Early Thursday morning (the morning the Encounter trip began),  as I was brushing my teeth and blow-drying my hair, I practiced the only Arabic phrases I knew, being sure to put emphasis on the breathy “h” sounds before the guttural one. I watched myself mouth the words in the mirror, anticipating what the next few days would be like. I was scared to embark on this journey into the Palestinian territories, but not in any way a physical fear. I was going in, with any rational, political, and emotional guards down. I was going to learn things I never knew, or never wanted to know. I was making myself open, vulnerable. But most of all, I was going to finally put a face to the conflict.

This is what kept me going on my walk to the bus early in the morning. Its finally happening, I told myself. I’ll meet people, not newspaper articles, or counter-protestors. I’ll make human connections.

We were told not to speak Hebrew show any obvious Jewish symbols, such as a kippah or star of David, in public spaces during our trip. The staff explained to us that we can’t possibly explain to everyone what we’re doing, and we don’t want anyone to be reactive. In private spaces, when we are working with out Palestinian partners, we are free to show whatever symbols we wished to. It was really hard for me, but I removed my star of david necklace and my joy of speaking Hebrew and put them into a small box, where both the necklace and the language waited for me patiently until the end of the trip.

I think it is important for me to share, however, that as fearful as I was embarking on this trip for my own emotional vulnerability, I am equally as frightened publishing this blog post. Unfortunately, I think speaking about these issues marks me as a certain type of person, and that saddens me. Try to hang in there with me as I struggle with and ask some of the difficult questions about my narrative.

Here goes.

On the way to Bethlehem, we said Tefillat HaDerech (The Wayfarer’s Prayer). A traditional prayer, it is usually recited for a very long trip. I was slightly confused, as the journey to Bethlehem was only 15 minutes. I learned quite soon, however, that the trip we were taking was not just a physical journey. Over a short period of time, we delved deeply into our emotional and political identities. Personally, I travelled to a very distant place within myself, many miles away, in uncharted territory. I am thankful that we said that passage, because as we listened to political perspectives and various narratives, my identity was challenged. The prayer provided me with a crucial groundedness in my tradition and my values. I know that this conflict is challenging, and I’m glad I have the Wayfarer’s Prayer, enriched by my experience with Encounter, to take with me whenever I may need it.

 Arrive in Beit Jala at the Everest Hotel.

The group was incredibly diverse and vibrant—a mixture of young and older Jewish professionals, rabbinical students, and Jewish lay leaders from all across the religious and political spectrum. First, we began by creating an intention for the day. We did this by singing a niggun, a Jewish spiritual tune without words. We reviewed the communication agreement, and affirmed our commitment to listening, dignity, wisdom, compassion, openness, holism, and hearing multiple voices.

First, we met Renna from the Holy Land Trust, and she is one of Encounter’s Palestinian partner organizers. She had long, slick dark hair and sported sophisticated high heels. She told us about the Trust’s initiative with alternative tourism, and about the non-violent training programs that they run. She also told us about the Palestine Network, which reports about civil society organizations and events.

After Renna spoke, we continued to sit in a circle as the owner of the hotel introduced himself. A cheerful man, he told us his wish for the hotel, which is easily accessible by both Palestinians and Israelis (because of the political zone it lies within). He wanted it to be a place for dialogue and peacemaking. He currently has hosted 58 peace groups to date in the hotel since 1945. He told us that people have come with the intention create peace both from Hebron and Hamas, from Kiryat Arba and Jenin. He became somber for a moment. “We are all of us, human beings”, he said. He described that here, there are no guns, and no rockets. The hotel is a safe space.

The mood lightened again as he joked, “If we have peace then no one will come to see us!” The people in the room chuckled.

