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.