tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66261729712071726302024-03-06T01:53:21.699-05:00Michael & JerusalemFollowing Michael as he wanders and wonders, finding out exactly when and where and at what point it actually does in fact cease to be "all fun and games" Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-50464523624582443432015-07-01T10:33:00.000-04:002016-01-07T16:30:19.236-05:00Who Do I Represent? What Does That Mean?? Don't I At Least Get To Choose!? A little more than two weeks ago. Jericho. The cool, below-sea-level city at the east side of the West Bank -- the Muslim majority town with a large refugee population -- where Palestinians go on vacation because it's quiet there and it can be challenging/impossible to get the permits or money to go anywhere else. <br />
<br />
Ancient city of barely post-glacial-period hunter-gatherers, early Neolithic agricultural settlements, Israelites, Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, Hasmoneans, Romans, Byzantines, Arab Caliphates, Crusaders, Mamluks, Turks, modern Israelis, Jews, Arabs, Palestinians, Muslims, Christians, Jesus, and one thus-far uncorroborated but still provocative anecdote about trumpets and falling walls.<br />
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Me and the other volunteers had just come back from a cable car trip up to the mountain where tradition says Jesus was tempted by the devil (but which is now topped by an Israeli listening post). Thus we'd just come back down the mountain, and were working our way toward the exit and the parking lot, planning to move on next to Hisham's Palace, which was some sort of mansion for Islamic higher-ups in the Umayyad Dynasty in the 700s A.D.<br />
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Unfortunately, those dastardly cable car operators had made the clever strategic decision of rerouting the only way out of the building through the gift shop.<br />
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Forewarned and forearmed, we readied ourselves to dash for the exit. No overpriced souvenirs or gaudy but reasonably high-quality jewelry for us -- or so we whispered to ourselves, urging our willpowers to stay strong.<br />
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The adrenaline wasn't really actively pumping through me yet, but my nervous system had been formally notified and was already circulating some pretty fierce intra-office memos. It was on alert, you might say -- just for the thrill of dashing through a tourist trap.<br />
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All of a sudden, I am on the defensive. I stop mid-dash to field a question. My interest in people forwards some angry notes and overpowers the previous order to "rush through the inconveniently-placed souvenir shop like a bull desperately trying to avoid buying any china."<br />
<br />
"Me? I'm from America." (I can introduce myself in Arabic like a rock star.) I stay on alert to resume the dash the second he tries to sell me something.<br />
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"But where in America?" (A common enough question, but not common enough for me to change my stock answer to the "Where are you from?" question.) I can't tell if the man works there or if he just happens to be chilling in the watches section to stay out of the hot Jericho sun. <br />
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"The state of North Carolina," I say. "In the South," I add, trying to be helpful.<br />
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"I know North Carolina," he says. *Awkward pause* "That's where it happened."<br />
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Someone in my nervous system was already weirdly panicky about souvenirs. Now they pull the office fire alarm. Adrenaline sprints out of the bathroom and jumps in the pilot seat. <br />
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Perhaps he even clarified. He might've added, "Yeah, North Carolina -- that's where the shooting happened." Or, "That's where the Muslims were killed." It wasn't accusatory at all -- he was just stating a fact. He might as well have said, "I know that state! That's where three innocent American Muslim students were shot to death in their apartment <a href="http://edition.cnn.com/2015/02/11/us/chapel-hill-shooting/">two and a half days ago</a>." (But at this point he was responding to my broken Arabic with broken English, so I doubt he was quite that articulate.)<br />
<br />
And even if he did clarify, which he might have -- it wasn't necessary. I knew from the way he said it, the unreadable but obviously still slightly readable look on his face, and the abrupt pressure change (in the normally quite breezy city of Jericho), that there was no other "it" he might've been talking about.<br />
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I really can't tell you exactly what he said -- the whole thing is a whirlwind-y adrenaline-filled blur. I started talking so fast I'm not sure exactly what I said either.<br />
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All I can do is tell you what I tried to say. <br />
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I started in Arabic, but I switched to English somewhere along the line when a woman in hijab who'd joined the conversation told me in a soothing "don't strain yourself" kind of way to "just speak English."<br />
<br />
I tried to tell them that I'd lived there -- not (just) in North Carolina but in Chapel Hill -- for the past four years, and that the community there meant a lot to me.<br />
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I tried to tell them that this is not what that community is about.<br />
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I tried to tell them that I know many people there, and all of them are in shock. Are angry. Are shocked that this happened and angry that it was allowed to happen. Shocked that people can do this and angry that things have come to this.<br />
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I tried to tell them about the rallies, the vigils, the celebrations of the lives that were taken, the cries of solidarity, the tears of sympathy and the many of all different backgrounds and faiths trying to stand up against violence and hate and xenophobia, refusing to let one act of random aggression and mad hate tear down anything built firmly out of human love and kindness.<br />
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<br />
Somewhere along the line I think I told them I was sorry. Sorry for what -- I have no clue. Sorry for the random acts of one unstable individual, sorry for being a part of the community, the culture, the country that -- one way or another -- allowed it to happen, sorry for America and its history of what many would call hypocritical meddling and brutal intervention in this region and in the Muslim world? I have no idea.<br />
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Equally cryptic as my apology, the lady in hijab responded to my inarticulate word-spilling with a simple but sincere, "Thank you." Whatever she meant, it's the only thing that satisfies me enough to stop me from filling this fuzzy, mostly blank memory with doubt and regret. Perhaps I said what I was supposed to say. <br />
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It all happened so fast in such an adrenaline-filled, shockingly short, rushed period of time, that I have no clue what the man said, or how the conversation ended except that I'm sure I rattled through my list of conventional Arabic goodbyes. "God give you safety; God keep you; go in health; Peace; God be with you." Somewhat redundant or repetitive, but somehow satisfying.<br />
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<br />
Two lessons. Or, thoughts, or something.<br />
<br />
1) Perhaps this is why I'm here. To give America a human face and to speak for my communities stateside in saying "That is not us. That is not who we are."<br />
<br />
And at the same time to add my voice <a href="http://mediamatters.org/research/2014/08/21/muslim-leaders-have-roundly-denounced-islamic-s/200498">to</a> the <a href="http://muslimscondemningthings.tumblr.com/">many</a> voices <a href="http://www.whyislam.org/jihad-2/worldwide-condemnation-of-terrorism/">already</a> trying <a href="http://kurzman.unc.edu/islamic-statements-against-terrorism/">to</a> do <a href="http://theamericanmuslim.org/tam.php/features/articles/muslim_voices_against_extremism_and_terrorism_part_i_fatwas/0012209">the</a> same thing<a href="http://www.beliefnet.com/columnists/commonwordcommonlord/2014/08/think-muslims-havent-condemned-isis-think-again.html"> for</a> the<a href="http://www.mediaite.com/online/reza-aslan-muslims-are-condemning-terrorism-critics-just-arent-listening/"> dehumanized</a> Arab/<a href="http://www.fatwaonterrorism.com/">Muslim</a>/Arab-Muslim <a href="http://www.muhajabah.com/otherscondemn.php">communities</a>.<br />
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2) People here are listening. They're often less ignorant of what goes on in America than we are of what goes on over there. But at the same time, they only hear the bad -- just like us! If all we hear is that "they" "are violent and they hate us" -- well oddly enough the primary, overwhelming message they get about "us" is that "we're violent and we hate them."<br />
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100% honestly there is a not insignificant amount of people here who are super afraid to send their kids to schools or anywhere in America. Not even because of anti-Arab sentiment or Islamophobia, but because of shootings and crime. <br />
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And if anyone's caught up in the shooting and the nitty-gritty he-said she-said speculation and motivation and whatnot about why those murders actually happened: Even if the Chapel Hill shooting was 15% "parking dispute," 15% insufficient gun regulations, 40% untreated mental illness and stigma/general struggle with life and coping and being unable or unwilling to get help, 20% generalized hatred of all religion and only 10% motivated by specific anti-Islamic or anti-Arab hate -- it's kind of irrelevant.<br />
