are expensive. So no showering, no laundry, no dishes, no flushing toilets, no cleaning, nothing until the next time the water is turned on.

It is also a big vulnerability. One way that soldiers and settlers will terrorize people is by going around shooting out their water tanks. Obviously, this is devastating for a family whose sole source of water is these tanks.

At about 3 PM the 14th of April in the old city of Hebron,

5 Israeli settlers trespassed onto the roof of a
Palestinian house, puncturing the 5 water tanks
owned by the family and draining all of their water supply.

For more information on settler violence,
Wikiepedia's articles are generally a good,

unbiased way to be informed.

Rain is such an incredible gift here, not only because it helps our plants grow, but also because it gives us the ability to collect water. Here, water falling from the sky is almost the equivalent of money falling from the sky in the States. It is treated as this incredible gift. The idea that water, something that I completely and utterly waste at home, is such a precious commodity here, is such a mind-blowing (and humbling) concept.

So this year, we've had early rain. Our latest storm came at 10pm on Thursday, and I cried. I cried partly from relief that my family wouldn't run out of water, partly from happiness that I could do something as familiar as playing in the rain, partly out of devastation that the powerful are able to withhold such a necessary commodity as water from the powerless, and partly in awe of my God who always, always, provides for His children.

I took some pictures for you guys; granted, by this point it was almost midnight, so the quality isn't too great, but I wanted you to get to experience the joy of this rain along with me:

The view from my balcony.

The road leading up to my house, covered in water!

The road leading away from my house, covered in MORE WATER!
IT'S LIKE CHRISTMAS!

As an American, I am used to living in a place where everyone is equal under the law, and where everyone has a platform to speak out if they feel that they are being mistreated. The fact that I now live in a place where people have no voice, no right to speak against injustice, absolutely sickens me.

Every day, I feel like I see the absolute worst side of humanity in many different ways. Today, I see an occupying force that has the ability to confiscate your wells and water sources, and then refuse to give you a portion of that water simply because you were born in the wrong village, speak the wrong language, or are the wrong color.

If you want to see incredibly blatant racism and absolutely unabashed discrimination, come to the West Bank. Palestinians are silently enduring despicable treatment that will leave you completely shocked, disgusted, and furious. You'll wonder why you never heard about any of this before; you'll wonder how this is able to be kept a secret; you'll want to do everything you can to break the imposed silence on this issue, because you, as a Westerner, have the ability to do that without fear of retribution.

You won't have to worry about having your house demolished in order to "teach you a lesson." 

You won't have to worry about your children disappearing in the middle of the night. 

You won't have to worry about being carted off to an Israeli prison where you'll sit for years waiting for formal charges to be filed.  

You have such incredible power. We have such incredible power, and it is wasted on deciding who is going to be the next American Idol, or focusing on what color is going to be "in" this season, or betting on which team is going to win the Super Bowl. 

So the next time you turn on the sink, and don't have to think twice about whether any water will actually come out of your faucet, think of me here in the West Bank, and say a little prayer for your brothers and sisters in Palestine who would give anything to have that same security.

How To Cut Your Hair With Kindergarten Craft Scissors: A Beginner's Guide

When I began getting ready to come to Palestine, I made the decision to start growing out my hair. Many women here keep their hair longer than most Americans (of course, I can't speak for the more conservative Muslim women who cover their hair, but I assume it's kept long as well). Before I came here, I figured that keeping my hair dark and leaving it long would mean that I'd have at least one thing physically in common with most of the other women here. I mean, obviously I am not Palestinian, and I will never be mistaken for a Palestinian, but I figured, hey, every little bit that I can blend in helps, right?

So fast-forward to real life in Palestine: hair down to my hips, while beautiful, is totally impractical. First, there's the whole "water shortage" problem, which means that I can only (in good conscience) wash my hair once every two or three days. Then there's the fact that I can't go out with wet hair, and it takes forever to dry. There's also the slight issue of not having my hair straightener, curling iron, or any hair products with me. As I was packing for Palestine, the lack of luggage space paired with my desire to "live simply" meant that the only hair things I brought were a brush, hair ties, and bobby pins (although since coming here and learning the "no wet hair" rule, I've also gotten a travel-size blowdryer). I figured that bringing hair stuff would be wasteful and pretentious. At the time, it made perfect sense. In retrospect, TERRIBLE DECISION. The frustration of having really long hair coupled with an inability to tame it was growing.

