Angrier Draft

Allow me to get angry and flush my system:

 

Dear New York Times Staff,

Once again Israeli officials, most notably the Likud-party scum who are in power right now, have successfully inundated your rag with a giant pile of rotting red-herrings. Just as the European Union has them on notice for their human rights violations and the international boycott movement is gaining traction, in the midst of growing internal accusations of racism, the Israeli right-wing is turning your gullible eyes toward ‘Palestinian incitement’. Even the New York Times is so dominated by the prevailing, orientalist media that you will gladly sop up all the grease being poured on you by Jewish ethnocentrists who are increasingly desperate to obfuscate, distracting from the numerous (and massive) human right violations and community displacements that have happened for decades. There continue be grave problems of scale in US media coverage of the occupation of the Levant and the displacement of its indigenous inhabitants – many of whom are Arab Israelis given a second-class citizenship.

I lived in Palestine for eighteen months and my inclination is to believe the Palestinian Authority’s denial that their school produced this material, in spite of the fact that I know the current ‘leadership’ in Palestine are jello-legged parasites procrastinating a popular vote. Yet the fact of the matter is that producing hateful material is not the cardinal threat to peace, even when Israelis are doing so. Revisionist, inflammatory curricula are nothing more than an expressions of a resentment that grows organically out of occupation – both for the occupied and the occupier. Typical: you, NYT, are focused on a symptom to the exclusion of the disease. Hell, Palestinian Authority schools by themselves do not even compose the majority of primary education in the West Bank – and NONE of Gaza, though I suspect that those curricula actually came from Hamas controlled Gaza, where the Israeli military ensures that children are brought up in isolation and squalor.

Palestinian Authority curricula are not in violation of the Fourth Geneva convention, which bans moving a civilian population into occupied territory: that’s Israel. Palestinian Authority guard facebook posts were not declared illegal by an international court in 2004: the West Bank ‘separation barrier’ is the illegal structure, ordered to be demolished. It stands. The Palestinian Authority did not kill over 160 people during Operation Pillar of Cloud, as Israel did versus Hamas, but intead helped obtain non-member status in the UN with a vote of 138 in favor, 9 opposed and 41 abstaining. Yet it was always the settlement enterprise that is the root of all these evils, as was settler colonialism in the Americas and Africa. That an ethnic group would want to return to the land their faith tradition finds Holy is understandable; that this group, Israeli Jews, feels it can reproduce the vilest patterns of apartheid and exploitation and expect to do so with complete impunity is unacceptable.

What the Palestinian Authority teaches in their schools is really crackers compared to the education children are getting from their environment. Indeed, it’s really crackers compared to the education given to me just walking between Bethlehem and Jerusalem. Israeli authorities taught me the meaning of dystopia – etc.

…I am surprised this has not decayed into cussing and yelling… it seems that it is not bad to tap “The Dragon” sometimes. My anger is more cogent than my political correctness. It will need brushing-up but I think that this is a better start… but I need a break already… all these old feelings… wow…

 

Thoughts?

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Coarse Draft

I am stumbling back into the practice of writing. A request to write letters to the New York times just went out on one of the listservs I still follow from my work e-mail account. The prospect is daunting to me both because of the seriousness of that request and the shiploads of emotional baggage attached to the topic. I decided that the best thing I could possibly do is just write SOMETHING — just ANYTHING — that I can come back to on Monday…

Dear New York Times Staff,

I trust you are receiving many letters from well-intentioned progressives about an article referencing Palestinian ‘incitement’ in Palestinian Authority schools, as well as letters from Israel sympathizers congratulating your publication on running the piece. I spent eighteen months in the West Bank, though I confess to having only a basic grasp of Arabic and no contact with Palestinian Authority curricula. In Bethlehem, many of the schools are parochial and still others are UN run schools in refugee camps – communities forcefully evicted by violence decades ago. It is going to become obvious that my experience of Israeli racism and cruelty far exceeds the resentments I encountered among Palestinians (with whom I lived and had many opportunities to examine). Your piece reflects a major challenge in US media, which is overcoming the problem of proportion.

