a 38 billion dollar boomerang

On September 14, 2016 the U.S. signed off on a $38 billion military aid deal with Israel.

That number, one more time,

$38,000,000,000

The US just allocated $4,750 PER CITIZEN OF ISRAEL for military spending for the next ten years. And, if you really want to get technical (because you know Israel is really big on being a bit exclusive *coughapartheidstatecough*) it's really more like $6,333.00 per Israeli Jewish (that includes secular and religious) citizen. 

That's the equivalent of the US telling Israel that for the next 1,250 days, every. single. citizen of Israel will get a free Starbucks coffee. (or, if the coffee is only for Israeli citizens whose ID reads "Jewish", the coffee could flow for 1,666 days).

It's fine, Obama, I didn't want your money anyway. 

Oh wait. 



What's that...

Source: Facebook, Brea Baker

crippling loan debt?

insufficient job creation? 

expensive health care?

astronomical housing costs?

increasing wage gap? 




*sits nervously in corner chewing nails and laughing*







So what's the deal with all of this anyway?

According to The Guardian the deal isn't just a fancy giant lottery style check for $38 billion dollars.
It's being dispersed over the next ten years
It limits Israel from asking congress for additional military funding (because in our last round of military aid, the US pledged 30 billion, and congress allocated an additional 5 billion for missile defense in 2014....because blowing Gaza to bits wasn't enough, they had to annihilate it)

There's also another condition which I found most interesting.

"Israel would no longer be allowed to spend over a quarter of the military aid on home-produced weaponry, and would instead be required the full amount on US arms. Nor would it be able to spend any of the aid on fuel for its armed forces."

which means...
Israel has to spend the money the on US created weaponry.

Which really makes sense if you think about it.

I remember, back in my college days, sitting in a guest lecture with Jeff Halper (the founder of the Israeli Committee Against Home Demolitions). One thing he said has stuck with me for years and has become central to my understanding of the unparalleled support that the US provides to Israel at the expense of the Palestinian people.

As always seems to happen in a presentation on Palestine and Israel, someone asked why the US is such a big supporter of a nation who is clearly in violation of human rights and causing so much destruction. Jeff said, "The US really needs a testing ground for its weapons"

It's true. during 2014's Operation Protective Edge, the US designed "Iron Dome" defense system proved successful. It's only a matter of time (if it hasn't secretly been done already) until the Iron Dome is installed as a protector of potential terrorist targets on US soil.

There's also been a great deal of attention given in the conversation about police brutality in regards to militarized police forces and military equipment that gets passed onto police units nationwide. If you have spent any time in Jerusalem the concept of a militarized police force becomes shockingly normalized. And that entire conversation gets amplified whenever we stop and realize that our own police forces in NYC, Chicago, and all across the US have been trained by Israeli special forces.

The point is this. The more military aid the US gives to Israel, the more militarized the US becomes in the long term. So, the US isn't just pledging $38 billion to support one of the strongest, most heavily armed state-supported militaries in the world, it's pledging billions of dollars to support its own military development, increasing our military force abroad (watch out, ISIS) and domestically (I feel so safe.)

Personally, this scares me deeply. Especially as presidential nominees praise the new US-Israel deal

"Democratic presidential nominee Hillary Clinton, who has expressed opposition to universal health care and free college tuition, cheered the aid deal [in a statement released by her campaign:]  'Senator [Tim] Kaine and I applaud the agreement on a new memorandum of understanding regarding American security assistance to Israel.' " (source: electronic intifada)

It is terrifying to consider that, as a recent college graduate who is grappling with the realities of debt and unemployment, the US is essentially self-funding its own military strength through the facade of military aid.

It is terrifying enough to know that Israel will have 3 billion more dollars over the next ten years to fund missile attacks on Gaza and to increase "security" and surveillance on Palestinians living in the West Bank and the 1948.

It is unsettling to me that, as voices in the US that support BDS and other movements to liberate Palestine are being silenced, there is less and less power to raise a collective voice to put an end to increased military aid spending in Israel.

The longer this progresses, the more I feel like I'm stuck in a nightmare where my screams are choked back and muffled.

So cheers, Obama, and the democratic party, on your charitable giving. You did promise us change, after all. We just hoped it would benefit us, the people who voted you in twice.

diaspora

this blog post is not meant to belittle the experience of any people group or historical oppression or to try to equate myself in any way with the suffering of indigenous and minority peoples everywhere. I see you, I see your struggle as greater than my own, and I am sorry.