Small Group Discussion

Encounter employs a unique and (in my opinion) excellent dialogue model. We were broken up into small groups of 5, with one facilitator. We began with serial sharing, where each member of the group spoke to the question being asked for a specific timed period. When that was over, we began “collective sharing”, staying within timed intervals and being conscious of staying not only within the confines of what we considered to be respectful, but within the borders of the communication agreement. This created a very safe environment for dialogue. My facilitator also happened to be wonderful-he had a calmness and dignity about the way he made sure that the dialogue stayed on track. In this group, we simply discussed the question: “What’s on your mind?” Responses varied, as my group was a mixture of ages, political backgrounds, experiences, and perspectives. I voiced that I was fearful. Another of the group members spoke about political concerns, another to the difference between private and public space on the trip. As we spoke, we looked at the big clock facilitator was holding to make sure stayed within the allotted time, keeping track of the red second hand as we spoke.

 Ayid A., Environmentalist, Friends of the Earth Middle East & Water and Environmental Development Organization

A Christian Palestinian from Bethlehem, Ayid explained to us that he had been through both intifadas, and discovered that being in a conflict is both difficult and gives you strength at the same time. Ayid’s activist moment is when he realized that there is immense conflict between nations, but some things can simply not wait for political solutions. In Ayid’s case, this is water. Access to water, preservation of water, cleanliness of water. Water, he said, could be a powerful tool for peace building. He explained that Israel maintains an overwhelming control over water sources, even inside the West Bank.  Therefore, not only is access limited, but according to Ayid, pollution control goes unmonitored due to the logic of “It’s my enemy, I don’t care what their water is like”.

The Israeli side thinks that we’re just complaining, he said, but there is a real need here. When they hear about the lack, they are shocked.

Tour of the Bethlehem Area and Seperation Wall

We got on the bus, and I half-listened to Ayid’s commentary on the area as we drove through Bethlehem. Hazy-eyed, I looked out the window at the kids waving excitedly to the bus, at women hanging up her laundry, and at construction workers lugging heavy tools. I made note of the Palestinian license plates (which I had never seen before) and Palestinian flags flying in some of the windows.

 

We arrived at the separation wall, and got off the bus.

Just a note on language: Since our Palestinian partners were hosting us, I believe we chose language that was the least inflammatory and the safest for that group. Of course, depending on the narrative, the “separation wall” could be the security fence, the apartheid wall, the barrier, the political failure, or any other number of characterizations. But our group took on one naming, and moved from there.

For me, the wall had always been described in mythic proportions. I remember first hearing about it in Israel advocacy class when I was 16 years old. My teacher told us emphatically that there would be those who wanted to delegitimize Israel on our college campuses, and they would tell us that Israel had erected a racist, apartheid wall. No! Israel needed this security fence to decrease the incidents of violence—and it has accomplished that! The numbers have been steadily declining since the fences’ construction! According to the class and the curriculum, those people were wrong. The point of the wall was for security, for nothing more and nothing less. There was no middle ground. There was no critique.

From there, the wall kept looming over my conversations about Israel. It weighed upon me heavily as I argued over its existence, as I saw it protested against, and as I heard it advocated for.

The first thing I saw was that the cement wall was covered in art. On the ledge near the wall where we got off the bus, five car mats were drip-drying. For me, all sounds were drowned out as I approached the wall to touch it. I recall walking towards the Western Wall for the first time at age 13, wondering if something magical would happen to me upon touching it. As I drew closer to the Western Wall in the Jerusalem winter, I touched the cold stone, and brushed up against some of the tiny, crumpled up notes stuck into the crack. Something rushed through me, but it wasn’t magic—it was the moment of realizing the reality of what was there, and making my own meaning out of the touch. For me, the touch of the Western wall eventually came to inspire me to pray for the restoration of a center of unity and peace for the Jewish people.

As I touched the separation wall for the first time, the same thing happened. I made contact with the cement. A sensation rushed through me. The process of defining the sensation’s meaning began.

At that moment, I thought about the Western Wall for a moment: Why is it a wall that defines a place of unity for the Jewish people? Why not a gate? A door? A room?

I worked through these thoughts as I heard Ayid talking in the background. “We want to have borders, but not physical borders! How will we come to know each other to make peace?” “The wall is not a real solution to peace, peace has more than one definition than security.” He went on to explain the numerous negative effects the barrier was having on the community. I was uncomfortable that he didn’t seem to address the violence that was occurring to Israelis during the intifada, but I tried to just immerse myself in his narrative for that moment.