When the conflict occurred in Gaza in November of 2012, over 160 people of Palestinian heritage died during just those eight days as compared to 6 precious souls lost in Israel. Shortly after that episode concluded, 60 people were rumored to have disappeared into heaven-knows-what-dungeon just in the Bethlehem area where I was living (as compared to zero Israelis) and a boy was shot in Hebron. These occurrences are not unusual. I lived constantly with Palestinians who have lost their ancestral lands, have restricted movement, make their living in a captive economy, and seem to receive nothing but disrespect from a United States media that barely acknowledges they are living in an occupied country – a state recognized by the UN (even if it was only as a non-member) that same November. They still welcomed me. Conversely, my few brushes with Israeli culture have convinced me that they need to wrestle with the same demons we did in the 1960s and South Africa, likewise, in the 1980s. Their policies are in violation of international law, courts, and resolutions but, more importantly, are just as conniving and unfair as the tactics employed in this country during the 19th century to displace Native Americans.

Many of us doubt those samples actually are from the Palestinian Authority curriculum and the PA, itself, denies the accusations. I wouldn’t be shocked if those pages came from a Hamas curriculum, nor appalled because they are under such vicious siege. The PA is certainly flawed but they are also in a terrible position, too. My tendency is to believe that the pro-settlement movement in Israel is responsible for bringing such hateful material into the light in order to do inciting of their own — and they do plenty of it. Recent explorations of academic boycott by the American Studies Association and the Modern Language Association show that there are a growing number of educated people who can see the lack or proportion and understand why it is necessary to embrace nonviolent tactics to curb Israeli racism and oppression…

 

…I need some water… I’m venting…

 

This is going to be a tough process for me; I wonder if I should say anything about getting stopped and frisked by Jerusalem PD of if that is going to make me look petty.

 

Thoughts?

Mega Man X Complex: The Shield

As Mega Man X enters Sigma’s fortress, Vile is still yet to be defeated. In game-play, I always assumed that Vile had no particular weakness and so spent time maneuvering, picking him apart with X-buster blasts when the solution was already with me: The Shield. Vile’s weakness, all along, was a weapon called ‘Rolling Shield’ that X acquires in battle with another maverick robot. It makes a florescent bolus that rolls along the floor and bounces off walls— very useful in vertical shafts.

X looks good in pink -- receiving 'Rolling-Shield'.

X looks good in pink — receiving ‘Rolling-Shield’.

The apostle Paul alluded to a ‘Shield of Faith’ in his letter to the Ephesians, though I lack the education to know which Greek word corresponds to ‘Faith’ in this instance. Faith’s multiplicity of shades and convergences with spiritual life are far too complex for blogging, more suitable to extended study. For the record, when ‘Rolling Shield’ is fully charged it envelopes X with an energy that makes him impervious to small opponents. My Faith must not be fully charged, yet…

Though Dr. Light hoped X could choose a more sedate path, he created* X with an operating system compatible with the upgrades X needs to pursue Justice. That resilient operating system endows him with the special ability to take a new weapon from each maverick he defeats. My original plan for this entry was to inventory the Fruits of the Spirit from Galatians 5:22/23 and draw metaphor to each of the eight maverick bosses and their corresponding weapon upgrades. I included a highlight reel at the bottom of this entry, just for laughs. What I really needed, from the beginning, was some self-bolstering. I need to identify my own maverick moments and claim the character enhancements that came to me at each juncture. Indeed, I might need to do it more than once.

One ‘shield of faith’ came to me at the Chinese Restaurant in Bethlehem (there is only one), on Land Day in 2012. That was also the morning when Palestine changed to “daylight savings time”, swinging an hour ahead for the summer. The planned, peaceful demonstration was delayed 90 minutes due to time-shift confusion. The ‘real’ demonstration came an hour after that, when shabaab arrived with kefias around their faces and pummeled the floodlights and security cameras on every guard turret with stones, concrete chunks, and more stones. Several internationals and I retreated to the Chinese restaurant for lunch, which was a foolish mistake. The excited teenagers in the guard tower shot their tear-gas and the excited teenagers on the ground, in turn, pummeled their windows with stones – some of which missed and smashed through the windows of the restaurant instead. I finished eating – no good could come of being shaken.