About five months ago I skyped my parents as I prepared to leave for Palestine.
My dad told me then that he would probably be leaving Reedwood.

Reedwood, for all intensive purposes-despite how messy it can be-had been the most constant source of community in my life for fifteen years. It was on those old orange pews that I sat through countless open worship times and learned to appreciate and love the Quaker process. It was in those classrooms where I learned bible stories from foam figurines, and Friends history from paper puppets, that I first learned that it was okay (and essential) to question one's own faith.

Reedwood is the place that gave me a voice. Where recitations taught me the importance of annunciation and the power of words. Where being the only girl in youth group taught me to see myself outside of traditional gender roles. Reedwood saw me as more than just "Ken's daughter" and let me speak my piece if necessary. They empowered me. They held me through the angsty teenage years and the questioning and searching college years. They celebrated the big things, and mourned the hurts.

I knew there would always be a hug, a jar of jam, a kind word, and at least a few dinner invitations when I came home.

But that all changed five months ago.

I graduated college and came back to Oregon without a church home. My family being displaced by  church politics and power dynamics. This summer, it has felt like (in so many ways) like i'm coming home to an empty house.

Last Sunday was the first time I sat on a pew in Friends church since  December. It wasn't my church. And the whole time I sat there I choked back tears as I thought about  how lonely it is to be displaced.

There's not a lot of difference between being a refugee and being diaspora. The two things relate to being displaced and leaving homeland because of hardship. But while refugees often live in camps or are offered services by governements; the diaspora is left to fend for itself.

I can recognize that I am loved. That NWYM is my spiritual home. That I am a Quaker through and through. But being displaced and expelled from the place that instilled that in me has been hard.
It has been hard not to be angry. Not to be calloused or flippant. It has been hard to answer questions like "where do you go to church" or "what does your dad do", because very few people care to hear the hardship that you've endured at the hand of an overzealous elder's committee.

I can recognize that it was probably time for us to leave Reedwood, that this provides a space to redefine my faith community and to be vulnerable in ways I have not ever had to be in church. But it is hard to enter into a new building and to feel like they already have what I had--and how will I ever catch up, or fit in, or feel safe again?

I miss those bright orange pews and my dad's cluttered office.
I miss feeling secure in where I attended and knowing exactly who I was.
I miss the security of having a place that was mine, instead of always being the visitor.

And all I can do right now is just to be honest about the hardship of that.

Easter

A week ago I was wearing an Arab Catholic Scout uniform and marching all over Jerusalem with the Palestinian Christian community to celebrate Palm Sunday.
Between now and then I have traveled home, contracted a cold virus, spent too many hours awake, and have made pilgrimage to Bloomington-Normal, Illinois for my Easter break traditions with my bestfriend (hi, Hannah, I love you).

I struggle with knowing how to talk about two places that are so diametrically opposed.
I don't know how to be happy in each place when my heart just really wishes a tectonic shift would make Chicago and Bethlehem neighbors. (it'd save me a couple bucks, too)
Honestly, coming home often feels really empty.

So today, as I put on lipstick and wedges and sang hymns that my Grandma loved; I was also thinking a lot about those I love who celebrate Easter by playing bagpipes and celebrating holy fire miracles and making special cookies.
Coming home often feels really empty.

But today (as I felt the emptiness of Western adapted traditions, as I wished that I was in a place where Easter was a day which celebrated identity as much as salvation), the pastor opened an empty egg. "what's in here?" she asked a crowd of sleepy-eyed children. Nothing. There is nothing in the egg. One sassy kid said "air," and, of course, the polite midwestern crowd laughed at how scientifically witty this small child was. But really. There was nothing in the egg.

And today (as I sat in church thinking about how I have no idea what I can do next year, and feeling stressed that I needed to send a resume to the alumni relations office, and feeling overwhelmed that I have no idea how diversity and modernity interact for my upcoming sociology comprehensive exam), the pastor proclaimed that the egg was "FULL OF POSSIBILITIES". To someone who considers herself an academic, this seemed ridiculous.