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That's like an Arab Muslim saying, "I shouldn't have to apologize for my religion -- it's only being used as a recruiting tool and justification when the real causes of terrorism are political and socioeconomic!" <br />
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It might be 100% true, and it might be quite reasonable -- but at a certain point it doesn't matter anymore. <br />
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<a href="http://bit.ly/1vNSmMh">http://bit.ly/1vNSmMh</a><br />
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(Of course it <i>should</i> matter, and I believe it <i>does</i> matter, but yeah. At a certain point it's irrelevant.)<br />
<br />
(I'm putting some of "the nuance" down here at the bottom so it hopefully doesn't dilute or weigh down the punchiness.) <br />
<br />
(Hopefully that ending came off more pragmatic and even-handed than just straight-up depressing or callous.) <br />
<br />
(Sorry if that got unpleasantly political. Let me know if you want to argue.)<br />
<br />
(Or just talk. You know. As you like.)<br />
<br />
(miked3592@gmail.com)<br />
<br />
(Originally posted March 1st, 2015) <br />
<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-84797160579155050582015-06-23T13:53:00.002-04:002015-06-23T13:53:48.329-04:00Race and Religion in the Holy Land Something to add to the long list of shared characteristics that makes Israeli and Palestinian society weirdly similar. (Along with generally conservative social norms and mores, gender-segregated social circles, and an inability to form lines.) (To be fair I'm sure they can form lines just fine, I guess it's more of an apathetic *shrug,* "That seems like a lot of work, let's just all try to go at once and see what happens.")<br />
<br />
(Spoiler: Often dealing without lines ends up going just fine, with perhaps an occasional setback and delay. Maybe it encourages people to be assertive? Plus it makes people rely more on social courtesy and respect instead of being able to rely on people simply "following the rules."?)<br />
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<br />That thing to be added to the list that I haven't gotten to quite yet: The centrality of religion! As an idea! As a category that you are defined by.<br />
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"Religion" appears nowhere on the U.S. Census (our primary category for "people-sorting," it turns out, is race.) Which perhaps makes sense too, because it seems like the majority of Americans are in that vaguely secularish gray area where you don't go to church but still have a medley of religious beliefs floating idly and uninspected around your house. <br />
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In Israel and Palestine, however, that is simply not the case.<br />
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In Israel you essentially exist first and foremost in the eyes of the state *as a member of a specific religion.* You can be a secular <u>Jew</u>, or a secular <u>Christian</u>, or a secular <u>Muslim</u>, or a secular *<u>other</u>,* but you can't just be a secular because that's not a thing. <br />
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And maybe that's because religion is seen almost as an ethnic category (especially in the case of the Jewish identity). It's something you simply<i> are</i> by merit of being born into a specific family. <br />
<br />
My family is Christian, and thus I am Christian. This individual is Muslim or Jewish because their family is Muslim or Jewish.<br />
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Two things that are sort of results of that or perhaps partly columns in that system that help make it continue to make sense:<br />
<br />
1) The American cliche of the child, probably born to a lax Christian or Jewish or secular background, who grows up and gets interested in one of those cool-sounding Eastern religions that they really have no authentic experience with -- is almost nonsensical and confusing to think about in this context. Conversions in general "don't happen," which might just mean it's something totally not cool to talk about or acknowledge.<br />
<br />
Just like<br />
2) intermarriage! By which I mean interfaith marriage. Something else that totally just "doesn't exist" over here, by which I mean is taboo and kind of frowned upon.<br />
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<br />
<br />
So yeah, that's interesting.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />But at the same time it sort of makes sense. Even if many secular Americans wouldn't want to identify with any of these specific faiths, their cultures and upbringings in all likelihood have been thoroughly shaped and influenced by these religions.<br />
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And I can't say for sure if it's better or worse than "race" as a divider of people, but frankly neither are looking great right now.<br />
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(Also I'm not saying there isn't <a href="http://america.aljazeera.com/articles/2015/5/23/do-black-lives-matter-in-israel.html">racism</a> here. Cause oh my gosh.) Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-64957812083273267022015-06-12T06:35:00.000-04:002015-06-13T07:03:06.823-04:00BBQs, Pop Music, and Long Travel TimesSo I have a little less than a month left before heading back stateside -- thus I've been trying to at least blog a little every day. But I didn't blog yesterday, so this is an extra-special make-up blog.<br />
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<br />
Yesterday evening I didn't manage to blog because I was at a graduation party in Beit Jala, the western neighbor of Bethlehem in the West Bank. Distance-wise, Beit Jala is fairly close. (Google says it's about 13km as the crow flies.) But it can take an awfully long time to get there, mostly because of having to find the specific checkpoints to go through the 30-foot tall security wall.<br />
<br />
I managed to cross back from Beit Jala to Jerusalem at the end of the evening (because my program coordinators happened to be at the party, and they have a car with the right color license plate -- meaning they can drive back and forth through the wall.), but Palestinian buses in southern East Jerusalem are unreliable and poorly scheduled, and the Israeli buses weren't running because the Jewish shabat/sabbath starts Friday at sun-down. THEREFORE I spent the night at coordinator's house in the Palestinian Jerusalemite neighborhood of Beit Safafa.<br />
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Transportation here is challenging and confusing sometimes.<br />
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But yeah! Barbecue! Fun and games and dancing! Parties are fun.<br />
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Here's a taste of Arab pop -- the kind of stuff you often hear at parties here. <br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQDwr9_BMhc"><br /></a>
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQDwr9_BMhc">Fares Karam -- IlHamdilla </a><br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LSZ915DfDmI">Khaled -- C'est La Vie</a> (this one might sound familiar) <br />
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<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-33161362620578647402015-06-11T17:09:00.001-04:002015-06-12T05:18:42.381-04:00Street View, Toaster Cookies, and More Goats<b>Thought #1:</b> I baked more than 70 cookies in a toaster oven this Tuesday. It was a long, vaguely pain-staking process, but fairly successful and delicious.<br />
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Actual "ovens" are somewhat rare here.<br />
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As are "actual measuring utensils," so I got to do a lot of guesstimating.<br />
<br />
Then I put in a lot of light-brown sugar before I realized that that's just sugar that's a little brown and not actually brown sugar. So long story short, I put a lot of extra sugar of many various colors in these cookies.<br />
<br />
<b>Thought #2</b>:<br />
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Here's some pictures of main street of Beit Hanina, mostly taken from the bus one day as I was on my way to work.<br />
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My lovely local coffee roaster shop, hidden behind a bus stop. <br />
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My normal grocery store, which is only that by merit of it being conveniently located. <br />
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I often by hummus and falafel from the store on the end on the left there. There's another place out of the frame to the right that I usually get dinner pastry type-things from. (Little mini vaguely-calzone like things with just cheese and sauce.) (And little small pizza like things except usually with just egg and sausage and maybe creamy cheese. <br />
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There'll be thick rows of stores and stuff and then randomly a side of a whole block will be undeveloped. (Hard to get permits to build in Arab neighborhoods here.) (Also Arab neighborhoods in Jerusalem are notoriously economically depressed.) (Did I mention there's usually at least one dumpster full of burning trash?)<br />
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<b>Thought #3: </b><a href="https://vimeo.com/130032895">PART TWO</a> OF EPIC MOUNTAIN&GOATS ADVENTURE IN JORDAN<br />
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<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-24008850677379841392015-06-10T13:18:00.001-04:002015-06-10T13:18:28.226-04:00Coffee, a Wonderful Snack, and a Cozy Bookshop<br />
<br />So I live in Beit Hanina, an Arab Palestinian neighborhood 15ish minutes outside of the Old City of Jerusalem, which is the actual place that the Torah, the Bible, the Quran, Roman historians, the Ottomans, the Mamelukes, the Ayyubids, the Sassanids, Flavius Josephus, etc. etc. were talking about whenever they said "Jerusalem." (It has walls and everything!) Than the Mount of Olives is basically a big hill to the east of the Old City.<br />
<br />
Most of my life this year has orbited around this odd and exciting triangle. I live in Beit Hanina, work on the Mount of Olives, and do everything else around the Old City. That's where the Arab Palestinian Lutheran Church of the Redeemer is, and thus where I attend service and coffeehour and whatnot, but around the Old City is also "downtown," so it's a natural place to hang out in general.<br />