Something comes loose and it is difficult to know whether it is an ability or a disability. The moment I keep coming back to, during my quiet anxious moments, is the day at Sheikh Hussein bridge and looking an Israeli guard directly in her eyes while I lied about where my work was taking place—I told them Haifa, consistent with my letter of recommendation. She said “we know you’re lying – just tell us the truth,” which seemed, to me, to confirm that they did not have enough evidence to turn me away and wanted me to crack and vacillate. I held integrity with my mission, not the reverse, but I always return to heaviness I felt when I willfully distrusted someone and, instead of being edified, was uncomfortably vindicated by their obvious interrogatory ploys and my extended detention. I regret nothing but I lament all of it.

The entire exile into Jordan should count for some kind of special ability. It was in Jordan that I really knew what it meant to live as a foreigner in a large city and cemented my ‘transactional Arabic’. Far from being perfect, there were too many days where I laid in bed and waited for news about my return but, at my best, I was walking the bending lanes of ‘Al-Ballad’ and learning the dark fissures that formed alleys between its building encrusted hillsides. I befriended the juice-man, the bread vendors, and the Iraqi restaurant owner who served me the best chicken dinners of my life. In Amman, I negotiated with cab-drivers and embassy curriers. In that city, I survived bed-bugs, high-fever, long-waits at the Israeli embassy, and long hours in the Roman gardens watching cargo-planes doing maneuvers. I wondered, sometimes, if my life was beginning there in the shadow of those ancient pillars.

These are the instances I often talk about, separately, but friends are encouraging me to put them together. As I recite, I remember even more lessons; Drew from Alabama helped me face my callousness last fall when he joined us as a new volunteer. I felt irritated by his learning process. The disturbance was intrinsic to me: the exile and return from Asia had changed me in ways that I still do not understand, typing in a Washington DC Starbucks. Drew and I had an uncanny moment when, best I could, I apologized for being so curt with him. He said, “I think God is telling me to tell you that you have been counted faithful.” As he shared that with me, I could see him getting misty and I wanted to soften and cry but I felt calcified. I am indebted to Drew for that tender moment.

I could do myself a great favor by remembering some other pieces I brought home from the middle-East. I developed a greater sense of others’ needs, an ability I call the ‘bottomless tea-kettle of hospitality’. That sense of togetherness was necessarily beyond words because we do not all share the same words. Yet, I felt connected. That gift began to hurt, in time. Months later, I felt continents away from my counterparts in Geneva. At Wi’am in Bethlehem we all could take care of ourselves but we chose to take care of each other whereas my two American colleagues were both so… individual. Perhaps I was waiting for teleonomic cues that were not coming – the tea-kettle within me felt very heavy in Europe.

Since I write so seldom on these topics, then it is not really boasting to share – though if there are half a dozen examples then there might as well be two-dozen because every experience is a chance to learn or unlearn. After six months in Bethlehem, I learned that I was fairly savvy about the conflict. Then I visited Ni’ilin village and promptly unlearned that because, of course, the context was too fragmented for a foreigner to be so savvy. I reinforced the value of my solidarity on that trip, still. After I ‘did’ something –planting olive trees– I watched a video of farmers being mercilessly abused while sitting next to the very same farmers. Just an hour ago I told my friend over the phone “if I were planning a trip, it would be advocacy focused…”

If my enhancements were instant, videogame-quality upgrades, then I would not have to go through a dark period, filled with artistic blocks, self-deprecation, compulsive behavior, and feelings of isolation. This is real life. That is good news; I may have already done most of the work. Results are delayed. Vile is still alive in me but I’ve recovered significantly since February’s slide. There is a subtle relief to embracing the strength I actually find from difficult memories rather than trying to suddenly change the timbre of my script or, as happens too often, trying to deepen the suffering to profoundest woe. Mine is a story of being bent but not broken. I remember long ago, when I finally capitulated and spent eight consecutive weeks seeing a therapist, the doctor and I had a discussion about my efforts. I said I was not seeming to get anywhere and he observed that I had not relented. Again, I capitulated and saw a therapist. This time, I visited once and have not heard back from him. He asked me “what makes you think you can stand-up to the challenges in your life?”
“—because I’ve stood-up before. I’m going to keep standing-up until I’m too dead.”