I'm used to Easter sermons that dive deep into the Greek translation of resurrection, which emphasize our rebirth in Christ. And here we are, getting all giddy and motivational about empty plastic eggs.
and besides that...
Coming home feels really empty. (and that emptiness is not all full of possibilities)

Then, transitioning to a more adult-directed sermon,  she talked about how the tomb of Jesus was also empty. And because it was empty and Jesus was resurrected, the possibilities of what Jesus can do through us are endless. After all, he used women and Peter to spread the word of his resurrection. Because the tomb was left empty, our faith is made possible and beyond that-God's ability to work in and through us is made possible. And then I had to stop being such a skeptic because it made sense, and its simplicity was pretty refreshing (and honestly, all that I could handle).

The emptiness that I have felt coming home from Palestine after three weeks in nothing compared to what it was last July. And, it's nothing compared to what I know is coming in May when I am released from the burdens of an undergraduate degree.
Instead, this time, the emptiness has felt warm. Maybe even full of possibilities.

Today, I was reminded that when Jesus left the tomb empty, he went and did a great thing.
And if I am feeling empty, what an opportunity for Jesus to do a great thing in and through me as well. Of course, I still wish that I had been in Jerusalem today. To celebrate with Palestinian Christians and to celebrate identity and connection to the Land . But today, Bloomington Normal, Illinois felt just as sanctified as the Churches of East Jerusalem, and that has made coming home a lot less empty.

Processing Paris

Last February I took a trip called Sankofa.
It's essentially a multi-day road trip with stops scheduled intermittently so we can keep our brains on overdrive and stretch our legs. The point of Sankofa is to reconsider how we talk and and process race. It's a conversation that is ongoing, and the trip helps it get started.

Each year looks different depending on the group of students who participate. Last year we stopped on a plantation, at the location of the Mike Brown Shooting, and at an old underground railroad house. Historically the trip has been focused on white-on-black racism, as that narrative is hardly taught and greatly misunderstood. But the trip last year boasted other minorities as well. Students of non-black ethnic backgrounds, of alternative sexual orientation, of non-evangelical religions, and of the mental health community all started raising their voices by the second day saying "what about my pain?"

On Sankofa I learned that when we become afraid of scarcity, things get ugly.
When people's stories weren't told completely, when they felt that they might be minimized to a footnote or an anecdote, the pain came out. #blacklivesmatter turned into #blacklivesmatterasmuchbutnotlessthanlatinalivesandqueerlives #anddontforgetmentalhealth #orwhitepeople And by the time we were done hash-tagging, there was no room for another message. Our character limit had been met, and our characters were worn thin.

I've seen this happening in an odd way with the Paris bombings. Statuses calling for attention for Kenya, Beirut, Nigeria, Chicago, and Palestine came pouring in. And the feelings of scarcity began to overflow.

At first I was also angered by the focus, then I completely disengaged. Because, if Paris is overshadowing Beirut and Palestine and Pakistan, maybe I should just close my eyes to all of this.
I'm tired. And overwhelmed. And I have a paper to write. You know?

Instead of letting ourselves sit in the shock of Paris, we were attacked for caring.

And yes, white people caring about white people and not brown people is ANNOYING. I agree. Our ethnocentric response of "that could happen to me" when Paris gets hit and not when Beirut does is wrong.
When we hear that children are dying in Gaza and that roads are shut down in Hebron and we say "makes sense, that place is a mess," we have learned nothing.

Let us stop this battle for headlines and status updates and instead start a battle for humanity. Paris is the whole world. Paris is Palestine. Paris is Beirut. Paris is Chicago. So let's stop acting like if we all have blue white and red profile photos that Paris will just be Paris, and instead let's let our hearts mourn with refugees and Muslims and Parisians alike.

If sitting on that Sankofa bus taught me anything it was that people desire for their pain to be acknowledged, but sometimes we need a gateway into understanding.
If Paris teaches us nothing else, let it teach us to have our hearts broken.
Let it teach us to mourn violence as a whole--not just victims, but also victimizers
Let us seek to deeper understand global desperation.
Let us light candles. Not just at vigils but as a daily practice for reminding us how crumbly this world can start to feel.
And let us get on the bus, and never get off as we partner in a the journey to humanizing.

It overflowed

Wednesdays for the past few weeks have been total train-wrecks.
From drinking a couple glasses too much of the cheap, three dollar wine I picked up at TJ's and barfing it up, to finding out about new relationships on painful anniversaries, to getting unexpected messages which throw your entire day into chaos; hump-day has presented some pretty difficult humps to slump myself over.

