People ask me what I did this summer, and I answer easily that I went to Haiti, then to Germany with my family, home in Ludington for a while, and then the next part gets tricky. To some people, I say I went to the Holy Land, others it is Israel, to many I say Palestine. If I am being honest with myself, I must admit that there is an apprehension about telling friends, peers, and even family that I went to Palestine. I think that it stems from not wanting my trip to be judged without them knowing what I did. I fear that when people hear Palestine, they immediately think of the conflict and terrorists. A major reason that I went on this trip and on my trip in the past is to fight this image – to be able to return and show others what the real Palestine is, and yet I have a hard time getting that conversation going.
If I say I went to Israel, I am denying the majority of my trip, which was spent in the West Bank or East Jerusalem, but I know that this is generally the most well received. If I say Holy Land, it is too ambiguous and denies that my trip had more going for it than a simple religious pilgrimage. And as I said, Palestine conjures images of radicals and anti-Zionists.
So what do I say? Well, I consider my audience and am trying to be more honest. Yes, Palestine is where I was. You heard me right – PALESTINE.
What is Palestine to me?
Palestine is a place.
Palestine is occupied.
Palestine is holy.
Palestine is torn.
Palestine is desperate.
Palestine is loving.
Palestine is hopeful.
Palestine is hopeless.
Palestine is committed.
Palestine is complicated.
Palestine is awesome.
Palestine is filled with youth and potential.
Palestine needs us. Palestine needs me.
What can I do for Palestine? How does it need me? It needs my experience. My ability to share that experience with others. From me, and the thousands others that visit, it needs the truth. We have to share what we saw.
The challenges of living under occupation, the lack of resources, the denial of rights, the inability to travel, checkpoints that have blocked family from family, family from farm, the wall that has cut into their land and again separated. Palestine is separated. Palestine is torn.
How can I put it back together? How can I fight the huge lobby force that continues to deny Palestine’s right to exist. Most Palestinians do not deny Israel the right to exist, as the media likes to portray it. Instead, they want to live FREELY in Palestine. Yes, many will never be able to return to the homes they fled sixty years ago, but they need to be able to live within Palestine now – which is increasingly hard when they cannot build or expand homes without demolition orders, when settlements encroach on their villages, when they cannot travel within the country.
How can I fight it? I can tell my experience and hope others listen. I can attend local meetings organized by peace groups. I can write my representatives. But truthfully, I do not do these things as often as I should. Studying endless details about pharmacodynamic properties of drugs or the intricacies of pathways through the brainstem get in the way. So for now, I just talk, or write for that matter.
{Originally posted on Stritch's ISI blog: http://stritchimmersion.blogspot.com/}
It is like looking through a dark woven blanket to bright light above. The night sky surrounds us, envelopes us as we gaze at the stars and planets. Fires flicker on hillsides around. Dozens of shootings stars streak through our vision. What wishes to make?
Morning comes early; the roosters are the only ones who arrive on time in Haiti. Bright sun heats up our concrete room, the light is blinding. Bread, peanut butter, and pineapple prepare and strengthen us for the final clinic day. Our truck, the beloved White Whale, bumps and winds its way to Dandann.
On my own and many patients to see, my excitement and nervousness brings energy for the day. The patients that have become routine to us in five days file in – cases of acid reflux, headaches, anemia, joint aches, hypertension, dental problems, vision impairments, malnutrition, vitamin deficiencies, dehydration, worms, scabies, and earwax impaction seem to be the major ones. My confidence increases as does my speed.
One man hobbles in using sticks as canes. He thinks that he is 69 years old, his eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, and bones poking through thin, outworn clothes. Asking what brought him to the clinic, he tells me, through my translator Louis, that he has pains in his stomach and all over his body. Haitians are a proud people, surviving through community and hard work so what he says next is difficult to hear. He openly admits that he knows these pains are from hunger. He eats only when people can bring him something, because of his limited mobility. He is unable to work, to support himself in any way. He has no family, his parents died many years ago and he never had children. His neighbors try to help, but they too struggle. He is not alone in his experience, but many do not share their stories. The pain on his face is apparent, I fight back tears. On physical exam, his belly protrudes, each of his ribs and spinous processes hard, sharp against my hands. Our ability to help is limited. We invite him to stay for lunch, share crackers and pretzels with him in the meantime. Tylenol and Tums are the best we have to send him home with. Louis is not only my translator, but a community leader and vows to look after this man.