This brings us to last week, when I decided that I needed to cut my hair. Pronto. The only problem with this plan was that I don't know any hair stylists in Palestine, and I really wasn't in the mood to go exploring. I have enough trouble trying to explain what I want when there's no language barrier, so add me trying to communicate how I want my hair cut in mangled Arabic, and you have a recipe for disaster. That, plus the fact that this hair-cutting-impulse came at 9pm on a Thursday, which here means that everyone is home in bed, only left me with few options.

So what did I do?
A. Went to bed, gave it a little time, and waited for the impulse to pass.
B. Waited patiently until the morning to ask my host mother to recommend a good stylist.
C. Started rummaging through the desk drawers in my living room, found kindergarten craft scissors, and cut my hair myself.

If you guessed either A or B, then it is obvious that you don't know me very well. Of course, I decided to cut my hair right away. How hard could cutting hair be, anyways? I didn't want a pixie cut, I didn't want a posh bob, I just wanted some of the length off and a few layers added. Also, I'm not at all emotionally attached to my hair, so if I messed it up completely... no big deal! Easy peasy!

So I started hacking away. The only problem with my scissors, is that they are specially designed to not slice open toddler fingers during use. Awesome for toddlers, not awesome for hair cutting enthusiasts. After about 20 minutes, I pronounced my hair "complete," and so I waited for it to air dry and then examined the results.

I don't think it turned out too badly, BUT I will allow you to be the judge, because I feel like you deserve a good laugh. So in total, I cut about 5-8 inches off of the longest layers, and 10-12 inches off of the shortest layers.

The most recent "before" picture that I have:

Time to start hacking away:

Post-hair cut: 

 

So what do you think?! Is beauty school in my future? Okay, maybe not, but this was definitely a fantastic stress reliever and an experience that I'll remember for a long time. I'm doing nothing if not learning self-reliance here in Palestine. I've been spoiled by the States, and now I'm learning how to do things for myself. Maybe "cutting your own hair with craft scissors" isn't necessarily on the To Do List of the independent and self-reliant, but it was a good lesson for me in not stressing over the little things. And honestly, why waste time stressing over what your hair looks like? There are way more important things to worry about, like what color socks you're wearing, or what flavor cereal you're going to have for breakfast.

Perhaps after I'm done learning self-reliance, I can start learning impulse control.

But that is a topic for another blog post.
So until then:
Stay safe, and enjoy your Halloween!
I will be busy craving candy corn from the opposite side of the planet.

Cross Cultural Communication

Multiple times each day, I am asked to explain a word, phrase, picture, or an American cultural phenomenon to someone here. Now, in the States, this would probably be easy (and also unnecessary, since most people wouldn't need to have things explained), but because of the language and cultural barriers here, often times my explanations are less than stellar and absolutely NOT helpful.

Here are two recent examples:

Coworker: "What is a Viking?"
Me: "A Viking is a... well... they were warriors, like, in boats. They raided and adventured and stuff during the 8th-11th centuries. And they... were... Norwegian? Or Scandinavian? Or something. And they... they had the hats! You know, the hats with horns?" *acts out horn hat*
Coworker: *blank stare*
Me: "Yeah... you should probably just google it."

Me and a friend watching America's Funniest Home Videos
(don't even ask me why this was playing in the Middle East):
TV Host: "Look at that dog! He's the next Fred Astaire!"
Friend: "Whats a fred-stare?"
Me: "Fred Astaire was a guy. A dancer. Ginger Rogers? Fred and Ginger? They were like, the most iconic dancing couple in history! They were movie stars in the 1930s and 40s."
Friend: *blank stare*
Me: "They danced. Fred danced. The announcer is just joking that the dog is a good dancer."
Friend: "Oh. Haha. Dancing dog."