Today was not really any different. I woke up, saw the mountain of clothes on my floor, remembered how anxious I had been the past three days, remembered how I had a midterm exam to do tonight and how I had to go to my internship earlier than usual. I don't do well with inconsistencies, and today was full of them. So I did something consistent

I took my morning poop.

And I clogged the toilet (this is not consistent)

Which would all be fine, if this had not been the second time this had happened this year. And that would not matter if toilet clogging was not one of my "top five more irrational triggers of anxiety and shame". (it's been a thing since sleepaway camp, ask anyone who was ever in my cabin if they knew I pooped [they didn't, because I never did])

So I huffed a big sigh, grabbed the plunger and did what I know how to do well.

and it didn't work

all day
it didn't work

So when I got home at 10:30 tonight, after a long day of work, headaches, messy rooms and stupid exams, and it was STILL CLOGGED, I felt nothing.

Which is new for me.

usually, this would have set me over, and my roommates got that. They apologized profusely for not attending to it. They asked if they could help. and I was so calm.

I knew it had to be done. I knew it would be fine.
It overflowed once. It took half a roll of paper towels to sopp it up. I got some on my shoes. It's fine.

The point is. That today the literal shit overflowed and it dodn't phase me like it should have.

I think, if this year has taught me anything, it's that I can roll with the punches. Because after terrible Wednesdays there is literally always a wonderful Thursday.

If the toilet clogs, there is always a promise that it will loosen up and release. Today, for the first time, I don't want to cry because my poop sometimes doesn't flush the right way.

So, c'mon Wednesdays, keep it coming. I have a plunger, and I am ready.

Someone told me I'd be good at radio once.

It's because I used to be able to fooling people into thinking I had a passionate voice.

But lately,
my voice just feels flat.
Like any air I had in my lungs that inflated what I said
got let out.
Like I've let it out.

What's scary about this is that passion is pretty much the only word I would use to define myself.

Passion drives me.
God made me passionate.
I get passionate about most things (like doughnuts, and injustice, and feminism, and Palestine, and boots)

but now anytime I have to talk about that
it feels routine.

Like when radio announcers have to do plugs for brands of businesses that sponsor them,
And you can tell that the announcer really does like the hair salon he goes to, but he's so tired of telling people that he just wants to be quiet.

I'm in that boat.
I feel like a regurgitated sound track
Like the last stop of a stand-up-comedy-world-tour.
(There is no way those jokes feel funny 100 stops later).
Right?

What's scary about feeling like a slightly dilapidated balloon,
is that this is a lack of buoyancy is not something I have ever felt.

It isn't empty, I have felt empty.

It just feels like there's something that used to help intensify this passion which I suppressed or internalized in some weird, unconscious way. It feels like I'm protecting myself from the failure that I feel is inevitable with graduation looming around the corner.

It feels like my whole life is two baggy, sleep deprived eyes. And like there is no way I could ever pretend that I could do radio announcements anymore.

I don't know how to tend to this decaying space.
I don't know how to rejuvinate.

I feel helpless.

Like a radio announcer who has lost her voice.

Fine, I'll settle.

When I was very little I planted a Scrub Pine seed in the ground and a tree began to grow.
It's planted at the camp where I committed to Christ, grew up, and spent a summer of college. I remember, as an eight year old, being filled with anxiety about planting the tree at our home in Oregon. I didn't want to ever lose my tree. I didn't want it to get chopped down, or taken for granted, or neglected. I wanted it to be deeply rooted in a place where it would thrive forever.

For a long time, I compared my own life to my tree. I saw its struggle to grow in poor soil as my own failure to find a healthy community throughout middle and high school. I saw its stunted growth as my struggle with self-worth and anxiety. I compared both of our opportunities to be planted and rooted deeply as my journey of leaving Oregon and moving to Chicago.

Now I envy my tree. For over ten years it has grown taller than I can understand and has gotten to stay in the same place. After high school my solution to being hurt by Church and community was to move to Chicago. Over the last two years, I have felt a stronger and stronger desire to move and live in Palestine--something I had the opportunity to do this past summer. Now, quite unlike my tree, I feel my roots being splintered between three distinct communities.