The day is not done. I see dozens more patients before a father brings his children to my station; my penultimate patient. He is dressed in polka-dot pants and a wide brim straw hat with a ribbon tied around it. He is 32, his children are 8, 5, 3, and 13 months (and one more at home). Johnna, a missionary familiar with his family, explains to me his story. His wife died several months ago from an apparent ear infection, leaving him with the children. He has no money or source of income. The 13 month old has a cough and fever and the 3 year old something entirely different. He says there is something on her back, so we examine her by lifting up the large t-shirt that is her only clothes. A bony mass protrudes out, Dr. Buchta thinks it might be some sort of rib malformation, but cannot know for sure unless an x-ray can be taken. We tell the young father that he must take her to St. Boniface Hospital in Fond des Blanc so that she can be examined with better equipment. He nods understandingly and explains that the hospital is where his wife died and knows that he must take his daughter there, but has not been able to summon the courage to see it again. Again, I am overwhelmed with emotion as the struggles of my patients become clear. They are not simply medical, nor are they economic. The depth of hurt in this country is great. Each family, each person has a story. We are but a small piece of their lives, trying to make a positive change.
For this man and his family, we equip them with all of our vitamins that we have left, toothbrushes and toothpaste, antibiotics, stickers, and encouragement to have his daughter seen at St. Boniface.
At the end of the day, I am emotionally and physically drained. The White Whale brings us back to the orphanage, stopping to see a homebound patient on the way and pick flowers from the flamboyant tree. The children greet us with hugs and smiles. I relish in those times when I can see the joy through their eyes, see Christ through the light so apparent at the Mission. Dinner is a feast of rice, bean sauce, and chicken. We take for granted the provision of clean, safe water and gulp it down.
The sun sets in the hills and mountains that surround us. We debate on whether that planet is Mars or Jupiter, or maybe Venus. Darkness falls, twinkling stars replace the sun. Heat lightning strikes in the distance. It becomes quiet. A falling star blazes through the sky.
It has now been nearly two weeks since I returned from the Holy Land. I had meant to recap my thoughts and feelings on the experience, but I was not, and still am not, sure that I can accurately and coherently summarize the trip. This post goes over the last few days in Palestine, hopefully a reflective post will come soon.
But first, I have not divulged the details of our last few days, which we certainly memorable. While at Haddad Village, we listened to Pastor Azar and Pastor Saliba (or attempted to get the translations), made many friendship bracelets, had free time to swim or go to the amusement park, visited a history museum (but all I really got out of it were the creepy and awkwardly painted mannequins), and shared many meals with our group and the other youth. One night we had a dance, which they started out mixing American and Arabic music, transitioning just to Arabic music, so we were a bit out of our element. The girls tried to teach us their moves and we refused to show them the kind of American dancing one might see at your typical high school these days. Eventually, we let down our guards and started dancing along with them. I figured I had nothing to lose but my dignity and self-respect, so I jumped on in. We were told beforehand by Pastor Saliba that prizes would be given to the best dancers. I lost that the second I walked in the door, or so I thought – apparently they also gave prizes to the most ridiculous dancers. And so, my inhibition-less Arabic dancing won me swimming goggles.
Together with the Palestinian youth, we left Haddad village aboard the busses that brought us there. Because our group had such a rough time on the way up, we all dosed ourselves with some Dramamine for the ride. Unfortunately, the Palestinians do not have iron stomachs as we were once told. Several kids in our minibus were not feeling too great as we wound through the bumpy roads and demonstrated that fact through the second showing of lunch. The air wasn’t flowing well and cafeteria style and sized meals right before we left did not aid the matter. We stopped for sweets in Nablus and despite the vomiting and nausea, many indulged in the icecream. We Americans, however, still drowsy from the medicine just sat content in our seats waiting to move on. In Ramallah, we said our goodbyes to the dozens of teens that had come into our lives over the last two weeks and headed back to Jerusalem.
Stepping into the Azzahra Hotel it was like we never left, Katie and I joked that we were “home” again. The following day, our final day, Scott arranged for us to go to the Dead Sea. This was something that I had really wanted to do, especially having not gone in 2009 during my previous trip. I was extremely grateful to him for putting that together for us, considering it involved us backing out on an overnight family stay in Ramallah and figuring out more transportation and financial details (for which I am also thankful I did not have to deal with the entire trip, a true blessing).
Going to the Dead Sea was a bit of a surreal experience. Within my first few steps in my foot found a hole and I fell right in. We mudded ourselves up and stood in the sun to help it dry. Supposedly it does remarkable things to your skin, but I am sure we looked a bit silly (no one else seemed to take part in this ritual except for us). [As a side note, Ahava is an Israeli company that manufactures cosmetics using minerals from the Dead Sea and has a factory and visitors’ center in the Israeli settlement of Mitzpe Shalem in the occupied West Bank. 34% of the company shares are held by the West Bank settlement of Kibbutz Mitzpe Shalem, 34% by Hamashbir Holdings, 18% are held by Shamrock Holdings (the investment fund of the Roy E. Disney family), and 6% by the West Bank settlement of Kibbutz Kaliya. It has been the target of many protests and boycott movements, given that is an Israeli company profiting from the occupation. For more information check out bigcampaign. org or bdsmovement. net about the BDS movement for non-violent action against the occupation.]