More often than not, the person who asked me explain something ends up more confused than before I explained. These examples are harmless, purely fact, but I am cautious about what I say when it comes to opinion questions, because my response is often taken as "the American point of view." Despite my insistence that I am in no way representative of the entire United States population, my opinion is often perceived as being "what Americans think."

Often times, this whole situation is incredibly frustrating for me. There are so many concepts that I have in my head, but seem to be unable to verbally express. Like, a Viking. Of course I know what a Viking is... unless you ask me. I get so many questions that I don't fully know how to explain: "What is an 'urban center'?" "What is 'Biblical authority'?" "Who is Lady Gaga?" "How does voting work?" "Do Americans eat Middle Eastern food?" There's nothing worse than being asked these questions and leaving people totally confused because of my poorly articulated answers.

Actually, I take that back. There is something much worse, and that is being asked questions that I am completely incapable of answering: "Why do Americans think we're all terrorists?" "How come Westerners dislike Arabs?" "Why don't soldiers get in trouble when they shoot us but we get arrested when we throw rocks back?" "How come people can just steal our land?" "Why doesn't Israel have to obey International Law?" "Why does America let Israel get away with imprisoning, abusing, and terrorizing us?" "Why doesn't anyone care?"

Half the time I just tear up and sob "I DON'T KNOW!!!!!!!!" Because really, how does one answer a question like any of these? Occasionally I will try to highlight the difference between the American government and the American people (which is a distinction that most are very familiar with here, as much of international aid they get is from American donors who are absolutely adored, yet the American government is rarely spoken of fondly). Sometimes I try to argue the point that there is not a single thing that all Americans do, and that the groups they are talking about are not representative of every American. But mostly I just get depressed. I mourn for these people who seem to have been forgotten by the West; abandoned by the powerful nations.

This video does a good job of recognizing how ignorant we tend to be of the situation in Palestine. This is a trailer for a documentary about Palestinian Christians that was filmed by a friend of Bethlehem Bible College, where I work. It is intended for Pentecostals and Evangelicals, but even if you are neither, I highly recommend that you watch it, or at least the first 3 1/2 minutes of it. The first few sentences totally mirror my own reaction when first arriving in Palestine almost two years ago: How could I have not known about this?! 

 

This is all heavy stuff, I know. But just think, you get to turn off your computer and leave this blog post behind, but the people living here don't have that luxury. This isn't a story on a blog for them... this is every day life. You can imagine how draining it is to live in this context all of the time. But the good news is that I am having a much better week than I was last week. I'm feeling so much better, I cut my hair (more on that later), I finally did a huge grocery shopping run, and I've finally started to get into a rhythm here. While living in Palestine was very draining at first, I find that I'm getting a little more used to the pace of life, which is definitely a relief. I have some great stories to share... but I need a little bit more time to get things in order in my head. So until then, be safe and stay healthy... AND WATCH THAT VIDEO!

Sickness & Homesickness

It is a well known fact that I have a terrible immune system. I have no idea why; I wish I could just blame it on bad genes, but everyone else in my family always seems to be healthy. Despite my meticulous hand-washing, sanitizing, and avoidance of anyone who looks even slightly unhealthy, I still seem to spend most of the winter months being sick. It's usually not too bad, just a cold or reoccurring strep throat; really more of an inconvenience than a full-out "stay in bed for a week" kind of illness. Of course, this illness-proneness has followed me to Palestine, and while I've built up some semblance of an immunity to the common illnesses at home, coming here has exposed me to a whole new array of germs, none of which my body has any idea how to fight.

I feel like I've spent half my time here being sick. Whenever I encounter any new sickness... BAM... I get it. Luckily, none of them have been incapacitating. First, I had a week of sore throat/headache stuff. No big deal. Then, I had one long weekend of fever-vomiting awesomeness. Kind of miserable, but manageable. But now I've come down with THE WORLD'S WORST COLD, complete with loss-of-voice, why-can't-I-breathe issues (including the whole I-can't-sleep-for-more-than-an-hour-before-I-wake-up-because-I-can't-breathe thing), and sinus pain.

Now, a few minor illnesses would be fine for the strong, persistent, show-no-weakness kind of international volunteer who jumps out of bed in the morning and kicks injustice's butt all day. Unfortunately, this is not me. I am a TERRIBLE sick person. I whine. I complain. I throw myself a pity party. When I don't feel well, NO ONE feels well, because everyone has to listen to me be annoying.