The life I feared for my tree is the life I have led for the last three years. The night before I left to come back to North Park I wrote "I'm tired of being transplanted". I am tired of putting roots down for a few weeks and then leaving. I am tired of processing self, past, future, and present in different places.

Right now, if I could choose where I would go, I would take root in Palestine. I would move to Bethlehem. I would learn Arabic,  do research, and coordinate college students. I would find community among like-minded scholars, activists, and peacemakers. I would get a master's degree.

But right now, in reality, I have thirty-two weeks of college left. Right now, my roots get to hold tight in an eight-person house. Right now, I am planted at North Park for one more year. I'm resistant to this.
For one thing, it feels backward to go to Palestine for the summer and then to be forced to come home and to sit though meetings and classes when six weeks ago I was LIVING THE DREAM.
And THIS IS ENDING AS SOON AS I GRADUATE.

So there isn't a lot compelling me to really enjoy and embrace this season of life.
I need to admit that. I need to be honest about that.
I don't want to be here.

So right now I'm learning to settle; in all senses.
To settle into a place that feels temporary and transient and irrelevant.
And to settle for the fact that this is not a season of life in which I can be rooted in the way I wish to be; where I choose to be.

So I'll start working up the courage to drop some seeds into the ground where I am. And I need to have faith that something might actually grow; like it did so many years ago.

Grief and joy

It's yearly meeting week, which is easily one of my favorite weeks each year. Memories of children's picnics and daycamp mix with stories of middle school mischief and learning how to grow up well.
My best friends came from this week. Today I got to see many of them; to sit in silence, as we have learned to do, and to worship together in the spirit. Some call it culty, we call it worship and I call it home.

As we gathered and meditated on what we might envision as our future together we all saw images of light, of testimony to togetherness, of laying down ourselves for the sake of the whole. We saw unity.
And one friend spoke about grief.

There is a lot to grieve, and we avoid it. Dreaming of together is so much easier than looking one another in the eye and saying "you made me feel pain, hate, and gassy multiple times today". Talking about moving forward in unity is easier than recalling painful words or awkward moments that have sat and festered as open wounds for too long.
But grieving and facing these things gives us the opportunity to actually see and experience the joy of being together.
There is deep joy that comes from healing. And grief is our way of doing that well.

Yearly meeting drama aside,
I have a lot to grieve.
And while tonight's centering was about our community as a whole...I understood so personally that message.

I have learned the imprtance and significance of grieving to be fundamental in my own life. BUT it's also a lesson that has to smash itself over my head every time for me to remember it.
I instinctively run away, or keep running into the perverbial fire. It's healthy. I know.

So I'm going to let this blog be long. And incomplete. And a bit cathartic. Because I need to stop numbing being home. I need to grieve that I have left a place that became home in seven weeks. That I discovered myself on the rocky hills of the Makhrour and in the lofts of Ramalah. I have to grieve that I have left a family who welcomed me as one of their own-for better or for worse.
I have to grieve that I thought I found love, and that I am still coming to terms that I did not. I have to grieve being away during graduations, construction projects, festivals, protests, jagger parties, nargilla breaks, and trips to Tel Aviv.
I have to grieve that all I might have to look forward to is a 3 week trip in March.

I have to grieve that I am not there to shiva face in person. That I miss the craziness of Palestinian drivers and the anxiety of Goin anywhere. I miss catcalls and acid wash and araq. I miss lemon and mint tea and Mish Mish week. I miss arguing with my host brother about everything and sweating through my shirt on the walk to work. I miss church bells competing with call to prayer and the peace of Ramadan.

Hell. I even miss the wall.

And I have been so worried about letting myself be open about this for the sake of wanting this transition to go smoothly.
And that was wrong. Because I need to grieve. I need to be honest that this is hard and that I wish I was still there and that I would do anything to go back.

So here's to finding joy in presence by letting myself grieve the past.
Prepare yourselves.

Wherever you are; be there

Yesterday, something weird happened to me.
I went on my back porch.
I don't do that very often mostly because there is always a TV show to watch or a song to listen to or a friend to see. Why would I ever go outside?

and then yesterday, in the midst of jet-lag and bad sleep habits and iron deficiency catching up to me all at once, all I wanted to do was sit outside.
so I did.
and what did I learn? Oregon sun is just as warm as Palestine's, and it smells nice out there.

