Names and Baby Steps

It is possible to study the situation here for a lifetime and think you grasp it all.  One could read a hundred hard-bound books, take a dozen classes on contemporary or ancient history, learn a half dozen languages and live in the land for years.  But the truth here is, everyday, you still have to wake up to reality, to the daily lives of Israelis and Palestinians, Jews and Christians, Muslims and Druze.  There is always one more facet to learn, and the situation, as the phrase goes, is greater than the sum of its parts.

After recognizing this, it should have come as no surprise to me that I am but a Middle East baby, one who wakes up each day and resumes the business of learning how to crawl.  And one day, I just may shock you with that first word slipping through my lips.  I am swimming in a world of challenges, of surprises and adventures, of wisdom and folly.  There will always be an endless supply of new discoveries awaiting me in this land, and this week proved no different.  Except this time brought with it a true revelation, a baby who skips the awkward stumbles of first steps and heads straight for running marathons.

By nature, I am a political individual.  I have never bought the arguments that religion is apolitical, or vice-versa.  By extension, the realms of faith and politics are interconnected and, if the influence moves from the former to the latter, politics can be an appropriate forum for expression of one's religious commitment.  My time here in Israel, however, has tempered my hope about the highest of achievements which politics is capable of.  I have now come to see the political process, in general, in a light similar to Thomas Friedman's characterization of the Israeli-Palestinian crisis: that of "a bad play . . . [in which] all the parties are just acting out the same old scenes, with the same old tired clichés—and that no one believes any of it anymore."

My revelation, however, descended much deeper than that.  In truth, I have missed for so many years the point of peace altogether.  A reading of Ezekiel 36 spins the clarity dial bringing the picture back into focus.  Peace is not about us.  It is not about us living comfortably together, or strengthening our economies.  It is not about Nobel Peace Prize winners (or posers).  Nor is it about cease-fires or even justice, though all these things have their place.  It is about restoring God's name to its rightful, holy place in the world.

"This is what the Sovereign LORD says:  It is not for your sake, O house of Israel, that I am going to do these things [to raise you up], but for the sake of my holy name, which you have profaned among the nations where you have gone.  I will show the holiness of my great name, which has been profaned among the nations, the name you have profaned among them.  Then the nations will know that I am the LORD, declares the Sovereign LORD, when I show myself holy through you before their eyes." (Ezek. 36:22-23)

The Jewish people, as God's 'Segula,' or treasure box, must grapple with the meaning of their covenant with God in the midst of their current state of power; they must strive to keep his commands and to uplift the name of God through unrivaled justice and mercy.  Speaking to Israel, God says "I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.  And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws." (Ezek. 36:26-27)

Peace, then, cannot come without a focus on God, whether explicit or implicit.  To do so would deprive his name of the glory it deserves.  Politics can continue to negotiate processes for peace in this land, some of which may even achieve minor gains.  But as long as those 'road-maps' circumvent the God to whom this Holy Land really belongs, I believe we are all hoping for that same 'bad play' we have seen before to end differently this time.  The public square has its place in the Christian heart, and political discourse its merit.  The conflict we face, however—the one that I wake up to every day and work at a few more baby steps—demands more of us than solid political arguments.  It demands that our eyes be pointed upward.  Romeo's famous Shakespearean question comes to mind.  "What's in a name?"  In fact, never has a name meant so much. . .

A Kind History

History. . .  Over the last month, historiographical questions have emerged as a central theme in my studies, readings and conversations.  This should come as no surprise, since history is central to defining our personal, regional, national and global narratives - our identities are influenced by memory, whether personal or collective.  As a result, the lifeblood of conflicts often dwells in the discrepancies of history.  I believe the following two observations from my recent experiences best underscore the significance and complexity of historical interpretation.

The View from Jordan

I do not profess to be the greatest archaeology enthusiast this land has ever seen - I also am aware that I am likely not relaying to you anything you don't already know.  Studying rocks and pottery simply has never seemed as dynamic as observing people.  Last week in Jordan, however, archaeology taught me an important lesson about history with forseeable application well beyond the strata of a tell.