The other down side is that between the lack of sleep and the feeling miserable, I'm a grouch. I'm short with people, and I can feel myself snapping over things that wouldn't usually bother me.

The phone rings in the office next door. My coworker answers it, and then walks out of her office and into mine. She sits down and continues to talk on the phone for ten minutes in Arabic.
Me: "CAN I HELP YOU WITH SOMETHING!?!?" *

Someone asks me to help finish a scholarship application he's been working on.
Me: "I FINISHED IT YESTERDAY AND I TOLD YOU. WHY DON'T YOU EVER LISTEN TO ME?!?!?!?!?!?!" *

My sweet, kind office-mate tells me that I don't look so great and asks me if I'd like him to make me some tea.
Me: "WAAAAAH YOU THINK I LOOK AWFUL. I DON'T WANT TEA, I WANT DEATH." *

*Each of my reactions have been slightly exaggerated for effect.  But only slightly.

Cognitively, I realize that I'm being irrational, and a total jerk. But I just don'ttttttttt feeeeeeeeeel welllllllllllllll.

It's times like these that are the hardest for me here. On days like today, I just want to be home, in my own bed, with my momma patiently listening to my whining and telling me that I'll feel better soon. It's funny that for me, sickness and homesickness seem to go hand-in-hand.

During our orientation, we spent a huge amount of time talking about homesickness; when to expect it and how to cope with it. Many of the SALTers that I have kept in touch with have shared that they feel very homesick. Honestly, I haven't been homesick at all over the last two months. Yes, there have been things that I miss about the States, but I have never not wanted to be here. There has never been a time when I've thought "wow, I really wish I could go home." I love Palestine. I adore the people, I enjoy my job, and the experiences that I'm having here are incredible. But today, none of that matters, because today, I am sick, and that overrules everything else.

I know that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, that this is where God has called me, but that knowledge does little to help make today any better. So what do I do? I could push through and ignore how I'm feeling. I could refuse to acknowledge that I'm having anything less than a perfect time. I could write about how wonderful things are and how happy I am. But I'm not going to do any of those things, because none of them would be genuine. And I am nothing if not way too brutally honest.

So instead, I'm going to publish this post about how miserable I am right now. I'm going to admit that while I love Palestine and I've been enjoying my time here, today I just wish I was home. I'm going to take a quick shower, put on sweatpants, make pancakes for dinner, and watch Harry Potter. I'm going to whine, and cry, and let myself be unhappy and lonely and homesick. I'm going to give myself one evening of total wallowing. But most importantly, I'm going to believe that tomorrow will be better. I'm going to be confident that while the last few days have been difficult, I am exactly where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing, and I wasn't brought here to be miserable. I will enjoy my pity party, take some Sudafed, and go to sleep. And the next time I post, it will be about some wonderful new adventure that I'm having here in Palestine.

Baptism Celebration: Palestine Style

One of the difficult things about living in a foreign country is knowing that I'm missing out on a lot of important things back home. Birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, school plays, weddings. I am not able to leave the Middle East until my term of service is complete - July 2012 - and so I'm not able to go home to be a part of these important events. The bright side is that I get to experience many of these events in Palestine, giving me a whole new appreciation for the differences between my home culture and the culture that I'm living in.

Yesterday, my youngest host-sister was baptized. Layal (which sounds like "lay" + "áh" + "l") is two years old, and definitely a handful. She's your typical wild, rambunctious little girl who loves to steal, put on, and hide mommy's makeup; go buy bread from the bakery next door with her sisters; throw shoes across the room; and grab the back of her older brother's shirt and slide along behind him as he runs around the house.

So anyway, yesterday was her baptism, and I was really excited to see exactly how baptisms work in the Palestinian Lutheran church. The thirty second version is: we went to church; Layal wore a puffy white dress; her Godparents held her through the whole service, and then brought her up at the end; the pastor did the whole "pour water on your head three times" thing; the end!