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One place I end up at a lot is a cafe/public-culture-meeting-place-type-thing/bookstore called the <a href="http://www.educationalbookshop.com/">Educational Bookshop</a>. And it's on Saladin Street, which is named for the famous Arab Muslim leader-hero who drove the foreign Crusaders out of the Levant. (He's kind of a big deal historically speaking.) (Almost like El Cid or Charlemagne or something? National hero from a 1,000 years ago type thing?) <br />
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But yeah, Saladin Street is the main street of East Jerusalem (whereas Jaffa Street is the main street of West Jerusalem).<br />
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And because I like books, and I like random lectures and meeting authors and hearing people talk about politics and culture and stuff, and most of all because I like coffeeshops -- I spend quite a bit of time there.<br />
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Also I brought my family there so here's some pictures of us on the upper floor cafe area!!!</div>
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Here's my mom drinking/eating <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salep">sahlab</a>, which is a traditional Middle Eastern-ish drink. (I say "ish" because apparently it gets around. There are many ways to spell/say it.) It's made with hot milk, orchid flour, sugar, and rose water. (I think sometimes hot water is subbed in for milk or artificial flavoring takes the orchid flour's place.) (And then regardless it's normal to pile coconut, cinnamon and pistachio pieces on top as well.)<br />
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When you're actually drinking/eating it though, it comes off more like a delicious, hot rice pudding -- thickness and sweetness wise -- although of course there is clearly no rice in it.<br />
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It's especially fantastic when it's cold outside. Although if it's hot outside you can just chill it after you make it and that's fantastic too. <br />
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Here's dad with a friend of mine named Mahmoud, who's part of the family that runs the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqUqdyxxcnc">bookstore</a>. </div>
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They're looking at a silly <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Apricots-Tomorrow-Primrose-Arnander/dp/0905743571/ref=pd_sim_14_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=04136QAJZXE8278JV7ZJ">book</a> I believe my dad now owns that translates and explains Arab folk-sayings. </div>
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The other thing I do a lot of at the Bookshop is drink coffee. (of all kinds!)<br />
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But most often I'm drinking Arabic coffee, which is super strong, served boiling, and in which you can usually find a thick pile of very fine grains of murky coffee ground at the bottom. (Also not in *huge* quantities) Flavored with cardomom (which is ground in with the coffee beans) and with varying amounts of sugar too. (It's pretty great.) <br />
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And another informative<a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g293983-d2538572-Reviews-Educational_Bookshop-Jerusalem_Jerusalem_District.html"> link</a> or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arabic_coffee">two</a> that I didn't find a good place to fit in. Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-70634293137752742062015-06-09T14:23:00.003-04:002015-06-09T14:25:10.784-04:00Side Effects, Goats, and Everyday Life (not in that order) <br />
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<b>Thought #1</b>: Over-The-Counter Medicine in Israel/Palestine! All of the fun of unintended side effects without having to give up those fun, original symptoms you've gotten so attached to!<br />
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Not quite sure why that is, and it's probably all in my head, but yeah, that.<br />
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<b>Thought #2</b>: Here's a little glimpse of what my neighborhood is like. (It's about a 5-10 minute walk from my apartment to a bus stop on the main road.)<br />
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First my street! It's called Abu Madi, which in Arabic as far as I know could mean either "father of the past," "father of the signatory," or "father of the last." The last one is my personal favorite, (Father of the last) because fathers in this region are traditionally known by the name of their eldest son, so "last" would be a cool reversal. <br />
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And that's what my apartment complex looks like in the snow.<br />
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And here's the streets (and cool views from those streets) between my flat and the main road -- at various times of day and sometimes with snow. <br />
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And I'll share more about stuff on the main road of Beit Hanina tomorrow probably, but here's a little taste:<br />
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A car dealership. The owner was probably really proud of their English title. I guess it's one of those things that's supposed to be really clever. (And by "supposed" I mean "suppozed," not "suppost,") (Say them out loud repeatedly if you don't catch the difference.) <br />
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<b>Thought #3</b><br />
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Here's the first episode of a short series about our experience climbing a random rock/mountain/hill/cliff face thing in Jordan in the desert. I'm thinking of pitching it to HBO, maybe throw some historical drama in there, probably featuring Tom Hanks. WWI is fashionable right now, right?<br />
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(Enlarge video to maybe catch a glimpse of the actual goats!) </div>
Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-10620791262160415892015-06-08T14:39:00.000-04:002015-12-18T10:56:25.850-05:00Playtime in Palestine: Police Brutality and a Child's ImaginationI've had the wonderful opportunity to watch a lot of kids at play this year in Jerusalem/East Jerusalem/Palestine/Israel, and often the even more wonderful opportunity of getting to play <i>with </i>them.<br />
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It warms your heart, entertains, creates a fulfilling sense of human connection far quicker than any "adult conversation" usually does, etc. etc., reasonably good workout, laughter, childish sense of wonder and imagination -- unburdened by the real world or any of the concrete knowledge of aforementioned world that you usually soak up as you spend your life floating around in it.<br />
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(Which eventually deadens you and leaves you a useless, gross, dried-up but otherwise quite worldly kitchen sponge.)<br />
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But on top of those things and that one unfortunately cynical tongue-in-cheek tangent, watching kids at play is also interesting and insightful in its own right -- partly because you get to see what "knowledge" the kids have already soaked up.<br />
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A lot of play, especially anything that involves some element of make-believe, can be pretty revealing of values, ideas, experiences -- whether they be based in wider culture, the kids' personal lives, or a wacky dream they had once. <br />
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Which makes sense! As little human beings, they've only been here so long, and there's a lot to figure out about this world, from physics to biology. (i.e., learning to live with gravity, and figuring out what in the lord's name all that stuff that keeps falling off of trees is.)<br />
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And at a certain point everyone around them just assumes they should be able to name animals and identify colors and apply their abstract "counting exercises" to actual objects at a 3-year-old level, which is a lot of pressure and probably kind of stressful actually. <br />
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But as it turns out, one helpful study tactic is to take ideas/roles/identities you've seen or otherwise picked up on in the world around you and act them out -- literally playing with them.<br />
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One thing I've seen this year is a lot of animals. (There was one month-long period where pretty much every day this boy would proclaim himself a lion/tiger/fox/dragon (depending on how he was feeling), and proceed to eat my fingers, often narrating for me while doing so.) Eventually that progressed a bit, and so after maiming me he would switch characters and be a doctor for a little bit. </div>
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That all seems normal, and potentially more or less universal. Animals, ouchies of various severities, and people that fix the ouchies. </div>
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Then there's food! Thus every day of playtime in the sandbox ends up being an hour of "Let's pretend to cook things for Michael!" </div>
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<b>Child</b>: CAKE! (nearly shouted, as they proffer some dish or shovel-full of well-groomed sand at me) </div>
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<b>Me</b>: Ooh, nice, thanks! (*pretend munch*) (Turn to child #2) And what are <i>you</i> making? </div>
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<b>Child #2</b>: CAKE! (Puts shovel up to my mouth, dumping half the sand in my lap in the process)</div>
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<b>Me</b>: Oh wow! What type of cake? </div>
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<b>Child #2</b>: .... cake. </div>