I went on looking at some of the art and graffiti, which was really very beautiful, some of it disturbing.

Our bus moved on through Beit Sahour, but not before it became hopelessly stuck in the narrow streets. Redirecting the bus became a community event. A dozen people were gathered on the street corner, helping the bus make the correct moves to turn around. A woman holding a baby was giving particularly enthusiastic advice as she stood on her nearby porch. A group of men holding various tools gathered round to observe this momentous event. Eventually, we moved forward and arrived in Beit Sahour at Oush Garab park.

Lunch and Presentation at Oush Garab Park 

A confident woman named Hanan, who was an administrator in the Beit Sahour municipality, gave a presentation about the city. She spoke about grassroots non-violent peace work that was going on, and about demographics and service delivery to the community. She told us that she made a commitment to be a unique municipality known for its exceptional care provision to its residents.

Oush Grab Peace Park was built to be a model for a long-lasting peace. The people of the city worked very hard, she told us, to convert a plot of land, deserted by the Israel army in 2006, to a beautiful park. The people saved it from becoming a dumping site, and they made it “a place that ensures the possibility of peace when we people work together and produce tangible results for a better life for our visitors and residents”. The green space is a place to enhance lives and create potential for peace, she said.

Unfortunately, she also said that they face many challenges from nearby settlements and the army for their work. If you’re interested in the other narrative: (link here).

Personal Narratives Panel

This was one of my favorite parts of the program, because we got to know not only about the activities of three Palestinian women, but also their personal stories. Each woman was radically different, and each was moving or inspiring in her own way.

First, there was Fatima. A Muslim and a vocal feminist, Fatima started the Sharouq Society for Women. She was a sturdy, strong looking woman, who constantly wore a smile that was accentuated by her ruddy cheeks. She glowed like a matriarch under her sheer white hijab, and black espadrilles with rhinestones peeked out of her long dress. “I want to transfer the suffering of women in Israel and Palestine to hope”, she said.

Next there was Reem. The founder of a music academy in Bethlehem, Reem is also a delegation leader for Seeds of Peace. At her music school, she provides music for all, not asking for fees if the student cannot pay. She also emphasized the school’s unique quality to allow the child to choose what instrument they wish to play, reinforcing the empowerment that comes with choice. When Reem was in University during the Intifada, expecting a child, a gas bomb went off and caused her to go into labor many months before her due date. The child’s life was not certain, and after remaining in an incubator for a long time, he had to go through many surgeries during his childhood to restore his health.

Reem began to cry. We took a moment. There was a heavy silence before she said what she said next.

When he grew up and learned about his story, he told his mother that God gave him life for a reason, and now he wants to make Peace. He joined Seeds of Peace soon after.

Finally, Suzan spoke.  She told us that growing up, you never really met an Israeli. You only met soldiers. She had both good and bad memories of soldiers, but many of them from her youth were quite negative. She recalled one instance where someone was suspected of throwing a stone, and the soldiers saw them come in the direction of her house. They came in and turned everything upside down. Then, when they couldn’t find anything, one of the soldiers went to the water well where the family got their water. Wanting to make sure no one was hiding inside, he spat in the well.

Suzan remembers her base rage, and as a young person, she remembers screaming: “does it make you happy to make us unhappy?!”

Now, Suzan runs the Bethlehem Fair Trade Artisans organization, and she believes strongly in peace. She believes there is suffering on both sides, and it needs to end.

“We want peace, we want to live together”.

I asked a question at this point: “I am hearing your frustrations, and I know you don’t have much hope for the current political situation. But I am also hearing about each of your commitments to non-violent grassroots work that is really inspirational. What keeps you going?

Suzan answered that it was her family, her daughters, that kept her going, and the hope for a better future for everyone.

It was during these answers that it happened. I felt a strong identification with one of them, the final panelist. Not an insincere one, or one where I had to really try to imagine myself in their shoes. I really felt that I could be her, or her daughter.