Today, after watching Inside Out, my mom and I decided to walk home instead of riding in the car with Ken.
It was strange, making a decision like this. When the easier thing to do was to hop in the Saturn and be home really fast.
But it was so nice out, and Oregon was calling me to be present.
And I've learned recently that it's really hard to be present because I spend a lot of my life in countdown mode.

sixteen week segments of life separated by short-term adventures and retreats into nature
I have thirty-two weeks of college separating me from the rest of my life.
And only twenty-four weeks of classes, tests, and monotony separating me from going back to Palestine.

One week ago I started saying goodbye.
You see, countdowns are a two-way street.

It seems to me that I am constantly conscious of the passing of time, how I am drifting farther and farther from key moments, and how I am drifting closer and closer to tomorrow.

Rarely am I rooted in the present.
And for now, all I want to be is here. And, if we're being honest, there and there. But there is time to be there, especially if I am here. and now I feel like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, without the nargilla.

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.

Travel Diaries: part I

This is my first time flying internationally alone. I fly domestically alone quite frequently. I love it. I'm a champion at TSA checks and kiosk ticketing. The anticipation, though, of flying from Dublin to London and London to Tel Aviv is a trip that creates a lot of apprehension. There's a lot that can go wrong.

My previous blog discussed a lot about my anxiety and panic attacks and triggers. Because I am ridiculously self-aware and beginning to do a better job at actually doing something with my awareness--I do a lot to be proactive about preventing triggers from occurring. This is apparent in the saga of preparing and executing the plan for traveling today. 

For example:

I showed up the airport eleven hours before my flight takes off. one more time, in case you're scanning ELEVEN HOURS EARLY. Sometimes, even I surprise myself, and I am both calmed by such ridiculousness and amused by what I will sometimes choose as the most stress-free plan of action.

Let me defend, momentarily, my decision to arrive so prematurely. 

I have a very short layover in London. (but wait, Katie, you're obsessed with plans, and you are so thorough, what happened? My travel agent is a bit inept, that's putting it nicely. Lesson: book your own tickets, kids) So, I decided I would come to the airport with my class in hopes that I could switch my flight to an earlier one (one leaving in two hours). Switching flights is appealing for multiple reasons: 1. I am at the airport 11 hours before I need to be. 2. I want my bags to make it to Bethlehem, too 3. I have been sick, and the idea of rushing my butt to an entirely new terminal sounds like the literal worst. 4. I like my class, the taxi was cheap, etc, etc.

Here's how that went:

Katie approaches Aer Lingus desk in Terminal 2 of Dublin Airport, and explains above situation. 

Nice employee says that I can't do that for some completely understandable reason that will result in Katie getting charged a no-show fee. and directs me to terminal 1 for the sake of double checking with the parent airline.

 Katie walks with a 20 lb duffle bag and carry on to the terminal next door, through said terminal, to a very small desk being manned by two very unpleasant women. Women provide same answer, suggest I call my travel agent (at 3:00am in the US, on a weekend) to reschedule, and quickly dismiss me.

Katie returns the way she came to terminal 2. Tries to call Elly, who is obviously NOT AT WORK AT 3AM ON SUNDAY. and decides to just check in and write a blog about it.

So I did. 

I am going to get on this flight in 8 hours. 

I am going to 'trot' (as nice travel man from above scenario described it) from terminal 2 to 5 in London. And I am going to make this dang flight if it is the last thing I do. 

All the while doing all of that in chocos, a maxi skirt and weird cotton t-shirt. I look very very very mennonite farm-kid meets amish mafia meets gap. It's a good look. At least I don't need to worry about being abducted. 

All for now. 

KC

Panic attacks

I've been having panic attacks my entire life. I know this to be true, not because I have known my entire life that my episodes are panic attacks but, because counseling has helped me accept and identify that I have an anxiety disorder. I can remember sever times in my childhood where a panic attack occurred, when I fled the room our of embarrassment, etc etc.

These episodes never become normative. They happen for ridiculous reasons (forgetting my credit card at home, breaking a rule at my best friend's house, watching my dad mow the lawn, losing weight) and often result in pretty extreme fatigue. For the first time in my life I can acknowledge what they are, but I still absolutely hate them.