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(The road to more creative interactions seems to be closed that way (occasionally an older child will sprinkle dirt on their sand and call it chocolate cake, but that's the only specificity we get.), so I usually satisfy myself by making really weird eating noises.) </div>
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(And I've gotten weirder through the year. I started in the fall as a very polite teatime snacker, and now I'm more like that grind-y garbage disposal thing some people have in their sinks.) </div>
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So yeah, Palestinian children apparently see/eat a lot of cake. And they know what animals and doctors are. </div>
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But here's an example of something a little more unusual (in relation to my experience) that I've come across. </div>
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First of all, there's the interesting way the stories go when one of the boys rambles out long, vividly imagined but clearly fabricated tales of the events of the latest weekend. Usually something about his mom (or other family member) getting shot (or otherwise hurt or killed) by police and him then hitting someone with his sword (ostensibly the police officer responsible for the attack). </div>
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Then there's this friend of mine and this not-horribly-irregular game: </div>
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(<a href="https://vimeo.com/130121677">Here</a> is link to the video elsewhere if you're having trouble)</div>
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This seems like a fairly innocent random playground scene at first, right? Complete with a baby eating grass. Well it is that, but what else is it?<br />
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A not-quite-3-ish girl pretending to be a police officer and shooting me in the face.<br />
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Oof. (My baby friend was, however, indeed trying to eat grass.)<br />
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Fun, right? The playground setting and the "playtime" feel of this sort of thing makes everything feel like inconsequential fun and games -- but then occasionally I think back moments to hours after the fact and it's weirdly horrifying. </div>
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"ANA SHURTA!" --> "I AM A POLICE OFFICER!!!" She says, in a voice usually reserved for Godzilla or cheesy cartoon villains. (For the record, this altercation was entirely unprompted, the police officer identity just sort of gets put on sometimes -- BUT it is a somewhat regular "make-believe character" that I see. </div>
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And yes. More often than not with that same voice and that same level of unprompted violence. </div>
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"fee ayndak dam!" --> "You're bleeding!" She says afterward, in the same announcement/FYI voice she used one time to inform me that she'd noticed there was blood on my lip. In this make-believe scenario I can't tell if she's actually trying to be helpful or if I'm supposed to read that more as a "clean yourself up scum" type thing. Or maybe she stepped out of the make-believe for a moment so she could narrate and catch me up a bit. </div>
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Later that day she shot me a couple more times (this time with a "hand"-gun instead of the big orange-y thing.) (<a href="https://vimeo.com/130121678">WATCH VIDEO HERE</a>) I asked her why -- she seemed to think about it a little bit, then told me something along the lines of, "because you didn't understand." Which is sort of cryptic and sort of horrible. (But also funny because I didn't totally understand it as an explanation and I'm still not certain I'm hearing her right...) <br />
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(If I just managed to get video of these two specific pieces of a larger episode, imagine how many times I've played this game before without filming it. After many episodes of it, eventually started thinking about it and realizing I should try to videotape it.) </div>
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But why is this a thing? Why are these Palestinian Jerusalemite children's perceptions of police officers so starkly different -- and far more violent and manifestly unjust -- than the happy image of police officers much more common in my home environment of comfortably-well-to-do majority-white American suburbs? </div>
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Well let's see. </div>
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For one thing there's the fact that the police officers in Jerusalem are Israeli. They speak Hebrew, and they have Israeli citizenships, and they have Israeli rights. Whereas more often than not, Palestinians in Jerusalem don't speak Hebrew, don't have Israeli citizenship, and most decidedly do not have Israeli rights. </div>
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East Jerusalem is controlled by Israel, and its Palestinian residents are forcibly separated from the arms of their own government, the West Bank's Palestinian Authority. They're a marginalized community with crowded neighborhoods, horribly neglected by the municipality and all its services and funds. Also they're essentially under martial law. They can be shot and killed with only the slightest extremely subjective cause for suspicion by police or military officers, and there will be no questions asked. Even children of as young as 8-12 can be detained for long periods without justification and without real oversight of their treatment while in custody. </div>
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Then there's the fact that the Israeli security and military sectors have a firm, unwavering institutional record for responding to non-violent protest with brutal force and violent suppression. This often succeeds at turning non-violent protest into violent protest, but even when it doesn't, it's not what you'd call pleasant. </div>
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So the thought process that led to this violent make-believe --> it's perhaps justified, but tragically unfortunate. Especially because I know confidently that there are countless military and security personnel in Israel that are wonderful people only trying to do their job and support their families and their nation. </div>
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And without positive interaction with many Israelis, a horrifying image of "the Israeli police officer" can easily become the violent, terrifying stand-in for Jewish Israelis in general. Which is misleading and untrue, and also incredibly unhelpful for breaking down the massive separation walls of fear and hate and concrete that cut up this beautiful land into ugly broken inefficient pieces. </div>
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But we can't condemn this seemingly common image of the "horrifying, brutal and unfeeling Israeli with a gun and a uniform" without simultaneously recognizing the frequent individual, family, and community experiences that create this concept and give it a prominent and clearly-defined place in a child's imagination. </div>
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And it might be important for us to take this opportunity to reflect on my comfortably-well-to-do majority-white American suburban community as well. I grew up in a home where -- I might not have been especially excited or happy about police officers -- but I felt I could trust them. I understood they were there for people's safety, or, um, speeding tickets? Never quite figured that part out. </div>
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But I never felt any reason to fear them or to question the assumption that they were there <i>to do good</i>, that they were there <i>to help</i>. And most Jewish Israeli children probably feel the same way!</div>
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But that's not the case for many Palestinians, and that's not the case for many marginalized communities in the United States, especially in African-American communities, but also throughout many minority communities and probably in many lower-income communities regardless of race. </div>
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And just like here, in Jerusalem with the Palestinians, our job is to open our ears, open our hearts, and seek out the stories of those around us. To understand, to bridge those divides, to join the slow work of healing those walls of separation -- wherever we are. <br />
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These two children are valuable and fascinating and loving individuals that mean a lot to me and whom I will miss dearly. (Even if Señor GrassEater below hasn't had enough time to fully develop into an "individual," per se.)<br />
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I will be going back to America in a month, but these kids won't. This is their home, this is their future, and this is their reality. </div>
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<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-70574345059445907512015-06-06T08:47:00.001-04:002015-06-06T08:47:10.568-04:00English vs. Arabic: The subversive mutt and the meticulous purebredEnglish is a mutt language. It seems like it just sort of *happened,* and all the logical and orthographical consistency & coherence to it is put and kept there by sheer force of will. (If we all close our eyes and <i>imagine </i>really hard that "i before e except after c" to be true, then perhaps it makes our language real and rational and not just a weird jumble of things people said and the eccentric ways they decided to spell them.<br />
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(Which then got arbitrarily made official and unchanging because we seem a lot cooler and more respectable if we have one solid thing that can be called a "language" and "nation" and "heritage" and such. <br />
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French conquerors, British barbarians, and an assortment of vikings all got together and babbled for a while, thus the European lovemass of linguistic incest spat out an under-developed latin/greek/germanic/celtic mass, which we've spent centuries polishing and putting in dictionaries.<br />