As an aside, I found that throughout the day, I was writing down questions that I didn’t quite know the answers to. In my notes, I wrote here: “What does it mean that Palestinians cannot go into Jerusalem?” How could I not know that?

Small Group Sessions

During the next small group session, we talked about a lot of issues that came up for us, particularly about the relationship between pragmatism and idealism. I voiced that I was having trouble articulating some of the really honest questions that were coming up for me. I made a commitment to myself that I would try to ask some of them in the future sessions.

As the day went on, we davened Mincha and Maariv. I found praying on this trip meaningful and important. When the trip ended, all I wanted to do was go to Friday night services to immerse myself in a private, soulful, searching prayer.

Cooperative Games and Interactive Activities with Palestinian Youth Leaders

During this session, we used drama and movement to connect with one another. We ran around the room, switched places, and played rock-paper-scissors, as we indulged in some of the most popular teambuilding games.

We ended with a more intense activity. We all stood in a circle, Jews of various backgrounds and ages, and Palestinians from the age of 7 to the age of 60. The leaders put forth various statements, and if the statement applied to us, we were to step forward a few steps.

“I am a person who likes ice cream.”

“I am a person who has been to Jerusalem.”

“I am a person who has family in Jordan.”

“I am a person whose family has been a refugee in the last 100 years…the last 50 years…the last 10 years…”

“I am a person who feels scared when they hear Arabic.”

“I am person who feels scared when they hear Hebrew.”

“I am a person who has lost someone I love in an act of terror, violence, or genocide”.

Too many people stepped forward for this one. I locked eyes with someone across from me in the circle, and we shared a look that was heavy with both pain and understanding.

The debriefing session that followed included some of our Palestinian partners. The discussion questions were translated and all of answers were translated into both English and Arabic. Unfortunately, we learned from one of the Palestinians in our group that two Palestinian youth had come for the event but left immediately because they saw kippot.

After the debrief, we ALL piled onto the bus and headed to the Tent Restaurant in Beit Sahour, where our host families were waiting for us. We were seated at tables with our host families, and we ate and laughed together as the night went on. The dinner somehow evolved into a giant dance party, at which I proudly beat everyone in the room for the amount of time I was able to hold my middle-eastern-celebratory-cry (ask me to model this for you at some point), and feigned fainting at the end out of exhaustion. Suddenly, people crowded around me, asking me if I was all right. “Yes, yes, I’m fine! It was a joke, I’m fine!”

Oops.

We eventually recovered from that incident and the dancing continued. Moving to the beat of traditional Arabic music, I was taught some Palestinian dance moves. Towards the end, one of the teens connected their ipod to the speaker and put on some English hip-hop music. One of the boys began breakdancing after some hesitation, and then another girl from town joined him in some seriously sweet hip-hop moves. The traditional adults observed, partly with amusement, and partly with disapproval, at the dancing teens. I reflected for a moment at the Westernization of youth all over the world, and wondered what various impacts this cultural shift has on communities.

My friend and I climbed into our host family’s car. The car was from 1985, and you could see that it had been through a lot. I closed the door gently, fearing that the whole car would collapse if I shut it too hard. The father of the family was a handsome man in his fifties, who smiled constantly from ear to ear. When we arrived at their home, he showed us graciously around his workshop—he sculpts olive wood into religious figures. As we looked at the intricately carved figures from the New Testament, the air smelled oddly sweet in the workshop, a mixture of turpentine and burnt wood.  He told us that he also makes figures from the Old Testament. One of his best-selling pieces is a figure of the spies carrying a giant cluster of grapes.

As we went up to the house, we learned that the family has been hosting Encounter participants for 15 years. The apartment was so cozy. It was full of all kinds of knick knacks, ticking clocks, old Christmas photos, and smells of home. A cat (whose name we later learned was Bebe) spread his paws apart and stretched up against the whirring fan. On the wall, there were three large wedding photos, one of each of their children, glowing with the happiness of young love. Their youngest daughter, who was 16, was home. She wore tight jeans and heels, and after we went to bed, she came into the guest room in her pajamas and the three of us talked before we fell asleep.

