Homesick

I'm homesick.
And not just because I'm in a foreign country. Not just because it's father's day. Not just because my host sister returned home for the first time after studying in the US for ten months and seeing her see her family and seeing their joy gave me stomach cramps--no.

I am homesick because I have not been home for twenty-four weeks. And in those twenty-four weeks life has been unbelievably full. Lifegivingly full--but full none the less.

I left home to spend four days in Washington DC with a group of like-minded college students to strategically coordinate an advocacy group for Israel and Palestine.

I returned back to college to face the confusion of navigating broken relationships, changed living situations, and readjustments. 

I took a full class load, worked about 12 hours per week, coordinated events, attended hours and hours of meetings and rehearsals, figured out my summer plans, and went to counselling.

In February I spent a weekend traveling through the south--Alabama, Georgia, Missouri, Ohio, Tennessee--on a racial reconciliation trip. This set the tone for much of the rest of the semester.

In March I took a week off and went on a spring break trip to Florida. That was fun.

I spent Easter in Bloomington Normal, as per usual. 

I went to Ireland and Northern Ireland, and spent two very full weeks with classmates witnessing, experiencing, and wrestling with reconciliation on a personal, relational, and societal level.

and now I am in Palestine--for two and a half more weeks. 

I am tired.

And home has come to be a place where trees stay green forever and water tastes good from the tap and cheese is perfect and beer is the best. And all I want right now is to sit on my papa's lap and cry. 

two and a half weeks to go. six months. And then home.

Mostly, all of this is teaching me the importance and the meaning of rest.

Yes, I can go to tel aviv for a day and relax. I can go for hikes or take every Saturday to ride the train through the city. I can get comfortable reading alone in a coffee shop or going for walks. 

I can get used to taking naps and reading for fun and doing restful things. But I have yet to find a portable sanctuary that is as rejuvenating as Oregon. As my home.

Explaining Racism in Palestine

Yesterday two really tragic things occurred:
Near the Sea of Galilee, the church that pays tribute to Jesus feeding the 5,000 was gutted, vandalized, and burned. The Israeli teens who were suspected as responsible were arrested, and later released.

And in South Carolina a pastor and eight of his congregants (all of whom were black) were gunned down by a white man who were attending a prayer service.

Both of these bear a parallel to something I have been reflecting on frequently during my time in The West Bank. The idea that there is a presence of a privileged, dominant, power elite in both Palestine (I use this term for the entire region, not just the occupied territories--sorry) and in the Unites States is one that is not easily ignored. And it would be a lie for me to assume that being convicted deeply about one excuses us from being convicted about the other.

What was surprising to me yesterday, in the wake of both of these tragedies, was that the elitism of the crimes was severely overlooked.

Attacks are attacks and terror is terror. And just because those responsible are white, hold power, and have the privilege to express their frustration with such violence without it reflecting the morals of their entire community, does not mean we should not begin to be critical.

Two weeks ago I sat in a bar with some of my co-workers and I brought up the Black Lives Matter movement and my experience visiting Ferguson with the North Park Sankofa trip this past February. My American counterparts engaged in dialogue about this openly, with support. My Palestinian coworkers didn't understand.
"you have a black president," "what about MLK?" and "what do you mean there are still such extreme tensions between the communities?" have been common responses to this discussion.

It's been strange educating my host brother about the ways that the occupation parallels our own militant policing structure in the US. While Palestine has roadmaps, the US has pipelines. Segregation exists as a policy in both places.

It's been strange feeling like in both incidents yesterday what happened was viewed as a random occurrence and not a symptom of a greater problem.

It is impossible for me to sit here and not think about what would have occurred had the roles been reversed in either case:

If a black man had assassinated a white representative, a pastor, and seven others in a prayer service: the media would be feasting on the crime. The concept of mental health would be absent from the conversation all together.
If Palestinian Christians had torched a synagogue yesterday: Israel likely would have responded with tanks and guns and arrests would have already been made. Imagine if it had been Muslim Palestinians who attacked a synagogue. It would have been another nail in the casket of Islamaphobia and westernized misconceptions of Arab violence.
In a reversed situation the crimes would have affirmed concepts of prejudice which led to these crimes being committed in the first place.

What I'm saying is that because the powerful individuals were the ones who committed the crimes--our reporting and response has become muted. Blurbs go out, updates are made. But where is the outcry?
Why are we not holding ourselves accountable and doing more to speak for the vulnerable victims in these situations?
How many more buildings do we have to lose, how many more people have to die? What is the cost we are willing to pay for living in a myth of dominant-narrative self-determination?

I'm frustrated by this. I'm frustrated that in both places where my heart lies--there is silence. There is submissive victim-hood. There is misguided frustration.

I am frustrated. The end.

Midway blog.