The site in question was Ramoth Gilead, location of the death of king Ahab of Israel, as well as, on this day, the largest collection of drying laundry I have ever seen.  Home to a tell, or artificial mound created by layers of ruins, the land surrounding Ramoth Gilead also boasts a thriving industrial sector and new housing community.  Stepping off the bus, I was shocked to see one of the buildings (above which hung the aforementioned laundry) encroaching upon the tell itself.  I apparently appreciate archaeology more than this Jordan, I thought.  Of the miles of flat and barren plains that surrounded us, developers chose to juxtapose an apartment complex over ancient history.  I imagined archaeologists everywhere having nightmares about the image before me tantamount to those of young children fresh off an experience with E.T.

At the end of our visit to the battleground site—Israel grappling with Damascus is not a phenomenon confined to contemporary history—my professor engaged my curiosity regarding the voracity of Jordanian archaeology.  What are our motivations for unearthing history and how do they influence our excavation priorities? In Jordan a strong emphasis is placed on Islamic history and that alone.  It may be that Jordanians specifically or Arabs/Muslims in general worry about the implications of adding detail and color to the biblical stories, even those that show the Israelites in a less than perfect light.  Archaeology has the power to fill in blanks, connect puzzle pieces and create a richer history of Israelite presence in the land, a fact which suggests more truth to the historicity of the Jewish narrative proffered by modern religious Jews.

Yet this concept—that by destroying, hiding or merely ignoring history we can alter it—is hardly a secret, especially in the Middle East.  The numerous attempts to challenge the voracity of the Holocaust made popular by Iran only further highlight efforts to undermine the legitimacy of the State of Israel.  This is a pattern which will only lead those involved further and further from the peace they think they are seeking.

The Meaning of Yad Vashem

Last week, I hopped on bus 21 and headed for Mount Herzl, home of Yad Vashem, the elegant yet somber Israeli Holocaust memorial.  Always an intensely moving experience.  As I gradually marched through hall after hall of flagrantly horrific photos, videos and quotations, I contemplated the Jewish identity—they are the most downtrodden and marginalized people the world has ever known.  The role of my roots in this monumental tragedy, the failures of the church and humanity itself, were all too apparent to me.

And yet, as I exited the rear of the museum to the glorious view of the "Promised Land," I couldn't help but ask myself what message, what meaning, the procurators hoped the museum would endow.  One can scarcely take a breath in this land without recognizing the effects of a history of victimization on Jews in this land, and Yad Vashem rightfully represents the harrowing experiences of Jews during those dark hours.  My curiosity, however, centers on a simple phrase so often used in Israel: "Never Again."  What is it, exactly, that should "Never Again" happen?  Is it the oppression of a people, the relegation of them to second class citizens, or only the mass graves and gas chambers which haunt the dreams of Jews worldwide?  Is it that some realities should be placed in the column of "Never Again," or simply "Never Again to Us?"  In his book entitled The Holocaust Is Over; We Must Rise From its Ashes, Avraham Burg, the son of Holocaust survivors, advocates for a Jewish recognition of the effects of victimization, despite their undeniably horrific past.  A failure to do so today will continue to lead Israel down the path of the history it abhors - yet another example of the oppressed becoming the oppressors.  The mentality of Us vs. Them must not be allowed to gain ground in the Israeli democracy - Jews must take an honest look at how the failures of an identity of victimization are poisoning the very foundation of Israeli society and all but erasing the possibility of peaceful coexistence.

History is a fabric of stories, often muddled, often contradictory, but one that is still being written—not a closed list of events on which someone can reflect as our studies often suggest.  As Winston Churchill once famously stated, "History will be kind to me for I intend to write it."  The truth of the matter is that the influence of an individual or nation's desire to shape their historical narratives goes well beyond the borders of the “Modern Middle East.” We each attempt to shape history to some extent in our favor.  As an American, I am constantly reminded of the history of indigenous peoples in the land we today call our own, and how our crimes were born in part out of a narritive of "oppression."  As a Christian, the memory of our crusades, our Anti-Semetism and our Inquisitions burns daily in a land which felt the brunt of the pain.  Writing history, when done of truth and in earnest, is an unavoidable and beneficial reality of life.  But to Churchill I ask, Is writing a "kind history" really worth the price?