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This "mutt" quality becomes especially visible and remarkable when compared to Arabic. Good gosh does this language MAKE SENSE. It's a well-organized, supremely logical system, even with the thousands of years of colloquial wear and tear and the way the language is uncomfortably split between formal and street language. It's the foundations that matter -- and it has those! While English doesn't.<br />
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Every verb has a form and a shape and a root, and there aren't huge separate sets of vocabulary that seem to operate according to entirely different sets of rules (like Latin and Germanic stuff in English, for example.) Once you know how the system works, you can take any word apart and figure out what's going on, and sounding it out isn't a problem. (Unlike though and enough, for example.) <br />
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It's kind of refreshing actually. But at the same time, this doesn't mean I prefer it, or that if I could've chosen my native language I'd have picked the admirably logical and consistent Arabic. Not at all. (For one thing, the radical split between formal and colloquial language (they're essentially two different languages) does horrible things for a culture of reading.) (Imagine having to look really really hard to find a single modern novel or poem that wasn't essentially written in Shakespeare-speak.)<br />
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I enjoy and am amazed by the profound depth, beauty, and coherence of the system of the Arabic language, but the primary reason I much prefer English -- and am deeply glad that this is the language my brain was raised in & through is <b>because </b>of that "mutt" quality. For one thing, I think that chaotic mass of mixed traditions and cultures and irrational ways of spelling is a much truer vision of the world. We impose our own order.<br />
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Thus as a language and thus as a way of thinking and being
in the world (cause pretty much all of my conscious thoughts and words
are filtered through this language), it's helpful for adapting -- and
it's also a heck of a lot more fun. <br />
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And while it might be easier to think of a purebred, consistent system like Arabic as being "beautiful" in a way, and it is, I think that mixed, chaotic, perhaps even <i>broken </i>systems like English are beautiful in perhaps an even more profound way. I think in a very clearly *human* way as well. <br />
<br />In English it's clear to see that there is a long tradition of doing w/e the heck you want, saying and writing things however feels right or seems appropriate or hilarious in the moment. Have fun with it. That history of language fun and language experimentation is an inspiring reminder to not get hung up on comma use or spelling. <br />
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Arabic grammar nazis have some good arguments. They've got something solid to stand for and on. English grammar nazis? Don't make me laugh. <br />
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<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-4995965023383310882015-05-20T13:49:00.004-04:002015-05-20T14:03:49.292-04:00An Average Wednesday in the Holy CityInstant news updates are helpful in a city that has lots of regular instant news events to keep track of, but I rely fully on wifi, so I got both of these (roughly equivalent) headline notifications hours after they would've been any use at all to me.<br />
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On a directly related note, I was two and a half hours late to work today! I got to take a longer bus ride than normal, walk a ways, take another taxi, and then get a ride from a Kindergarten parent.<br />
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Here's why: <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://www.maannews.com/Content.aspx?id=765525">Maan News</a> (the English one of the two notification headlines circled above) (Disclaimer: I was never personally in any danger whatsoever, it's just that them soldiers got roadblocks fo' days, and I happened to be stuck behind them.)<br />
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For an interesting comparison, symptomatic of a whole bushel of things, here's a popular Israeli paper's take on the incident from <a href="http://www.israelhayom.com/site/newsletter_article.php?id=25609">Israel Hayom</a>. (counter-balancing the Arab news agency) <br />
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(Also Israel Hayom is a freely distributed newspaper everywhere in Israel cause American billionaire <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheldon_Adelson">Sheldon Adelson</a> basically pays for the whole thing. Another claim to fame might be that he spent $150 million on Mitt Romney's campaign in 2012.)<br />
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And for my take on the incident itself, here's a little context for fairness:<br />
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1) Israeli citizens have been intentionally targeted in vehicle hit-and-run attacks before.<br />
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2) Israeli soldiers/police officers have shot and killed innocent Palestinians for far less suspicious behavior (erratic driving & attempted U-Turns included)<br />
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3) I'm sure that the police officers 100% legitimately were afraid for their lives. But does being afraid, whether rationally or irrationally, always justify retaliation? (And we can up the ante in a very relevant way by rephrasing that as "But does being afraid, whether completely rationally or supremely irrationally, always justify immediate and lethal retaliation?" Given it's kind of hard to pick apart that rational v. irrational fear thing, and that's true throughout the Israeli/Palestinian context.<br />
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(Also I think this question of fear as a justification for immediately shooting a sucka down is perhaps relevant to the discussion of police violence in Amurka as well maybe?) <br />
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And for those who aren't on Facebook (and thus saw this already), this also happened today:<br />
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(Start reading from the bottom cause that's chronological cause that's how notifications work) <br />
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I giggled.<br />
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<span data-reactid=".9.1:4:1:$comment10153293427103498_10153293438798498:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".9.1:4:1:$comment10153293427103498_10153293438798498:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" data-reactid=".9.1:4:1:$comment10153293427103498_10153293438798498:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".9.1:4:1:$comment10153293427103498_10153293438798498:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.0"><span data-reactid=".9.1:4:1:$comment10153293427103498_10153293438798498:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.0.$end:0:$text0:0"></span></span><span data-reactid=".9.1:4:1:$comment10153293427103498_10153293438798498:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".9.1:4:1:$comment10153293427103498_10153293438798498:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".9.1:4:1:$comment10153293427103498_10153293438798498:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$text0:0"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-54495230182738466352015-05-19T13:34:00.003-04:002015-05-19T13:34:42.754-04:00I Wonder What Middle-Eastern Listservs Look Like...It's been a supremely long and full year so far -- and by that I don't just mean spiritually, emotionally, physically, schedule-wise, and in terms of having sufficient mental capacity for fully processing experiences-wise. But email-wise as well.<br />
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Even my gmail inbox has not been free from the enormous figurative scale of this year and the massive amounts of ideas, content, figurative clutter and political noise and controveries that have been constant fixtures of my life here. <br />
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So just to give you a taste of what my gmail's life has been like this year, here's an assortment of various listservs and auto-group-distribution type things I've found myself on the receiving end of this year.<br />
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(This isn't a particulary content-ful blog post, BUT, hopefully it's still a little interesting, and it might be an opportunity for you to follow some of these links and check out a Middle Eastern listserv for yourself! Or just look around their websites to see what they do.)<br />
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(All of these below I get some sort of at least vaguely regular email contact from. Also I'm fans of many of them on Facebook, which means I see their stuff there too!) <br />
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<a href="http://www.al-monitor.com/pulse/home.html">Al-Monitor</a>: Excellent, reliable political coverage from local correspondents throughout the Middle East. I get daily briefings/collections of headlines from them.<br />
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A billion YAGM newsletters from all over the world: It'd be kind of ridiculous and irresponsible to put all their email addresses up here, but it is possible for you to join these mailing lists! Look for them, or just ask me to help you if you're that interested. Also here's a <a href="http://jerichoinhungary.blogspot.hu/p/2014-2015-yagm-family.html">link</a> to other YAGM volunteer blogs. <br />