I had a panic attack yesterday, that's why I'm writing this. Actually, yesterday isn't super accurate. This time, my panic attack started two days ago, lasted through the night and ended sometime yesterday evening. It was scary. I couldn't eat, I managed to sleep but I woke up exhausted by muscles tension, I was afraid of everyone, and all I wanted to do was just curl up in a ball and cry.

Eventually I did. And I did that for close to three hours. It was cathartic, and somewhat comforting, but it was hard. 

It was hard to realize that even after a year of counseling and cognitive behavioral therapy these episodes would still happen and still be somewhat uncontrollable. It was was hard to realize that panic attacks can happen anywhere, even on trips with classmates and best friends. It was hard to realize that I was about to be alone for seven weeks and: whatifoneofthesehappensinbethlehemandiamallaloneanditisshamefultocryandidontwanttoseemweakand...

I think you probably understand.

What was hardest about all of this though, is that it wasn't the last time. Posting a blog about my anxiety and panic attacks isn't a cause of celebration of being cured, but a step at becoming more honest and transparent about what it can be like to be myself sometimes. I do a really good job at letting people know the good things, the exciting things, and the impressive things. I usually try to hide the nitty-gritty of this. I don't like being honest about how sever my panic attacks are. I don't like telling people the depths of my anxiety. I don't like being asked questions. I don't like being pittied. 

But I'm starting to realize that I can't do this all by myself, and so maybe a first step is learning to share with everyone that these things happen, that they're hard, and that I'm learning to live with it in an honest way.

Two days ago, I had a panic attack which has left me in bed all day today. There. Honesty.

Three days in

Dear Friends,

Today was heavy.
After a semester of learning what we (kind of) could from books and movies, we dove head-on into Northern Ireland's history.
I did not retain a lot, but here is where I'm at:

Reconciliation is a long process. Signatures on a line, handshakes in photos, and a lack of bombs does not mean that a culture has actually shifted in any significant way. I met two men today, they are from different sides of Derry, and they are friends. But what troubled me was that once one man was gone, the tone of the other became drastically defensive. There seemed to be no letting go, no intentional altering of cultural norms and expectations. There was a lot of defensiveness, a lot of long-explanations, but no story of personal transformation.

I have come to the conclusion that reconciliation is a fluid and personal journey, as much as it takes place between people and groups.
If we rely solely on relationships to count towards reconciliation, if we think having friends from the other side of the bridge is enough, we miss out. We forget that reconciliation means giving up, forgiving, and doing so independently of the other side.
The other side may need to forgive something completely separate, they may have completely different needs, hurts, and expectations; and if we spend all of our time focusing on that--what gets done? We spend years and years in the same chairs with the same angry banter getting no where.

Instead, we must begin the work of reconciliation personally, and within our own communities. And if we do this simultaneously as we also build relationships and repair broken structures; there may be more room for the spaces of peace we ourselves create to be filled with meaningful transformation.

Furthermore. On a more specific note:
Labeling oppressor and oppressed is really tricky, and we probably shouldn't ever do that.

instead, what I found helpful today was going through a process of identifying things within communities which maintained myths of: victimization, superiority, power, and historical narrative. As myths are identified, I think the grey issues in conflicts become a bit more manageable and the reconciliation process above becomes more attainable. Identifying key points also elimiates our need as peacemakers and justice-seekers to choose sides, and we become fluid-actors, truth-speakers, and agents for change in all contexts.

On a more fun note:
We played games as a class for about two hours. I have not laughed so hard, yelled with joy so much, or felt so comfortable as I did tonight. Perhaps the greatest blessing of this trip is the small-haven it has provided of personal restoration and re-sprouting.

More to come later,
KC

Crying: a reflection of learning to mourne

It's been a week full of moments where I felt like I needed to cry. It has seemed for so long that I am pregnant with emotion, and that the only way to let it out is to cry, to let tears fall, to wail, and to express outwardly in inner turmoil that seems to define my life this year.

The terrifying thing is that I can't seem to cry alone anymore. After a year of processing pain with others around me, of relying on tears to usher in some deeper compassionate response, tears seem to be reserved for the moments of vulnerability that need a defense. Crying ushers in a parental compassion, one of care and concern, and consolation. Processing my struggles, my shortcomings, my pain, my grief: these are all things reserved for the inward process. And for the Counselor's office at one on Wednesday afternoons. 