I blog a lot less than I hoped to. But every day here is so full and so tiring that by the time I sit down to write--nothing. Exhaustion takes over, or there's a Turkish soap opera on, or my coworkers want to go out to eat...all of that to say, there's a lot of other things to be doing.

And there's a lot to take in.

As my host dad says, "everything here is corruption," which is mostly to say, nothing in Palestine really works efficiently or the way it should. And of course he thinks that. Half of the land his family owned is on the other side of the wall. He's seen his entire world get bisected, demolished, and occupied.

It's a lot to take it.

Everyday I wake up and take the shortest, most unsatisfyingly conservative shower ever. Because Military occupation means that water belongs to the occupier. Which means that every drop of water counts because water here is expensive.

It's a lot to take in.

When I leave for work I usually get honked at, yelled at, or gestured towards by men at least 5-6 times in the 1 kilometer walk. I've come to understand that this is for a few reasons: 1) I'm white 2) oppression makes you rowdy 3) while Palestine has high rates of college graduates, they have low rates of employment ... thus there's a lot of shbabs (young people) with not a lot to do but to hit on the foreign girl who walks past the shop every day

It's a lot to take in.

When I get to work I walk into an office with six Palestinians who need permits to leave the West Bank, one German-Palestinian whose family lives in the 48 and refuses to visit the West Bank, and German diplomat who has a special passport so he never has to stop at checkpoints, and one other American who is doing whatever she can to figure out her visa situation.

It's a lot to take in.

When I decide to check my phone, I am constantly reminded that I am lucky enough to have an Israeli number. Deeming me worthy to have 3G coverage in the West Bank, while most of the Palestinians I have met are restricted in coverage, cost, and call dependability. I pay thirty dollars a month for better cell service than I get in the US. Because I am not the one being occupied.

It's a lot to take in.

When I come home I am greeted by my host sister, who just graduated; and two host brothers--one who is getting a degree in computer engineering; the other who studies sociology. None of them are hopeful for employment opportunities, despite graduating in four-five years, with good grades and in industries that the US judges as 'promising'. My host brother who studies sociology often asks me why I think he should get an education at all--he'll never get a job, he won't be able to marry. "I live under double occupation," he says "Israel and the Palestinian Authority"

It's a lot to take in.

When I sometimes decide to leave Bethlehem, I am stopped with friends at checkpoints because an American and a Palestinian should never be in a car together. I am instantly suspect. They are instantly guilty. And we are both instantly being yelled at in Hebrew.

It's a lot to take in.

Since I have been here, my awareness of the distractions: the drinking, the drugs, the relationships, the TV, the gossip, the partying; has made me more and more aware of the constant stress that individuals living here are under. It's a lot of trauma to go through every day constantly conscious of the pressurized zone we live in.

It's a lot to take in.

When my younger host-sister returns from studying in the US for her junior year of high school, she has to take 3 airplanes to get to Amman and a bus from Jordan to Bethlehem. It will take 2-3 days, and cost about $1,000 more than your average US to Israel travel cost. Because she is Palestinian, she cannot fly through Tel Aviv, and she has to take special Palestinian only busses to Bethlehem. My trip home will last less than 12 hours, and my biggest hassle is airport security and taking my shoes off (inshallah).

It's a lot to take in.

When I choose to take a service (taxi) to Ramallah I am faced with two options: Faster and safer Israeli only roads; or long, dangerous Palestinian service roads? (a 45 minute travel difference).

It's a lot to take in.

While my coworker and I can choose to cross the wall to get Ethiopian food, or sushi, or peanut butter; our fellow staff can only do so during Christmas and Easter.
I'm only 21, and I can rent a car and a hotel room in Tel Aviv, while my 40 year-old boss cannot.

It's a lot to take in.

The amount of money I budgeted for this seven-week experience is equal to the average annual income of a school teacher in  Bethlehem.

It's a lot to take in.

And because it's a lot to take in, it has remained in. I internalize it and take naps, or watch Turkish soap operas in Arabic, or go out with coworkers, because sitting in all of this for three and a half weeks is exhausting.

Baggage claim

My name is Katie, and I admit that my feminism has sometimes made me distrusting of men.

Admittance is the first step.

backstory:

I got dumped this year. That shouldn't be news to anyone, and if it is...welcome to my life. After that I did a lot of soul searching with friends, my parents, my counselor, and God...and I admittedly got pretty angry. At men. In general. I got called out a couple times, so I stopped talking about it so much. But the anger still kind of festered.