Teaching the Tourists

Bideesh shukran. I don't want it thanks. A phrase I repeat so habitually these days it could be my own name. Whether to little boys on the street selling postcards and candy or to the vendors of Jerusalem's Old City, the Abu Muhammeds playing cards, I persistently remind the faithful that I am in no need of more trinkets or souvenirs, taxis or fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice. Nobody knows better than I how to play the game. This is the dance you learn as you walk the limestone streets, rubbed smooth from the passage of pilgrims, patrons and police.

Having mastered phrase and game, anticipating the rhythm of the dance, my surprise must have proved noticeable when my routine was interrupted. "Why don't you take a taxi? All you tourists think that we are terrorists, that we will rob you or beat you or blow you up. This is what they tell you on the other side of this wall." Stop, catch your breath and think. Suddenly the precarious equilibrium between Palestinian and passerby gives way to uneasy tension. No longer can I slide from place to place, in sync with my imaginary metronome, spewing my rehearsed response. I was the bishop on a chess board, unaware that my movements betray a strategy, but now I am the player. Each comment I make, signal I use, offer I refuse, these all proffer the possibility for an array of interpretations by those with whom I come in contact. And none should be ignored offhand.

Whether I like it or not, I speak for more than myself. To this taxi driver, I was one more example of Western fear and ignorance, one more reason to ponder whether it was worth waking up early every morning to maneuver the city aimlessly and in vain. Although the intelligent conversation that followed did much to rectify this misunderstanding—I walk to class in Bethlehem biweekly and enjoy the exercise and interaction with those whom I pass by—I couldn't help but think of the likely occurrence of similar occasions when local opinions were not voiced.

For the Christian, especially those who call America home, this task of overcoming stereotypes and spreading the truth is particularly daunting. We are forced to face head-on the reality of thousands of years of peace-less history, controversial, western, political policies disseminated in the name of God and the fear that our true motive in this land is always to proselytize. Adding insult to injury, it is the actions of tourists in this land that continue to shout the loudest. Against these odds it may seem as if there is no hope, and indeed there are times when I imagine myself standing before a tidal wave, unable to do anything more than raise a hand to stop the impending flood.

Yet despite all of this, the church is called to spread the truth throughout the world. Though I am but one man, one Christian, in a sea of many, God empowers me as part of that church to be the difference in a journey in which only the patient can persevere. It proves fruitless for me to dream of overcoming the broad misconceptions and injustices in one fell swoop. In this race, it behooves me to remember that it is the faithful tortoise, and not the mocking hare, who wins in the end. Rather than succumbing to the painful reality of what I am up against, I instead opt in favor of making a small difference in the lives of a few whose paths I cross. If we elect not to represent ourselves and our savior favorably, will someone else not gladly step up in our stead and offer a message of their choosing? I guarantee my right to speak out by doing that very thing! By challenging ignorance, I am supporting knowledge; by battling fear, and I strengthen love. Sometimes this will mean building a relationship, as with my conversation with the taxi driver. Other times, it may end less favorably—I was recently asked to leave my favorite restaurant after challenging a tourist group to remember Palestinian Christians. Still, we must continue to confront the world at every opportunity, to "teach the tourists."

This is a critical juncture for every committed Christian. Though we look distastefully at the outstretched baton approaching us, one characterized by hatred and violence, ignorance and abuse, we each must choose whether to accept the challenge, our unfavorable position in the race against injustice, or to drop the baton and disqualify ourselves. In a world of intense inter-religious and interstate strife, can we really afford the latter? The church today must model an alternative community; we must stand out against the grain and prove that Christ's message can indeed transform the world. To live this message, however, it must first transform us, and, as is usually the case, the challenge begins with the small stuff. It commences when we step out of the checkpoint and onto Hebron Road. It continues during the 15 minute conversation with a taxi driver, and it solidifies in the commitment to truth that permeates our interaction back home. This is the message of truth to which we are called. And to that, I won't be saying bideesh shukran.

Settling Them Down

Truth may walk through the world unarmed.