Where is the Faith in that? I think there is Faith throughout that — the string-like roots of that Faith are something I could spend a life-time examining.

* * * Maverick-Fruits Gag-Reel * * *

“Plus, gleefully torching Maverick bosses on their last health-bar is delicious.”

“… if I were not agile enough, I might be swept into his vortex and have my energy sucked out of my body. Yeah—it’s a nasty long battle.”

“Arguably, kindness is like the Boomerangs won from Boomer Kawanger (I’m not making these names up), that comes back to the user.”

“…and has a chain-like tongue that he uses to whip X…”

“…the storm-blast was excellent for clearing stationary turrets; like self-control, storm-blast…”

“With a limited number of both weapons and fruits, that means Goodness is like ‘Shot-gun Ice’, courtesy of Chill Penguin.”

“I am having trouble equating Peace with ‘Electric Spark’ but I am sure you all can help me by using your imaginations…”

~ can you see why I abandoned that draft?

An Open Letter to an American

[Dear Respectable Church-Person],

Thank you so much for your comments. It seems, to me, that we are on a journey with the same issue but from different angles, in different amounts, and at different points in our lives. The fact that you engage me in a conversation about the situation in the Holy Land is more encouraging than hearing only things I ‘want to hear’. You actually touched on some important issues to think about.

Beyond the propaganda tools that might be in force I feel like there is another force at work in all of us: the golden mean. In most situations, taking a middle position is just plain smart. It’s much rarer that a situation gets enough out of control that we find ourselves over-riding that guideline to match the disproportion of the situation. It creates a challenge of proportions — how much do we pressure one side or the other? Activists can drift entirely and devotedly to one side and we know that is not wise. I lived out of my outrage and am focusing, this Advent, on living from my compassion instead. I confess it with my lips: I was so upset, it was hard to gain clarity the past two weeks.

The temptation is to look at the death-toll: there were at least thirty Palestinian deaths for every one Israeli … but what if that one were from our family? We also know, through Jesus, that it is in God’s shepherding character to leave 99 sheep to look for one. If there are disproportionate portrayals of the conflict it is, indeed, because the conflict is so disproportional. However, your compassion for Israelis in fear and desiring a peaceful solution is not at all misplaced. It’s exactly the perspective I need or I might be tempted to blindness.

We are not completely blind about Hamas. Actually, we met a physician who just left Gaza two days ago and she compared Hamas to the Congolese government: receiving massive aide (from Qatar, in Hamas’s case) but not distributing it well to the poorest people. Hamas is under constraints but it is a legitimate criticism. As Islamists, they are not ideal for women’s participation, nor adept at working in pluralist or secular settings. In short, I wish they were not the prevailing force in Gaza and I believe under different circumstances they would be out-competed by other parties. At the same time, the “terrorist” brand from the US government seems misleading because it associates them with international terror-groups like Al-Qaeda rather than placing them in a category with small, inept governments which they resemble more closely. They have their tactics and rhetoric to blame, of course. The IRA was similarly branded, though they now have an uneasy truce in Northern Ireland. As a pacifist, I am philosophically opposed to pipe-bombs and rockets.

Yet if Hamas set the proverbial fire-in-the-theater then it was the Israeli & Western media who yelled “FIRE!” instead of reaching for an extinguisher. We were sitting in the West Bank smirking at the coverage of the Tel Aviv bus-bombing. No one died but it floated to the top of the headlines — yet people were and still are dying in Palestine from Israel’s excessive military force. The Western media pushed the non-fatal bombing unusually hard — that creates fear in Israel and creates a problem of proportion for the rest of the world: people in the US and Canada begin to ‘feel’ that Israel is in greater peril. The Hamas arsenal is notoriously inaccurate, ineffective, and statistically unlikely to hurt anyone. So, I was left feeling ambivalent about the numerous public service announcement on Israeli television — do they promote safety or increase the perception of danger? When people live so constantly in fear, it can put viciousness in their hearts. It it heart-breaking.

