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.