~ Bedouin Proverb

This tiny land, this "Land Between" as it is often called, occupies a space not quite the stature of New Jersey at the intersection of continents.  Yet despite its size, Israel/Palestine packs a lot into a small package.  While the Israelis and Palestinians capture the headlines of the BBC and Al Jazeera, there is another group struggling to maintain a presence between the giants of international appeal.  These nomads and shepherds, bedouin as they are better known, roam the hills and wadis of even the harshest areas of the Judean wilderness.  Their herds of sheep and goats graze on dust and rock, straining to draw from the barren, forsaken earth the only drop of moisture it possesses, legacy of an inch of winter rains long forgotten.

Yet these miracle workers and the art they have mastered never fail to tame the land for which we can only imagine death and dispair.  Their knowledge of geography and geology bring life out of the dust to their flocks, like one who lowers her bucket and conjures water from a dry well.  The words of the psalmist come to mind when he says "he makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters."  These words of David speak not to a land of obvious bounty and bliss, but of barreness and bereavement.  And yet he understood that God supplies in the midst of the wilderness.  The bedouin are intimately aware of the delicate balance between provision and poverty; they, better than anyone, are masters of the dance with wilderness.

It is with this image that the irony of reality creeps into view.  Today the bedouin find themselves the targets of a modern effort to obtain stability and control in the region.  Despite their long presence in the land (and in reality their lifestyle speaks more to the history here than the adjacent industrialization), the authorities make continued attempts at settling down these restless people.  As tents turn to shacks and eventually to shantytowns, the freedom of the bedouin to roam the barren landscape begins to fade.  This subtle restructuring of their lifestyle may lead to the disappearance of a piece of the mosaic that makes this land so beautiful and complicated.

Must this be so?  Must the clash of civilizations find no boundary, even the harshest corners of this earth?  Will we leave no room for the cultures of our forefathers of old, instead choosing to, as the metaphor goes, fit square pegs into round holes?  This battle of old against new, wild against tamed has pitted the weak against the strong.  How can the bedouin hope to compete with the needs of their neighbors who, after engaging each other, have little time left for these nomads?  Although the bedouin believe that "truth may walk through the world unarmed," they themselves may need creativity and appreciation from the outside world if they wish to continue walking with it.

The American Role?

Over the past few weeks of class, I have experienced a phenomenon I scarcely believed possible. My collective learning experience has flip flopped ideologically more than an American presidential candidate. For those of you who are now saying to yourselves, "this guy has obviously never really watched a televised debate before," allow me to elaborate on my perspective from behind the classroom desk:

History of the Modern Middle East. This is a class taught by Oded Yinon, an Israeli journalist, former senior Israeli Foreign Affairs Ministry official and the son of a founder of the Mossad, Israel's national intelligence agency.

Palestinian Society and Politics. Taught by Bernard Sabella, member of the Palestinian Parliament (PP), board member of the Palestinian Academic Society for the Study of International Affairs (PASSIA) and professor of sociology at Bethlehem University.

Walking into History of the Modern Middle East the first day, one of the first statements I encountered was more or less to the effect that the United States has no ability to influence the conflict. Try as we might, are motives are too contradictory, our interests in the Middle East too dependent on Israel, and our pressure too subtle. In fact, Yinon confidently stated, the United States has never successfully influenced any policy changes regarding the Palestinian situation (a point which is certainly arguable).

On the other hand, the first assigned reading for Palestinian Society and Politics was an article titled "The Palestinian-Israeli Conflict: Ending the Endless War" by Stephen D. Hayes of the Foundation for Middle East Peace (http://www.fmep.org/). In this article, Hayes unswervingly asserts that the parties involved in the current conflict are completely incapable of bridging the impasse themselves and, without the mediation and determination of the United States, no "political horizon" will ever be achieved in the land, a point with which Sabella firmly agrees. In his words, the United States is the land's "last hope."

So what place do such wildly contradictory statements hold in our understanding of international relations? It is my assumption that the vast majority of readers of this blog live in the States, or have for some duration called America home. It is to these readers that I proffer the question "What, if anything, do we as Americans have to contribute to global and regional conflict in general and Middle East peace specifically?" Are we, as "outsiders looking in," inappropriately positioned to offer assistance in such matters, an argument I have often encountered? Or does our status and power in the world demand a critical assessment and/or strict engagement of global and regional conflicts and their origins?

