Today I have for you a long overdue blog post from February 28th, 2020, written in a coffee shop called Strata Cafe, back in Amman, after the two weeks we spent within the West Bank.
This week was the first week back in Jordan after two very fun— and exhausting— weeks of travel within the West Bank and Jerusalem. The purpose of this trip was not to be tourists and visit the holy sites, but rather an educational trip to gain perspective on the Israel/Palestine conflict. Ah, I see you’ve noticed the order of those two words, Israel and Palestine, switched from what they were in the title. It was intentional, to show that I am not putting one over the other. You see, a big part of this trip was to gain insight into both the Israeli narrative and the Palestinian narrative, not with the purpose of choosing one or the other, but to understand that at the root of the conflict, it all comes down to what both sides believe to be truth, and it is our job to find it within ourselves to sympathize with both sides, as they are all human beings who deserve to be heard. As soon as humanity is taken out of the picture, well… that is where things get messy.
This trip was 12 days long, and consisted of 2 homestays, 33 events, 32 different speakers, 5 tours, numerous visits to holy sites, 2 meetings with local young adults, many bus rides, lots of walking (about 150,000 steps + according to Dr. Doug), and of course eating lots of food; because it's very hard to turn away more pita and hummus when your Palestinian host mom is insisting you eat it.
It is honestly one of the most intense trips I have ever been on. Physically, it was very demanding, with little rest until nine at night, lots of walking, and no breaks in between the days. It was full steam ahead, all 12 days. Mentally, not only was it grappling with the complexity of the conflict in a political sense, but also in an emotional sense. Every person has their own story and their own pain that cannot be dismissed as less than the other. This is more challenging than it sounds, because, as I had heard two different narratives, it was easy to find myself leaning to one side, and connect more emotionally with that side. In addition to that, to see a pain so tangibly in their eyes, and hear it in their voices, just cracked my heart. It is a suffocating feeling, to hear a horrible situation and know that there is so little you can do about it. To feel so much pain for that person, but also guilt because you know that you will never be able to truly understand it, nor do you feel as if you have any right to mourn because as you look at your own life, you realize how good you have it— and how you don’t recognize how good it is in the slightest. By the end of the trip, all I wanted was to be free of hearing about the conflict, of feeling pain and hopelessness, but it is impossible for me to do that because there is so much guilt when I think of just leaving it all behind me; because, while I can leave it behind me, the people living there can’t, and who knows when they will be able to.
As we listened to different speakers, with different viewpoints, there were obviously some who were easier to agree with, or to connect with… and then, there were some that made you just want to scream. At times, I would be filled with this restlessness in my chest, this growing frustration, that made me want to grab the person and give them a shake— “Wake up! Can’t you see what is happening on the ground! Right before your eyes?” And oh, is it hard to hold that feeling for extended periods of time. It is hard to hold the mixed emotions of pain, hopelessness, connection, frustration, anger, confusion, guilt— I mean the list can go on and on— and not have the time to process them, or to even write them down just to get it out of your system. But then, you have to check yourself, and slowly try to peel yourself away from those emotions, and realize that unlike many, you have both narratives of the conflict— That you are not living in the situation, and therefore, have not completely formed a bias from your own experiences. You have to realize that what they are saying, they could very well be convinced is the truth, just as you are fully convinced that it is a lie. And how infuriating that is, to never know what is the truth and what is not, to never know if someone truly believes in their words, or if they are trying to manipulate you with lies. Alas, Allah Hu Alim, only God knows.
Allah Hu Alim - Only God Knows
So, can you get a sense of the complexity in which I talked about yet?