today:
I was riding in a sherut (group taxibus) back to Bethlehem from Ramallah. I was in between two young, Palestinian guys--who were probably my age and couldn't seem to understand that I don't speak Arabic. But they kept trying.
I knew enough to tell them my name, age, social security number (ha, just kidding, mom), and that I wasn't married. Azra was nice enough to hang my purse next to his coat on the seat in from of him. Mohammed was nice enough to pay for the twenty nis ride.
I managed to figure out that both of them had been arrested for throwing stones in Bethlehem (this is common) and that Azra likes vodka and smoking cigarettes (this is what one and a half years of language study gets you at a liberal arts university). I tried explaining that I was living with a family in Bethlehem for seven weeks, but we never got to that chapter in al-kitaab (the useful stuff doesn't come till after the words for varying degrees of education and governmental positions. Thanks for literally nothing, jamyat George Town.).
At this point, it all sounds pretty innocent. But...just hear me out.
Mohammed kept tapping his fingers next to my leg or touching my leg, Azra offered for me to lay on his shoulder. I think both of them offered to come to my room and buy me a beer...but I might also be getting those words confused with other things. the point is. in the moment all I could think about was how pissed I was that I was in a country where I didn't speak the language, was entrapped by two guys I don't know who made me feel really objectified, and how frustrated I was that I couldn't do anything about it for risk of cultural faux pas.

Here's the kicker:
The sherut dropped us off about 4 blocks too soon. I tried to stay in until the last stop, but the driver insisted I exit with my new pals, promised "they're nice boys, they will get you home" and drove off. The first thought through my mind: Katie-0, Arab Patriarchy-victory. Also I amde sure I had minutes on my cell phone so I could call my coworkers or host dad, just in case.

Turns out. When I figured out where I was, explained (several times) to Azra and Mohammed that I really was okay to get home walking at 6pm, and said goodbye. It was fine. They shook my hand, said ma salema and walked away.

WHAT THE HECK?!

Here I was worrying for literally the entire ride from Ramallah to Bethlehem about how to say "no, I don't want to drink, smoke, or hang out with you, I want to go and sit with my host family and eat goast cheese" when really the situation was (more or less) under control.

Yes, feeling uncomfortable was VALID. (because feelings are valid and women do get put in awkward and vulnerable positions all the time) but letting those feelings cloud my understanding of who Mohammed and Azra were was kind of unfair. I never gave them the chance for me to have to tell them to back off. I just let out my feminist anxieties and planned my escape route if they followed me home.

I ignorantly let my anger cloud the fact that these are two men who, aside from a cliche arrest record, were really really kind. Azra gave me gum, Mohammed closed a window for me...yani, maybe I need to redraw the line between caution and engagement. And maybe I need to rebuild my perspective of actions and who is preforming them being separate.

Some solitude

I got to spend a lot of time with people this weekend--it was incredible. I had the opportunity to celebrate the Virgin Mary in the Christian Quarter of Jerusalem, I got to eat real Palestinian Barbecue on the roof of a 120 year-old building, and I got to play with a seven month old baby. a lot. It was strange though, as I went about my day today I felt this deep sense of loneliness, of emptiness.

I had known this would happen eventually, that at some point of this journey it would hit me that I am alone here. Yes, sure, I am being housed by an incredibly kind and caring family; I have a good number of people to visit and meet with; and I have some international colleagues who occasionally invite me out for argilla or beers; but none of those people are the people who know me most intimately--and they won't be, because I am only here for seven weeks and seven weeks is still an arm's length away.

It was hard that it hit, though, because it made me realize something bigger about the work I hope to do with my life: this is probably how it is going to always be. Yes, I will make friends. Yes, I will find stronger community than this. Yes, all those things and those buts and ors and ands. But, from here on out, there is very little being rewarded for the work I'm doing. Gold stars ran out when I started public school. People will only be impressed with me for so long. And in the real world there is no diversity awards banquet that gives me a free alarm clock just for showing up to meetings.

I think the above paragraph can be read as a mourning, but I intend it more as an honest realization. This trip is showing me more and more that I WANT to be doing this work. It has me thinking the future in a way I never have before. Yes, the goal is STILL Palestine, the call is STILL to live in this place and to be with these people. But what is changing is how I see myself doing that.

Will I get a master's in urban development? Or tourism? Or education? Or business? Or management? Or economics?

Will I stay in Chicago after graduation with hopes of getting an Americorps scholarship to work in an industry or to do work with entrepreneurs?
Will I go to Europe, to South Africa, to Portland, to Ohio, to Nortre Dame? Maybe. At this point, the idea of what opportunities lie one year away from me make me more nervous than trying to figure out what to do HERE. And here is BIG.

But guys, there is this new anticipation, this new strategy, this new need to learn something so I have something to GIVE, something tangible.

Palestine doesn't need more NGOs, it doesn't need more international peacemakers coming in and asking for a room to stay in and for shoddy Arabic lessons. It doesn't need more international schools, or summer camps, or storytelling sessions. It doesn't need more documentaries. It doesn't need better hashtags. What Palestine needs is itself. It needs to be invigorated.

And in a lot of ways, maybe the reason I am so drawn to this place, so hopeful of what it can be for me and what I can be for it; is because I need that too.

Inshallah, filisteen, someday.