After washing off the mud in an outdoor shower we spent some time relaxing and floating in the Dead Sea – which is quite an odd feeling.
We returned to Jerusalem and met up with Shukri to do some final shopping and talk with him about our experiences. One of my favorite parts of the trip was just being in the Old City and our visit to Shukri’s home showed me a side of the Old City that I had not seen before. Tucked in through narrow winding roads was his home with a beautiful courtyard and a tree growing in it. Certianly unexpected when my vision of the Old City are bustling streets full of smells and noise and covered walkways; his home was light, airy, and quiet. Except when he played his traditional drum for us (accompanied by his one year old nephew).
Shopping in the Old City goes along with my favorites for the trip. There is such a wide variety of goods for sale – the obligatory tourist shops, clothes, shoes, fruit and vegetables, falafel, housewares, and my favorite – spices. Truthfully I am not very creative when it comes to cooking so spices aren’t generally my forte, but the spices in Jerusalem are without a doubt spectacular. I brought home zatar (a mixture of powdered spices used for dipping bread into), cinnamon, makluba spice (so I can try to make my own upside down), and saffron. The saffron is CHEAP and when I say cheap, I mean cheap. For 15 NIS (~4 USD) you can get a small tub filled with the spice. A small paper envelope about the size of a half dollar coin costs $10 in the US.
Dinner was on top of the Mount of Olives - pizza! We met up with a few Palestinian youth and the many internationals and locals that gather there each Wendesday to play volleyball and enjoy the fellowship. The sunset over the city was beautiful despite the cloud cover. We walked down through the olive groves to take photos, but got spooked by the darkness and sounds that convinced us we were not alone (which might have been true given there was a settlement not too far away with guards who are known to walk the grounds). We returned to the Azzahra to count down the hours until our flights in the early morning. Because we didn’t have rooms and were leaving at 2 am, many of us napped on the couches in the lobby. We said our goodbyes to Scott, boarded our bus, and made our way to the airport. On the way we were stopped at a pre-airport checkpoint where a soldier boarded and searched our bus, likely because of our Palestinian driver.
I was flying alone out of Tel Aviv on El Al Israel Airlines and the rest of the group was flying Lufthansa and the original plan was to stick together through security, but because of the way the airport is set up, there is an initial security point before you get to the counters and have to split up before then. Immediately I became nervous because I was counting on Bill in his clerical collar to get us through security easily. I said my goodbyes hurriedly to the group because we all had to figure out the system. In line waiting for the initial security I was asked for my passport by two young women (one clearly in training). I was asked the standard why was I there question, but they were confused by my past Jordanian visa and sticker from entrance via Allenby bridge (from going to the Holy Land via Amman last year). I explained that it was from a previous tourist trip, but they then gave my passport to a man who asked me more questions about my current trip and last trip and where the rest of my group was. I thought I was explaining them fine, but my nervousness must have shown through because he gave me back my passport and slapped it and all of my baggage with a sticker with the number 5.
Now here is where I must explain a little bit about flying out of Tel Aviv. This initial security check screens all passengers for a perceived security threat. Everyone is given a sticker with a number on it, going from 1-6. An Israeli citizen would get a 1. A foreign Jew would likely get a 2. Most foreigners probably a 3, a Palestinian would almost certainly get a 6. The number you get dictates the type of security breeze/interrogation you may get. Knowing this beforehand, once I got the 5 I figured, well, I guess they’re going to search so let’s get it over with.
I had to step up to a counter and empty all of my bags so that they could look and test for any sort of suspicious or explosive material. Originally she told me that if I wanted to take my carry-on with me instead of checking it then this was going to take longer. I did not want to check my computer and I knew that they had to get me to my flight on time anyway, so I just went with the full check. There was not much in my carry on that was suspicious anyway.
The girl going through my bags was about my age and actually very nice. I got the feeling that they did not understand why I was given a 5 (especially considering they never found my keffiyah and didn’t open my “Visit Palestine” poster). I had to turn on my computer and open a file, which turned out to be the most cumbersome part because my battery was dead. Once I got it on though, the security girl complimented me on the background picture (of Ludington) and we commiserated on how slow my old Vista computer is. I was not really asked any more questions at this point, which surprised me. Never once was I asked where I stayed or what exactly we did. Once all of my belongings were shoved back in my bags, she escorted me to the front of the ticket line, bypassed the security line by going through the employee line, and she brought me up to Passport Control, shook my hand and told me to have a great flight.
I’d take a 5 again if it only meant repacking my bags and not having to stand in any line. I ended up making it to the gate before most people, including those I stood in the initial security line with.