In lieu of a traditional Western dining room configuration, the living room was lined with beige couches and a large coffee table. We sat on the couches, looking through their old wedding album. A Turkish movie dubbed in Arabic played softly in the background. Our host “father” looked exactly like John Travolta on his wedding day, sporting 1976 side burns and a gorgeous face. Our host “mother”, a cheerful woman in jeans, brought fresh plums from the tree outside, and hot nana tea. We munched on the crisp, juicy, fruit and we continued talking.

An elderly woman, the host father’s mother, entered the room, muttering something in Arabic and looking distressed. We learned that she has been living with them since their marriage. Eventually, she gave us a warm welcome.

The mood got a bit heavier when we went out to the porch and our host father showed us where the army shot from during the second intifada. Due to the fact that some violence was emerging out of their village, they were right in the  line of fire. He told us that his son was shaving one morning, and bent down for a moment, narrowly dodging a bullet to his head.

He showed us the corridor where the entire family lived for 40 days, enclosed by many walls to protect them from bullets.

After some more chatting, we said good night, and then I learned that our host father wakes up every morning at 4 AM to start work. In this way, he reminded me of my own father.

I slept deeply and dreamt of embroidered tissue pouches and celebratory dancing.

We woke up to the smell of eggs and the bright sun shining through the window. Even at 7:00 AM, our host mother had prepared an extravagant breakfast for her guests. (For those that are interested, I decided that in peace-making types of situations, my status on Kosher would be that I would be  fine eating vegetarian). The table was spread with pita, olive oil, za’atar, homemade Chinese orange marmalade, cheeses, butter, eggs, and (oops!) sausages.

We bid each other farewell with firm hugs and smiles. “You are welcome here anytime,” our hosts kept repeating. Or host father drove us to the hotel and we took some final photos and said last goodbyes, or at least for now.

 

He drove off, and we entered the hotel, still reeling from the excitement of our homestay. It was at this point we realized we had been dropped off at the wrong hotel.

Ha! After calling our trip leaders, we eventually got into a cab and made it to our intended hotel.

Facts on the Ground 

We then heard from Hamed, who has an international MBA from Bar Ilan, and works with both Israelis and Palestinians on the ground. He has also been working with the UN for 7 or 8 years. He examines the humanitarian impacts of political decisions on both sides, particularly in terms of life, homes, and access to services. The main thrust of his presentation was describing the physical situation of the West Bank, and his doubt that a two-state solution would work as it is now.

As it stands, there are three zones in the West Bank.

Zone A: Palestinians have complete control over security and administration.

Zone B: Palestinians are responsible for civil administration, security is in the hands of Israelis.

Zone C: Everything under Israeli control.

Area A and B, Hamed told us, make up less than 40% of the territories, and 95% of Palestinians live there. With Zone C, military zones, seam zones, and closures, little fragmented islands are left, barely a feasible state. Hamed stated that “as a Palestinian, I don’t believe that the Israelis are ready to engage in a meaningful negotiation, and in Netanyahu’s time, it is clear that the peace process in going to fail”.

He also stressed the difference between Israeli political leadership, who largely have control over the peace process, and Israeli citizens and activists.

At the end of his presentation, I finally asked my burning question. “I have a specific set of experiences and a narrative that includes hardships, violence, and history from the Israeli and the Jewish perspective. I came here to listen to other narratives, open up, and learn. I’m hearing you, but the dots aren’t connecting, the pictures aren’t matching up. Can you help me understand?”

The answer to the question was not that clear to me, but I was proud that I was able to articulate the question.

Al-Walaje

We then moved on to Al-Walaje, a small village, where we met another strong woman. Having been fed up with the conflict in her village, she spent a number of years in Sudan working on peace initiatives there. But now, she’s back, trying to seek justice for her village.

She apologized in advance for anyone that may be offended. She told us she was particularly angry this week about a case she had brewing in the Supreme Court. This woman did not hide any rage that she had.