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<a href="http://www.pbs.org/wnet/religionandethics/">Religion & Ethics Newsweekly</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.cmep.org/">Churches for Middle East Peace</a> Sends out briefings every couple of weeks with the major news updates on the general Israel/Palestine context. Good way of keeping up-to-date with the basics, and there's good resources on their site too. Also it's an organization made up of American churches working for "Middle East Peace," so that's cool, and provides easy opportunities for getting involved, advocacy/activism-wise. <br />
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<a href="http://www.btselem.org/">B'Tselem</a> (occasional e-newsletter) B'Tselem is a prominent Israeli organization that monitors human rights abuses in Israel's occupied territories. (East Jerusalem, the West Bank, Gaza) Lots and lots of good internet resources too.<br />
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<a href="http://www.cfpeace.net/">Combatants for Peace</a> Organization of militants from both sides of the conflict who've come together to advocate for peace and an end to endless cycles of violence and occupation. They send me something every now and then about events they're planning. <br />
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<a href="http://www.breakingthesilence.org.il/">Breaking the Silence</a>: Organization made up of Israeli soldiers who, after finishing their military service, decided to speak out about the things they saw and participated in. They do a lot of education and tours and such, and you can find many testimonials from individual soldiers on their site. Their newsletters are just updates on what the organization has been doing from month to month. (They also released a <a href="http://www.breakingthesilence.org.il/protective-edge">large report</a> on testimonials from soldiers who were in Gaza last summer.) <br />
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<a href="http://www.k4p.org/">Kids4Peace</a>: This organization gets kids together of all three Abrahamic faiths, from all across the political, racial, and socio-economic spectrums here in Israel/Palestine, and they go through a 6-year program of dialogue, co-existence, peacemaking skills, etc., and they spend a lot of time with youth in America too. I blog for them occasionally and I get cool newsletter updates. <br />
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<a href="http://alt-arch.org/en/">Emek Shaveh</a>: Emek Shaveh is an organization of Israeli archaeologists fighting against the way the Israeli establishment uses archaeology as a political tool to aid in the continuing confiscation of Palestinian land and the slow expulsion of Palestinians themselves that goes along with that. <br />
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<a href="http://silwanic.net/">Wadi Hilweh</a> Information Center: One of the biggest current arenas of this politically-charged archaeology/confiscation/expulsion thing is the Palestinian neighborhood of Silwan in Jerusalem. (Emek Shaveh has a lot of good information on this too.) The Wadi Hilweh Information Center is the outreach and education wing of the local Palestinian community center in Silwan. (Here's the main <a href="http://www.madaasilwan.org/">community center page</a> although I don't think I get any emails from them.) <br />
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<a href="http://zochrot.org/en">Zochrot</a>: Zochrot is an Israeli NGO that works generally in outreach and education to raise awareness of the Palestinian Nakba in Israeli society. The Nakba ("catastrophe" in Arabic) refers to the massive displacement and expulsion of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians and the destruction of their villages in 1948 when the state of Israel was established. (The existence of this event and its legitimacy is not usually recognized by any governmental Israeli organization, and many many Israelis are similarly unaware or critical of it.) <br />
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<a href="http://www.touristisrael.com/">Tourist Israel</a>: The events and tours it talks about are usually way too expensive for me and my volunteer stipend, but this organization is about exactly what it sounds like. <br />
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<a href="http://www.jerusalem-studies.alquds.edu/">CJS Tours</a>: The Palestinian Center for Jerusalem Studies does cool educational tours on the many complicated layers of history in the Old City and Jerusalem! Attached to Al-Quds University. (Al-Quds is what Jerusalem is called in Arabic. Literally means "The Holy," but is short for "The Holy City." <br />
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Shutterfly: Seems silly to link to this. We have a fancy photo site for pictures of the kids in the kindergarten, but it's private, so if you want pictures of the kids make sure you're on my newsletter list! More of that coming soon. <br />
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Redeemer Lutheran Church: Arabic (daily) & English (weekly) newsletters: Oh my gosh I'm running out of steam so fast. Ask me if you're interested in these. (You can also sign up for regular (I think quarterly?) updates on the English congregation and local goings-on, specifically for people who actually don't currently live here.) <br />
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<a href="http://www.haaretz.com/">Haaretz </a>popular Israeli newspaper<br />
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<a href="http://yabous.org/en/">Yabous Cultural Center</a><br />
<a href="http://www.educationalbookshop.com/"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.educationalbookshop.com/">Educational Bookshop in Jerusalem</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.thelutheran.org/template/index.cfm">The Lutheran Magazine </a><br />
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<a href="http://tantur.org/">Tantur Institute</a> Notre Dame satellite ecumenical center in East Jerusalem<br />
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<a href="http://www.oudforguitarists.com/">Oud for Guitarists</a><br />
<a href="https://interfaithencounter.wordpress.com/"><br /></a>
<a href="https://interfaithencounter.wordpress.com/">Interfaith Encounter Association</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.theparentscircle.com/">The Parents Circle: Bereaved Family Forum </a><br />
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<a href="http://rhr.org.il/eng/">Rabbis For Human Rights</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.pij.org/index.php">Palestine-Israel Journal of Politics, Economics and Culture</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.google.co.il/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&sqi=2&ved=0CBwQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Finstitutfrancais-jerusalem.org%2Fen%2Fwho-we-are%2F&ei=lHJbVfeWMcT8Uq2VgJgC&usg=AFQjCNHDxGlkCfMfHsh1VrEPh1wjsWQIOQ&bvm=bv.93564037,d.d24">The East Jerusalem French Institute</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.sfcg.org/">Search for Common Ground </a><br />
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(And this was just listservs, mass e-communication. The interpersonal communication here has gotten complicated over time for a somewhat different reason -- namely that whole "language" thing. By which I mean "Arabic," because neither my spoken nor my written ability in Hebrew is beyond the please/thank you courtesies and the occasional "shalom" salutation tag at the end of emails/postcards. But for Arabic I end up having to switch to my phone whenever I want to draft an email or respond to someone on Facebook who doesn't speak English.)<br />
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Cause while I *can* type Arabic letters on my computer keyboard, it's not a fun time. (It involves a lot of guess-work, you might call it trial-and-error word-processing.) For younger people there's a whole common internet e-slang style of writing Arabic with non-Arabic letters, but that gives me a massive headache. So instead I downloaded an Arabic keyboard on my phone. Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-89761775925857128522015-05-16T07:04:00.003-04:002015-05-16T07:09:49.810-04:00The Holy City of a Thousand Requisite Dietary Restrictions for the Purpose of Maintaining HolinessThe biggest mistake I made this year?<br />
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I ordered oatmeal during Passover (a week in early April) -- specifically at an Israeli cafe. <br />
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The cashier grabbed a nearby staff person and urgently whispered in Hebrew. The other guy shrugged. I imagine the exchange went something like this:<br />
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1: Dude. This guy just asked for oatmeal. Like... what do I do.<br />
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2: What?? Does he have any idea what he's doing?<br />
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1: Probably not, but it'd be really stressful to try to explain the problem in English. I don't know how to say "unleavened bread," and I can't even begin to explain the whole "grain products that are fermented or can cause fermentation" subclause. And the lines way too long for this to become a whole lecture on Jewish life and customs anyway.<br />
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2: Yeah whatever. But wait? How do you even *make* oatmeal that's Passover-kosher? Like, what <i>is </i>it?<br />
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1: No idea. Get creative I guess.<br />
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2: Aye aye captain.<br />
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All they did towards me was smile and ask for my money, and I wasn't awake or alert enough to wonder about the whispers at the time. I was just an unsuspecting victim -- until the oatmeal actually arrived. And even then, things took some time to finally become clear.<br />
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My first clue that something was wrong was the thick blanket of what looked to be sesame seeds -- apparently the closest thing to oats that didn't get cleaned out in the intensive pre-Passover kitchen scouring and scrubbing. (Which is a real and really incredibly intensive process -- it's been described to me as the prototypical spring cleaning, except instead of dust, mildew, mold and clutter, the targets are every crumb, speck and residue of leaven/yeast, which often entails pretty much boiling every thing you can figure out how to boil (kitchen utensils, counters, microwaves, etc.))<br />