But of course, in typical Palestinian fashion, that was nowhere near the end of the celebration. After the service, we had about 20 minutes of picture-taking time. Layal and siblings. Layal and parents. Layal and extended family. Layal and strange visiting German. It was slightly tedious, especially for a squirming 2 year old who just wanted to go play in the dirt.

After the pictures, we went and had cake in the church's reception hall along with everyone who had been in the service. Now, considering that we had four groups visiting the church yesterday (two from the US, one from Germany, and one from Sweden), there were A TON OF PEOPLE! I felt a little bad for the visitors who hadn't learned the whole "keep food in your hands at all times or else you will be given more food" rule. Basically, they would eat their entire slice of cake, and within 30 seconds, someone would run up to them and offer them another piece, which would always be refused, but shoved into the guest's hand anyway. Then, the cycle of eating an entire slice and being force fed would repeat. I, being the experienced world traveler that I am, ate 3/4 of my slice of cake, and kept the remaining 1/4 in my hand. That way, when someone tried to give me cake, I could say that I already had some, and show them the piece in my hand.

People are always quick to learn about the poverty in other countries (so they think "we should eat everything given to us so that we aren't 'wasteful' "), but we rarely learn about the culture (which dictates that our guest should never leave hungry). Having an empty bowl, plate, cup, or hand is a signal that says "I ate or drank everything and so I must still have room in my stomach." You signal that you are full by leaving a bit of food or drink; this says "I am so full that I cannot even finish what I have!" While it may seem wasteful to a Westerner, it's actually quite the opposite. Leaving a little food on your plate means that you won't get an entire other serving, which you would either leave on your plate (wasteful), or eat and feel sick (also wasteful). So basically, this social cue actually helps avoid food waste. Smart, right?

After our cake time, the family went back to our house and had lunch. Now, in the States, when I say "the family went back to our house," I'm usually referring to my immediate family, because all of my other relatives live in different parts of the country. Here, when I say "the family went back to our house," I mean every single family member in the history of the universe. We had grandparents and siblings, aunts and uncles,  nieces and nephews, cousins, second cousins, and any other relation you can imagine. "The family" consisted of over 60 people, which considering the size of our house, was a bit of a challenge.

After about thirty seconds, I was exhausted, and it was difficult for me to stay downstairs and socialize for as long as I did. While my Arabic is improving (ever so slowly), it is still exhausting to try and follow conversations when I have very few clues as to what is going on. Luckily, my host mother's parents live in the US (Brooklyn, actually), and so my host-grandma and I chatted about the differences between life in Palestine and the US, namely about how everything, especially clothing, is so much cheaper in the States.

"Its the sales!" confides my host-grandma knowingly, "All that seasonal wear, it must to go, so they sell for next to nothing."
"Absolutely," I agree, "you may not be on the cutting edge of fashion when next October roles around, but who cares if you can save 60% on your heavy winter coat?!"
My host-gma explains, "In America, maybe problem to not have fashion coat. Here, no matter. Looking pulled together matters, not exactly what you wearing. We don't have ...what it means... name brands? Most of Western fashions is not appropriate for wear here anyway, so we don't follow closely. I go shopping at many sales, and when I visit Palestine, I bring years number of clothes to my daughters."

We laugh and joke and commiserate over how much we miss Target and Kraft Mac & Cheese. Unfortunately, the host-grandparents are only here for "a short visit." They arrived in July and they will head back to the US in early November.

Around 3pm, after about two hours of lunch, I went upstairs to my apartment to take a nap. The party was still raging downstairs, but I was nodding off. I figured I would be back down in an hour, and no one would even notice that I was gone. I woke up at 8pm, 5 hours later, and by that time everyone had gone home. I guess I was more tired than I thought.

I am always surprised at what huge celebrations we have over every event, and how many people always seem to be in attendance. The size of the families, and how close they are, always amazes me. I don't know my mom's brother's wife's siblings... in fact, I don't even know if she has any. I would never invite them to a party that I threw, and even if I did, they definitely wouldn't come!  I love the familial support system here, and even though I'm only a host-child and not a blood relative, I love that everyone treats me as part of the family. I can't wait for more celebrations with this wonderful group of people, and I'll be sure to tell you all about our awesome parties!