My final conclusion on rockets is that they have nothing to do with a solution: neither their presence nor their absence seems to make a difference to bringing dignity back into the region. Hamas cannot be the heroes their people need. Israel will only strengthen them by continuing in violence.

The problem of proportion is second only to the problem of responsibility. Of course I can denounce Hamas, for good reasons, but I want to take the moral high-ground with a purpose. We, as a United States citizens, have no stake in Hamas. Nothing Hamas does has come in contact with our tax dollars and both the UM church and the government do not endorse them. For me, as someone who believes they would be defeated in a free-democracy, I feel sometimes like my denouncements of Hamas could distract from the conditions under which they hold power. Those conditions are Israel’s responsibility: they came from the occupation and now from the blockade. Since military aide comes for the United States to Israel, I feel responsible for raising awareness and changing our culture so that the blockade and occupation can end and peace can be achieved. The dream was closest when Prime Minister Rabin made the Oslo accords in 1994 but subsequent Israeli governments have taken the region further from a solution and now the middle-East is changing rapidly. This is why I have felt like I needed to weight my criticism of Israel more heavily. Again, how heavily is right?

So, we have a problem of proportion and a problem of responsibility when we talk about this conflict. I thought Hamas’s best tactical move (disappointly) was to continue firing rockets to get more global attention (I hoped nobody would be hit) but since they did not end the blockade with their rockets it’s fair to say the tactic failed for them and I am edified. It succeeded for the Fatah government as the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) made a push for Observer State Status at the United Nations and won by a land-slide; we think that the world saw the PLO’s legal push as a middle-road. Only 9 countries voted against them. Some of the 45 abstaining countries said they would vote “yes” if Palestine promised not to pursue a case against Israel in the international criminal court. I think pursuing that case is the best thing possible, in spite of the short-term careers of politicians in Britain and elsewhere. There really have been many war crimes committed here since 1948 and I fear that by failing to lower the gavel we leave space for others to raise the gun. The over-do case is akin to cleaning a closet — there will be a bigger mess before things get better. Yet I believe the needed peace is locked in that closet. They needed to establish a truth-telling commission in South Africa, whose work is not yet over.

I do my best and try to keep learning. Thank you for your message of peace and your prayers.

Sincerely,

[Daniel Xavier]

Always Burning: 2

Prayer Vigil

Watch for the Smoke…

Always watching...

Always watching…

The evacuation began when the crack of the first stone hitting concrete sent shock-waves through our coffee cups. We were all sitting

down-stairs, together. Wa’el ran up the stairs to street-level in a flash, to check, and burst into the foyer again within seconds saying  “yulla, yulla… let’s go before the gas…”. We re-stuffed our bags and scrambled up the stairs and through the gate, showing our kefiahs to the protestors but hiding our faces from the tower guards. Wa’el, Drew, and I stopped

several times to glance over our shoulders—I felt like Lot’s wife: a pillar of

salt, transfixed. Any moment, noxious projectiles would rain down on the masked youths. Wa’el offered to give us something to drink, which in the spirit of Palestinian hospitality meant we were going to his house to hang-out indefinitely. He asked if we wanted to light the hookah, too…

* * *

I do not look for physical signs from God often. Some read extra amounts of Divine intention into happenings, especially around Jerusalem. I went to القدس الشرقي to show my solidarity with Gaza at the Dominican Church by the Garden Tomb. We lit candles and held vigil on International Children’s Day. The service was attended by Christian leaders from across the city, faces to match the names on the Kairos Palestine document. The atmosphere carried the unmistakable essence of reverence and urgency comingling, for God and humanity respectively. When the Lutheran minister prayed in English for the children in Gaza, my swelling emotions cascaded in droplets down my face tears. How had the world over-looked the source of this suffering? Hot droplets began to fall on my hand, jolting my eyes open. I tried to remain stoic but I could not resist glancing around the room at all the melting candles, to see if anyone else had flinched. Who can resist a funny moment in such difficult times? I searched nervously for another fast melting candle. Each person’s candle produced a neat trail of excess, except for one: mine. My candle was no brighter but it seemed to burn hotter, erupting with blobs of molten wax that stung my shaking hand.