What I have begun to realize over the past few days is that the roles need to be reversed. I need to cry alone, so that I can feel the comfort of a mothering God surround me with grace and patience. And I need to learn that getting stuck in my head ultimately leads to a lot of isolation. 

Rationalizing every moment has led to a lot of great realizations:

I have learned that God is calling me home, that I am the beloved child who has a place in God's warm, compassionate and caring embrace.

I have learned that saying "no" is not just okay, it's necessary.

I have learned that seeking spiritual direction and reconciliation starts within: by gently bathing my spirit with the presence of God; by gently weening my soul from the clutches of popularity, numbing, and avoidance; and by aggressively pursuing God. 

I have learned that taking walks outside is important, that I don't want a boyfriend, that I'm doing well, and that I am called.

And all of this head knowledge, all of these silent commitments to myself have led me to wanting to just sit in my room, reading books, and communing with God. 

There is nothing wrong with such actions. Choosing to spend a Saturday at the library and in my room wrapped up in a book that speaks deeply to grief, spirituality, and faith while my roommates all watch a Harry Potter movie doesn't mean I'm suffering; it means I'm healing. 

What I have become aware of, after moments of extreme physical weakness and anguish; is that I have not cried with God in a long, long time. And after a week of feeling as though that is all I can do, I am beginning to pray and hope that these tears would come and continue the process of healing in a new way.

An opportunity to support:

Dear blog reader,
           As you may know I sought support last spring to attend the Christ at the Checkpoint Conference in Bethlehem, Palestine. At the conference I felt a strong call on my life to engage in global conflict as a peacemaker, a mentor, and a friend. During the conference, my passion for seeking true justice and holistic peace was increased as I had the opportunity to meet Christians from all around the world who were also making and seeking peace globally and in their home communities. Since returning home, I have been eagerly seeking new opportunities to go back to Palestine, to continue learning, and to further understand God’s call on my life.

            The program I am enrolled in at North Park is taking a trip to Northern Ireland this May. Admittedly, at first I was very frustrated with the decision of the department to travel to Europe. But after good conversation with mentors, prayer, and discernment: I am confident that God is going to use this trip to further my understanding of self, of call, and of reconciliation. While in Northern Ireland my peers and I will have the opportunity to meet with expatriates and peacemakers, Catholics and Protestants, those who are still hurting and those who have been healed, and to experience the rich culture of Northern Ireland as well.

            As you may have already gathered, this letter is more than informative: it is also an invitation. I was hesitant to seek help to pay for this trip, but after a conversation with a friend I began to understand that what I am going to be doing on this trip is bigger than myself; so it is important that I seek support from others in the process.

           Overall, we are each expected to raise about 2,600. My hope is that you would be willing and able to donate $20-$200 towards expenses such as: airfare, hotels and hostels, bus fees, food, and gratuity to tour guides, hotel staff, and organizations.

            If you are able to donate, please make checks out to North Park University with Conflict Transformation Program in the memo line. Donations are tax deductible.

 Please send all checks to:

                        Dr. Robert Hostetter

                        North Park University

                        Conflict Transformation Studies Program

                        3225 W Foster Ave

                        Chicago, Il 60625

If you are unable to donate, please support us in prayer as we prepare and depart for our trip! We will be gone May 10-24. My hope is that you will also pledge a specific day of the trip to hold us in prayer. If you would like to commit to a specific day, or you have questions, please email me at katiecom12@gmail.com or text me at 503-899-7216.

Thank you for allowing me to share this with you, and for being willing to support in whatever way you can!

Katie Comfort

A new year doesn't reset.

Coming back to North Park this semester, I really thought it would be easier.
Easier to wake up
Easier to care about classes
Easier to face the hurts of last semester without wanting to instantly curl up into a ball
Easier to be there for others
Easier to balance everything

It hasn't been.

And at the risk of going into an emotionally destructive rant about why it hasn't been easy: I will cut to the chase.

The next year is plagued with patterns that cant be relived, revived, or restored.
The next year is going to be full of my memories. And that leaves a void.

So far, that means that I feel really empty. Really really really empty.

But being empty means getting to filled.
And so from here on out I want to be more mindful of how I am filling myself with good, instead of bad. We'll see.

It was just nice realizing that while the milestones have passed; the little moments almost hurt more. And that isn't bad, it just means I still have more to mourn. And I have to let myself do that.