It is to these questions that I offer two humble suggestions. The first is that we are not, in fact, "outsiders looking in." I believe that the modern era, one characterized by Thomas Friedman's flat world--the idea that the world in technological, sociological and political terms is actually shrinking--necessitates a more international process of thinking than this statement implies. To suggest that Americans are "outsiders looking in" implies that with regards to regional issues, certain areas of the globe are inside the realm of applicability, while others are outside. As the world "shrinks," however, citizens of this earth no longer have the luxury to think in such terms. While I am not suggesting that the answer is something as intense as the butterfly effect, we are faced more and more frequently with unavoidable questions of peace, justice and sustainability, among others, that transcend national boundaries. We must learn how to prepare ourselves to handle this increasingly complicated, global reality.

Secondly, and more specifically to the conflict in Israel/Palestine, I believe that the situation demands some level of creativity, something which parties mired in intense conflict often find difficult to foster. It is in these situations, including my own personal struggle of how to promote education based on a mindset of reconciliation rather than victimization, that Americans may be able to contribute. How exactly to go about this, I must defer to those with more experience and wisdom than I.

Considering my woeful inexperience in working with these issues, I leave these questions up for debate, but debate we must. We, Americans or otherwise, simply cannot afford to sit around yet again and wait for international crises to reach our doorsteps. We must boldly face the intensity of a flat world and seek to transform situations with creativity and resolve, while not forsaking patience and respect. To do so is to recognize that our lives around the world are not inseparable or our collective experience inconsequential. As our world continues to shrink, we must learn what it means to live closer together.

Roots

The setting was the room of the last supper, the tomb of David, the dormition of Mary (choose any or all of the above based on your tradition). Bound within this church/mosque/synagogue are walls that stand as monuments to the ties and clashes between these traditions. Roman columns, Arabic script, and the mihrab, the niche within a mosque marking the direction of Mecca, pay tribute to a land conquered by many, but controlled by few. Jerusalem is a city where time stands still, interminably caught in the past, yet effortlessly remaining relevant to the future.

A high holy site in Christianity, Islam and Judaism, Jerusalem engenders the fault line, nay the epicenter, of history. Each of these religions, descendants of Abraham, tower in the minds of people across the globe, three "cedars of Lebanon" undeterred by time. Their rich histories tell the story of a land forged by faith and by blood. Many adherents to these traditions, however, attempt to extricate their religion from the others, to demonize the chaff while sifting the wheat. But this is not grain. Just as cedars who stand tall among a forest, they may seem to occupy unique positions on the landscape. When one digs beneath the surface, however, we realize that the roots of these giants are tightly wound together. Countless sites across the levant, as many scholars call this "Land Between," share a common footprint in these traditions. Whether it is the aforementioned humble room that gave birth to the eucharist and enshrines the tombs of the great, or the site of the second temple, near sacrifice of Isaac, and the ascension of Muhammed into heaven now demarcated by the Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem itself is a storehouse of links between its three major religions. To dream of freeing one tradition from the grips of the others is to damage ones own life source, to cut off our own roots.

Instead, I believe we must seek to be students of our roots, to proffer "the ties that bind" as an opportunity to recognize that as members of an international community, it is possible to appreciate both our differences (which we are often quick to point out) and our similarities. To value our diversity and enjoy the "spice of life." In saying this, I intend not to imply that we must water down our own traditions like a poor cup of Nescafe. On the contrary, our common roots make it all the more important that we define our perspectives carefully. Rather, I wish to admonish the reader that in our world comprised of devoted followers of many faiths, it is essential, especially in service of justice, that we fully comprehend the essence of the proverb that "the tongue of the wise commends knowledge, but the mouth of the fool gushes folly." Our own beliefs may be based on the traditions of others. It will serve us well to hear the other voices of this land. To be a great speaker, a commander of wisdom, we must first be prepared to listen and to listen actively. Otherwise, we may very well be chopping ourselves off at the roots.