* * *

We smoked. Every time I passed the hose away to Wa’el, laying sideways on an easy-chair, or Drew, looking pensively into space next to me, the heaviness slowly rose and engulfed me. The viscous sense of resignation stuck to my joints, immobilizing my body.  So, I breathed in the fire again. My rage quenched, I consecrated my lungs with every breath until the hollow spaces hummed with the sense of swimming, running, lifting, and punching but I never moved – fire never moves, it only spreads…

* * *

This summer, a new friend was staying in the second-floor apartment across the court-yard, above a capable young woman who has worked here for over two years. My friend commented that her downstairs neighbor seemed to be consistently annoyed with her. Why? I told her we are cruel to ourselves, sometimes, in our self-centeredness: it was not her fault nor about her. Our neighbor’s job in the difficult West Bank context, staying present with people, puts a heavy weight on one’s chest. Four months later, I know that I was right in ways I did not understand. I had never stayed for more than three months at a time, myself. When our new Wi’am volunteer arrived, I noticed myself becoming irritable with him, employing smoldering passive-aggressive tactics to put distance between us. I believe I am much more moody and much less capable than my experienced neighbor, too, yet when I finally became close enough with my ‘victim’ to confess he asked me:

“what makes you believe you are bad at your job?”

“I do everything I am asked; you’re right,” I replied, “Of course, the occupation remains…” Two possibilities dawned on me. One, that I finally feel part of what keeps my neighbor burning and, two, that people could see me like I see her: intense and dedicated.

* * *

The anxiety floated out of me on clouds, in jets of fragrant smoke cascading in reverse. The nicotine built upon the foundation we had poured in cups of pitch-tint Arabic coffee. This colloid of stimulants buoyed me; it retrieved my sense of reality from the tar-toned depths of my affected reservoirs. We also drank tea. Substances carry a shock as powerful as moving a thousand miles or can keep us moving at a snail’s pace for so long that we forget we are moving, can hardly sleep when their medicine is removed…

* * *

More than a week before, at Dar Eneidwa, the Swede and I saw a film about the Hungarian Revolution. It had a Hollywood-quality storyline and love-story that made me miss romance in my life, yet so many resonant snapshots of Soviet occupation. In one scene, Hungarians take the streets in Budapest and light torches when the authorities cut the electricity; I felt the upwelling of a burgeoning nation, just as I had in Manger Square a year before. I felt the surge of excitement when the students revolt and cut the hammer and sickle from the middle of their flag, just as I felt in March during Land Day when a young man scaled  the apartheid wall and planted the Palestinian on top. Yet I know I was oblivious to the shelling of Budapest, when the Soviets retaliate unexpectedly and place their iron fist of occupation back on the Hungarian people. I didn’t feel, deeply enough, what that meant. Gazans do – doubly. At the end of the film, the Olympic water polo player is separated from his lover by the conflict, he going to Australia to win Gold and she to a prison interrogation room. I drank too much at the reception and indulged in loneliness the rest of the night.

* * *

Addictions threaten to ensnare me as surely as they promise to free me, like a net that saves me from falling but tangles around my limbs. I have not had my moment of final triumph against them, neither substance nor behavior nor, worst of all, the attitudes of my heart. Following Gaza coverage late into the night, riding high on a magic carpet of outrage, I felt as if I had finally lost myself completely, by the next morning, until that burst of stimulants reanimated me on Wa’el’s back patio. A dozen pieces of quick-light coal later, my co-worker offered to reload the pipe.

“No; I really want to but ‘no’ because I will stay here all day and smoke.”
We have to leave and continue with our lives, after a while, nursing our fading buzz as the smoke clears…

A message at the tower's bottom.

Last week’s coat of paint is this week’s canvas for resistance.