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There was yogurt in the "oatmeal" too, so that was ok. And there was fruit too, although not especially fresh or varied (I don't know if stale, dry cantaloupe can be successfully blamed on the annual ritualized celebration of the Jews' escape from slavery in Egypt).<br />
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But those portions of the dish were sort of enlarged to make up for the total absence of "oatmeal" as such, and then liberally sprinkled with various ingredients that might've been thought to appease me in the oatmeal's absence. Thus, sesame seeds, unidentifiable nuts, etc.<br />
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I'm sort of stuck between the majority Jewish country of Israel and the majority Muslim country of Palestine (in the murky, magical but horribly tense liminal in-between zone of East Jerusalem), so unusual (for me) dietary restrictions have become a regular thing.<br />
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It means cheeseburgers are a rarity in Israeli areas (Kosher here often means separate restaurants entirely for dairy and meat.) Or in the best case scenario, you need a friendly non-Jewish McDonald's cashier to secretly slip you a slice of cheese under the table, and then you have to finish your meal and come order again to get the milkshake. (Sometimes you have to go find a milkshake place next door.)<br />
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It means sushi -- when you can find it -- is almost always fully cooked, never raw.<br />
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It means if you want alcohol and you're in an Arab-Palestinian area, you have to hunt down the one Christian grocery store in the whole neighborhood. Or settle for "Bavaria." (A popular non-alcoholic malt beverage: available in a wide range of "flavors," including: Apple, Peach, Ivory, Raspberry, and Premium.) <br />
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And for pork you probably have to call ahead from an undisclosed location and then "accidentally" stumble into a Christian butcher shop in Palestine or a Russian supermarket in Israel -- both of which might likely have to import or special order from a few fancy domestic pork farms where the pigs are kept on weird rabbinically-approved platforms that keep the pigs from ever touching the ground.<br />
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You also have to know the days to not be eating or drinking or driving a car or various things in public in certain neighborhoods. Yom Kippur and weekly shabat in the religious Jewish neighborhoods, and Ramadan in Muslim neighborhoods (Actual restrictions differ for each of these three times, not necessarily all three of those forbidden things listed above). Mostly cause you'll just really irritate people and be insanely disrespectful as you do, but ultra-orthodox Jewish neighborhoods might throw rocks at you if you drive there on shabat (or at the very least they'll just scream angrily.) And rocks are a given on Yom Kippur. <br />
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Some of the more Orthodox Christian groups have some restrictions too, including some fasting & required vegetarian-ness during Lent and whatnot, but some of the more western-based Christian sects sort of just mind their own business when it comes to dietary restrictions. "Moderation," and whatnot perhaps.<br />
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As an outsider here, who definitely comes more out of that western "ehhh... eat what you like," tradition -- (Unless you count the ethical strictures of animal rights groups or the "nutritional science establishment" and their do's and don't's as modern western dietary traditions. Which maybe we should count those? Although when it comes to those I'm still pretty "non-observant," and while I try to keep those things in mind, I don't really follow them "religiously," per se.) ha.<br />
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But yeah. As an outsider here, my first instinct might be like, "Well that's weird. I just want a bacon cheeseburger, is that really too much to ask?" (quite often it is.) <br />
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But it's been really worthwhile to get to know and develop a respect for these traditional dietary regimens, or whatever you want to call them. Eschewing the boundaries and just saying "we in the west use the enlightened path of 'moderation' instead of primitive food taboos" is one thing -- but I have serious doubts about how well we follow that path of "moderation" when it comes to reality.<br />
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And perhaps "moderation," -- if it's the ideal that we're replacing these restrictions with -- and probably failing to live up to -- then the term should refer not only to what we specifically put in our body and how much of it, but how much our society invests in and does or doesn't take care of the environment/world/creation from which we draw these resources.<br />
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And maybe, like I mentioned before, the real replacement for these codified group dietary restrictions in our society isn't "independent individuals engaging in moderation," but "MAKE SURE YOU EAT SUPERFRUITS," and "ONE GLASS OF RED WINE EVERY EVENING" and "CAREFULLY POLICE THE BORDERS OF YOUR STOMACH FOR PROPER SODIUM INTAKE, THESE ARE THE SKILLED EDUCATED FAT DEMOGRAPHICS WE WANT AND THESE ARE THE FATS WE DON'T WANT, THESE ARE THE POLITICAL REFUGEE CHOLESTOROL(S) WE WANT AND THESE ARE THE UNSAVORY CHOLESTOROL(S) WITH NOWHERE ELSE TO GO THAT WE SHOULD JUST LEAVE FOR OTHERS TO CLAIM."<br />
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P.S. Olive oil is way better than butter in pretty much every way. Go Mediterranean, make the switch, never look back. <br />
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P.P.S. That got weird at the end there -- not really sure what happened.<br />
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P.P.P.S. I blame the sudden change in diet. Food does weird stuff to you. Nutrition is important. Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-86562994261409958312015-05-03T09:02:00.001-04:002015-05-03T09:02:28.981-04:00Popsicles, games, cheers, and letting kids be kids (link and re-post)(This blog post was originally posted on the Kids4Peace official blog -- this is an official <a href="http://k4pblog.org/2015/04/20/popsicles-games-cheers-and-letting-kids-be-kids/">re-post</a>. The original one has pictures so it's better.) <br />
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There's nothing so simple and joyful as just watching kids at play. You give them the space to run and jump and laugh and express themselves, and everything else seems to just fall away. But sometimes it's not as simple as it seems.<br />
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On Friday, April 17th, I spent the day with the 66 newest members of Kids4Peace -- the latest crop of 6th-graders that just started this January. It was field day at the Beit Safafa School in East Jerusalem, and that meant a day of popsicles, games, cheers, and letting kids be kids. <br />
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And that's what they did. At first glance (or at first listen -- as you approach the school playground from a distance and hear only the giggles and shouts as they drift out into the famously resonant and echo-friendly city of Jerusalem), it was indistinguishable from any other group of 6th-graders discovering lacrosse for the first time or getting into a game of tug-of-war.<br />
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But this was so much more than that. For one thing, it was the start of a six-year journey with Kids4Peace.<br />
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These kids are evenly split between the three Abrahamic religions that call Jerusalem home. Judaism, Islam, and Christianity, and even within those categories there's remarkable diversity: Palestinian, Israeli, European, Arab, religious, secular, wealthy, poor, and all the seemingly endless ways each of those identifiers can mix and match and combine to form fascinatingly different but uniformly adorable and engaging children.<br />
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All of that plus the occasional language barrier means there's still some awkwardness and clumping. The social circles that form organically when the kids sit down on the pavement for lunch aren't exactly fully inclusive -- and if you're watching closely you'll notice that "random selection" when picking teams for baseball often leaves the sides suspiciously unbalanced.<br />
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But you can't expect 6th-graders not to *cheat* a little bit to be on the same team as their friends. And -- in true 6th-grade fashion -- these self-selected teams and lunch groups were divided by gender far more often than by anything else. (Especially considering that, without the occasional hijab or crucifix-necklace or kippah, the non-gender based differences can be a lot harder to spot.)<br />
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At this point, when the kids are still wearing nametags, when they're still struggling to find the best, most comfortable ways to communicate somewhere in the chaotic mix of Hebrew, Arabic, and English -- it's hard to imagine that these kids really know what is in store for them.<br />
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Sixth grade means 11 or 12 years old. They're teetering on the edge of the "kid world" that dominates in elementary school, beginning to drift dangerously into the emotional, socially-stratified world that follows, populated by teenagers and adolescence. <br />
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As if middle school wasn't enough, these kids have the troubled world around them to contend with as well. They haven't necessarily fully come to terms yet with what the Israeli-Palestinian context will do to shape their lives, and they surely have no idea what the next six years in Kids4Peace might mean for them.<br />