This was her narrative (a barebones version): In 1948, the entire village was forced out, and they were left only with around half of the land that they used have, and even less after some had been taken over by Jordan. Very few that were expelled returned, but some didn’t believe that it was the end. They felt could go back. So they went, and they lived in caves in anticipation of their return to their village.

In 1967, part of their village was annexed, but the land was still considered Jerusalem. They were given West Bank permits. This residency status created various problems.

Furthermore, they are dealing with complications with the separation barrier, which plans to completely enclose their village, with the only entry being a single gate. She told us how angry she was that an “18 year old boy would have sole control over the welfare of her entire village”. Angry, she told us that no violence had ever come out of this village. There hadn’t even been violence occurring elsewhere committed by people from the village. She showed us a tiny house that would be completely enclosed by the barrier. We saw the breaks in the barrier where you could easily walk through right to Jerusalem, and catch an Egged bus from the road.

Though I listened intently to her story, her heavy emotions made it hard to identify fully. We both were coming with different backgrounds, and I was letting myself become vulnerable, but I didn’t feel she was meeting me half-way.

We had lunch at the Al-Walaje community center, where Yasser Arafat smiled down upon us as we ate. At my table, we discussed what the impact would be of what we were learning in our home communities.

Finally, we came back to the Everest Hotel where we heard Sam B. speak, a Palestinian-American who started a telecommunications company in the territories. He spoke about the complications with frequencies and electricity, and he showed us the stack of identification documents he has to carry with him at all times. He explained to us how he needs various permits to leave the territories, and that is not permitted to fly out of Tel Aviv (only out of the country, like Jordan) or visit his alma mater, Tel-Aviv university. He gave really nuanced and well-grounded answers to questions we had, particularly about the BDS movement

By the time we arrived at the closing circle in Tel-Aviv, did our final small group session and sang our final niggun, I was completely exhausted; physically, intellectually, and emotionally.

Reflections

I am writing this post early on in my stages of processing, but I have some initial reactions and reflections. I had closed myself off for a long time to some of the things that were happening in the West Bank. Both the facts and emotional connections I held toward the region were seriously challenged, and I’m still grappling with what I learned.

Initially, I felt a sense of rage towards my teachers and community leaders. Why didn’t they tell me this? Were they worried that Israel “advocacy” wouldn’t succeed if I knew about how difficult it was to access certain services in the territories? Did they not trust me with this delicate information? Did they not believe I knew how to think critically? Or did they not know about these issues themselves? Didn’t they known that I would be a better advocate for Israel if I had learned about everyone’s suffering, not just those of my own people?

I also want to tell you that this was hard to share because one of the main goals of the trip was to put a human face to the conflict. Now, I am doing the best I can to relay the personalities of the people I met, but as they say, “you had to be there”. It is important to remember that it was about connecting with human beings, not about being swayed to a certain political position. I am also aware that there are dozens, if not hundreds, of narratives about the conflict that I have yet to hear.

I almost wish that we had an additional day to workshop how to have these conversations outside of Israel. What I’ve learned from the activism I’ve done here, is that Israel/Palestine activism is much more real in the land itself. There, there is not question of who should exist and who shouldn’t exist. Both parties are there, they are looking at one another. No one’s going anywhere. They just need to figure out how to move on from there. Outside of Israel, there is a huge war of words, mainly over policies. The line between delegitimization and critique becomes hard to define.

You’ve almost finished the post. You may want to tell me that I’ve barely scratched the surface of Palestinian suffering, or that I have no idea what the Israeli army goes through every day to defend the people of Israel. But this is not what I’ve concerned with right now.

A dear teacher of mine told me recently that it is less important to agree on practical issues, and more important to agree on how we talk about things and treat one another. We must do so with the values of respect and understanding.

After Encounter, I made an important commitment, informed by my Jewish values and my experience with Encounter.

I will do my best to always listen to the narratives of others, regardless of how left, right, liberal, or conservative they are. At the end of the day, they are just like me. A human being. Even if I don’t agree with everything they might say, I know that I will definitely be able identify with something, whether it’s a love for cooking or a value on justice. I commit myself to always try to find that shared value, and work with that common ground we find together.