Borderlands: The Tabernacle Police

These scenes have to ferment for at least a week before the bouquet of poetic humor can mature. Last week I left the sanctuary of the Wi’am office at 4 PM and walked around an amoeboid scab of dividing barrier, to and through the Bethlehem check-point, so I could attend a meeting at Tantur Ecumenical Institute; I nearly sent them an excuse, instead. As I went through the check-point and absorbed its routine again, gaining my grip, I located the source of my dread. On an unconscious level, I expected the lazing draftee-soldiers to transform into airport or bridge guards who would detain and search me. Instead, I felt like I was in a dystopian mosque: removing my shoes and placing my black, white, green, and red prayer-bead string on the x-ray’s conveyor belt.

I passed Bethlehem check-point easily, as ever, but walked directly into the sites of a Jerusalem PD squad-car, prowling for trouble on Sukkot. They accused me of coming through a nearby orchard, though I explained I had just left the check-point. They searched my bag and demanded I empty my pockets. The cop shoved my passport in his butt-pocket while he spat interrogatives in sub-par English. When I emptied my left pocket, I placed my prayer-beads in his hand with some relish. He handed them back, apathetically. Asked where I was staying, I showed him on my passport: “Haifa”.

I found myself distilling my resentments as I ascended the hill to Tantur. My mood was low, so I started to load my proverbial quiver with more darts, explaining to imaginary co-workers why I stay in Bethlehem. I can load it, conversely, with reasons to pass every day but my reasons lack the gravity of my intuition. Now I know how some minorities feel, taken to certain white neighborhoods. For no salient reason, one feels like they are being watched, profiled; just because my visa gives me the privilege of passing does not mean I feel comfortable. The next night, I found a place of refuge as I gazed from the patio of the Scottish church. Lacquered generously in night’s coolness, Jerusalem looked and felt like a convergence zone in time – the uncanny modernity of its West side juxtaposed against the giant, stone chest that is the old city: filled with secret places, with people who were once nearly one and the same with Bethlehemites. The dividing wall has impeded, has annexed, and has fractured, in the name of security, but has yet to engender anything like peace. To the contrary, it has done so many more, disgusting things than those who built it will live long enough to comprehend.

I now have walls inside my soul. I cannot properly have PTSD but I feel confident coining a new acronym for the world: OASD – Ongoing Ambient Stress Disorder. The stress is ubiquitous and subtle. None can live here without feeling muted trauma seeping from person to person, direct victims diffusing their tensions into us despite their good intentions. Added to that are everyone’s experiences with the matrix of control. Its girded with power and sophistication but filled with ambivalence, blindness, and insanity. The same is true of Zionism’s tentacles in the media, conflating everything Jewish with this horrifying apartheid regime.

So, I have reached the point where I know that it is alright to appreciate and admire things that are Jewish but in my guts I want to find reasons to complicate them or push them away. Its as if I could not be happy with this metaphorical ‘house’ of Judaism unless I smeared all of its sewage onto the front picture window for everyone to see. I want to see a level of contrition from public Jewish figures that, quite frankly, is not only improbable but is askew of the many other issues in life. A friend sent me an article about self-forgiveness, written by a Jewish author, and instead of tapping into her words of self-healing I found myself tripping over the words “Yom Kippur”. There was no atonement for me; I have OASD and it makes me sick. I am unhappy to have these feelings because, according to my reasoning, Israel is simply conflated with Judaism, not synonymous with it. There is still a choice. I am being unfair, never expecting Buddhists to account for Myanmar or every Muslim to account for Jihad yet, still, expecting the Nakba to be on the end of everyone’s tongue.

Yet, sitting at my computer after writing all this, I have the sense that we all deserve better than what we are entitled to because, really, we are entitled to nothing but we deserve to make a better life with our neighbors because that is the only Way. At some point, in some way, with some help, the wall erected in my attitude must come down or else I will thwart my own goals for peace. The first step for me is not to alter my beliefs, or to reframe them in ways that make sense to the world I left behind in the United States. That is self-deceit. What I want to do is uncover a different deceit: the attitudes that attach to my beliefs and the deep sense that, because I believe a certain thing, I have to feel a certain way and then behave the way my feeling dictates. That is fundamentally untrue, though I know disentangling my attitudes will not happen so quickly because I have allowed my attitudes to drive me without questioning their necessity or even if they are helping me in my mission of awareness. That must change…