On top of all that, there is the knowledge that you are in the Holy Land, the place where Jesus walked. Where he started his ministry— where he was crucified, died, and was resurrected. And you so badly want to feel his presence as you look at the field where angels revealed themselves to shepherds to proclaim the birth of Jesus, as you stand in the church that could have been built over the sight of his birth, as you walk in the Old City of Jerusalem and see original ruins of a time long past, so long that you can’t even comprehend it in your mind. Or how about, to even feel the significance of the places you stand. To know you are standing above the bones of Abraham and Sarah, Jacob and Leah, Issac and Rebekah, to stare at what could have been the place Jesus was crucified and where he was buried. To try to imagine Mary mistaking Jesus to be a gardener just outside that tomb. Yet with all of this, what do you feel? Overwhelmed and suffocated by the crowds of people that surround you. There is no space to find solitary to even try to feel his presence, or at least no ability to even be in the mindset to look for his presence as your brain darts from item to item, person to person, thought to thought, all while trying to listen to the speaker who stands in front of you. To me, I find it strange that these “Holy” sites, have become a place to push your way to the front, to see someplace that Jesus had been, even if that means you may not be actually acting as he would in that situation. I struggled to understand why these massive churches were built over these sights, instead of keeping them as they were when Jesus was there— to try and take ownership of a place that does not belong to one people group and never has.
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is built over one of the supposed places Jesus was crucified, where he was wrapped in linens, and where he was buried, was especially hard for me to understand. First, it is vastly divided between the Armenians, Roman Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Syriac Orthodox, and Coptic Egyptian churches. There is an intricate system of division, that though shockingly descriptive, creates conflict between the five denominations, as each tries to keep ownership of what they have and not concede in the slightest. To me, this division within a place that was built in honor of Jesus, who died for us, in order to unite us all in him, is absurd, and a clear telling of the human desire for elevation in status and power, and a desire to be above the other. Secondly, I felt as if the church, with its holy fire in which people frantically light and extinguish bundles and bundles of candles, with the rock on which Jesus was crucified that people line up to touch (which I get that, I really do), with the stone on which Jesus was wrapped in linens and which people frantically rub scarves, sheets, and clothing on so they can bring some its holiness back home, and with the small box in which Jesus’s tomb is hidden, the original rock he was laid on covered by marble, which people will wait hours— literally hours— to have two seconds in, is more worshiped and sought after than it is to sit and remember what Jesus did in this place that was built in order to honor him. It frustrates me, but maybe I am just a naturalist at heart. I want to see what it was actually like when Jesus was there, not some grand, fought over church. I connect with Jesus in places of nature and serenity. But alas, I am not in the heads of the people I see, so I cannot judge their actions when I don’t know their intentions behind them— though, it is hard to suppress that quick judgment.
However, despite all of the emotions spinning within me, Jesus's still, small voice whispered in my ear, telling me to look and listen, to understand and learn. I think throughout this trip, I recognized that maybe I am not meant to feel his presence only at these holy sites. Maybe, I am to feel closer to him by feeling my heart break for what breaks his as I listen to the stories of our speakers, and as I grapple with the complexity of the conflict. Maybe I am to thank him, for the intense empathy I have for these people, and recognize that it is the empathy given to me by him, that makes me human. And maybe, it really is because he knows that those places are overwhelming to me. That I feel like my mind is being stretched in all different directions, and that I won’t be able to fully focus and enjoy his presence. And maybe, I didn’t feel his presence at all because it distracts from the point he is trying to make clear to me: that he is with me anywhere and everywhere, and that I don’t have to strive to feel it. That I am not in control of deciding when I think he is present and when he isn’t. That it doesn't take a holy site or some deep, emotional revelation, to know that he is near.
"it doesn't take a holy site or some deep, emotional revelation, to know that he is near"
All in all, I left Israel/Palestine more confused and tangled in information and emotions than I was when I first arrived. It is a strange place honestly— a place of paradoxes that make no sense, yet are reality. A place of deep history, whose story will go down in history in the years to come. A place that is wrought with strife yet was the birthplace of love. A place of separation and division, filled with people who want inclusion and embrace. A place of gun steel and concrete walls, in a land that was supposed to be of milk and honey.
It is a place that you can't take at one glance, at one perspective, all at one time. It is a place with hidden gems and sprinklings of divinity that you must seek to find. It is a place whose presence will forever linger in my
being—