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There will be powerful friendships, challenging emotions, painful dialogues, and difficult but ultimately worthwhile coexistence -- and who knows what else. But for now there is play.<br />
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One of the four stations of the day is for assorted silly games, especially ones that require a lot of running. Tug-of-war is a big hit, although it leaves some guys a little shamed and disappointed. (The girls crush them every chance they get, while the boys sit idly by and wait for their own growth spurts.)<br />
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At another station the kids learn the traditional Kids4Peace cheers, shouting their way through them alternately in English, Arabic, and Hebrew. As the years continue, this cheer will become more and more significant and unavoidably loaded with emotion and energy of one kind or another -- but for now it seems like little more than a mildly amusing chore. One boy laughs as he helps lead another round through the chant, but then wraps his arm around his buddy and remarks loudly, "I'm not having fun!"<br />
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Only an hour later, however, the boy is running bases in his first experience of Baseball. "This is the best game ever!" he exclaims to no one in particular as he lands on second.<br />
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The last two situations are thus reserved for Baseball and Lacrosse -- two pure American imports that produce some funny looks on kids' faces, sometimes amused, sometimes frustrated, sometimes just confused. But there is no "This is stupid," or "I don't get it." They dive in, joyfully and eagerly getting into something new. They do some quick training as the volunteers from the <a href="http://www.baseball.org.il/">Baseball</a> and <a href="http://israel.laxallstars.com/tag/sticks-for-kids/">Lacrosse</a> organizations show them the basic skills and rules, and the game is on. <br />
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The newness of the sports means no child is an expert. Even if they've seen it on TV before, most kids have probably never swung a bat. Everyone feels a bit silly, and maybe the slightest bit uncomfortable as they get used to swinging this weird Lacrosse stick around -- but they're learning together, and that's what this is all about.<br />
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<b>"Everywhere we go (echo)</b></div>
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<b>People want to know (echo)</b></div>
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<b>Who we are (echo)</b></div>
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<b>So we tell them (echo)</b></div>
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<b>We are Kids4Peace</b></div>
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<b>Mighty Mighty Kids4Peace</b></div>
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<b>Tired of the fighting</b></div>
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<b>Time to do the right thing</b></div>
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<b>We can do it better</b></div>
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<b>We can live together</b></div>
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<b>Shalom Salaam</b></div>
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<b>Salaam Shalom</b></div>
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<b> Kids! 4! Peace!"</b></div>
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http://k4pblog.org/2015/04/20/popsicles-games-cheers-and-letting-kids-be-kids/Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-26707910089919591312015-04-12T11:06:00.000-04:002015-05-03T08:46:16.838-04:00That One Weekend In October I Didn't Write About <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I didn't write about it at the time, but in October I spent a weekend in the northern West Bank village of Siris. This is that story. <br />
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Probably marks the moment at which I really realized how beautiful this land is. Like actually. It's kind of crazy. <br />
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I was sort of glued to the window the whole time. <br />
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My companions for the trip were Margo -- the director of the kindergarten/nursery/joyful den of chaos that I work in -- and my fellow volunteer in the kindergarten: Ben. He's German, whereas I just get the exciting job of being the American everyone assumes is German because I'm here with the Lutheran Church. </div>
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We were visiting the family of a child from the kindergarten. The particularly precious one who chatters a lot (without me understanding) and who takes a strong, stubborn stance on which name/nickname she prefers -- although it tends to vary by day. </div>
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Mountains, sky, SIDEWAYS TREES, and then a lot of trash. The nicest roads in the West Bank are the ones maintained by the Israeli government to carry Israelis back-and-forth to their houses in the internationally-legally-quite-questionable settlements (Palestinians aren't generally allowed in those roads and can't live in those settlements) but the prettiest views are in the Palestinian areas (although that means trash cause often no money or access for bringing people to clean that up.<br />
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Also because Israel has security control over all but 3% of the West Bank, and there's a solid 70ish% with no Palestinian (A)uthority at all, which kind of makes infrastructure even harder to work out. (And even that 3% under full Palestinian control still has Israeli soldiers waltzing on a daily basis so that might be misleading too, lolz.)<br />
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Whatever -- back to the views. <br />
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TOPOGRAPHY. visceral, emotional, gorgeous, topography. </div>
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Also lots of dust. </div>
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This was October, so my Arabic skills were to the point that I could at least put together phrases longer than "I don't know," but I was still barely beyond the versatility of a 1.5 year old or one of those plastic wheel toys with buttons that shout things like "Cat," or "Sheep," or "E-I-E-I-O."</div>
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(But on the bright side I could at least generally understand my fellow 1.5-year-olds when they begged me for their "bottle" or "mama" or "THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS" (as they point furiously at the paper-cut-out bee decoration hanging from the ceiling)).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjco19PH12IHzMTYEj6X4r-jWbYI89NQN0Slr5DySxZTiEGKhHDfqAEHKelexW20hD9CCWLyaXqvfHDDyB32dkfgMXZBR3NslOFUEFN5IybhAEUg9qVFsRSPqiOUUyLk_7NNEVB_yyWZBzw/s1600/DSCF4074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjco19PH12IHzMTYEj6X4r-jWbYI89NQN0Slr5DySxZTiEGKhHDfqAEHKelexW20hD9CCWLyaXqvfHDDyB32dkfgMXZBR3NslOFUEFN5IybhAEUg9qVFsRSPqiOUUyLk_7NNEVB_yyWZBzw/s1600/DSCF4074.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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On the way we saw some vegetables, so we stopped to ask a farmer if we could buy some! Margo gave them some Kayak (Jerusalem Bread) as a gift (delicious, and Jerusalem is the spiritual and vaguelypolitical capital of Palestine, and most Palestinians aren't allowed to go there, so the bread is thusly even more significant).<br />
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And then they gave us a pile of peppers and squash and enormous eggplants for free!<br />
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Here's Margo and Ben doing a little bit of picking and wandering as the kind Palestinian farmers let us explore for a bit. <br />
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We took our time, but it was still reasonably early morning on Saturday when we arrived, and we'd be staying until Sunday around noon-ish. We were loved, taken care of, fed until we nearly burst from the built-up internal pressure of all that tender affection, delicious food, and the firm, insistent, but compassionate shouts of "EAT. EAT SOME MORE." (Yup. That happened.) </div>
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But the primary photo event of the weekend was, of course, olive picking. </div>
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Which is pretty much the only type of thing you get invited to in October. </div>
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Because nearly everyone and their grandma has their own patch or orchard or mountainside of Olive trees. </div>
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And now for some beautiful pictures of olive picking and family and new friends! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3Kf-AyuVvYdRwbjnZPDwAOMG3K_aprtPEtemNlkf_bpwQt7aq-56N6nOj29s_WQYRcg02wyGuteGezO0TxKPiB_6zxpaoKPf8WUgrFIdFUUB-onV5KXB1fTxvIOT54GFWhzIH_sROJUK/s1600/DSCF4099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3Kf-AyuVvYdRwbjnZPDwAOMG3K_aprtPEtemNlkf_bpwQt7aq-56N6nOj29s_WQYRcg02wyGuteGezO0TxKPiB_6zxpaoKPf8WUgrFIdFUUB-onV5KXB1fTxvIOT54GFWhzIH_sROJUK/s1600/DSCF4099.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwg1IsW_RolASUjB5O0ZL8Oi7cOpUusZg8A_eDkTImUH9GiRmrT5SzvXZxbTsoTezn9rjD-6OspwHBjQFRIvjqM_lXO_lwOBNbuQ-WhPRk04M6r1midzbqkxtztfiy_rrlZ30HJznFqVf/s1600/DSCF4116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwg1IsW_RolASUjB5O0ZL8Oi7cOpUusZg8A_eDkTImUH9GiRmrT5SzvXZxbTsoTezn9rjD-6OspwHBjQFRIvjqM_lXO_lwOBNbuQ-WhPRk04M6r1midzbqkxtztfiy_rrlZ30HJznFqVf/s1600/DSCF4116.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This is Kheirieh, the mom from the kindergarten who invited us -- she's also a nurse at the hospital next to the kindergarten!) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9mP0mGzsnggYFSlVrmR1Tp3KlHvP57FqogElImmNMC2IqZWpnNxkVADnfmoKW8l8maP4ZiGPflfxnlY3qeVRIlrjMdY27EZSIoFyNfiY468F8YZ5HtWk9ES0n5EcrIHO19KHyMrR4qxl3/s1600/DSCF4121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9mP0mGzsnggYFSlVrmR1Tp3KlHvP57FqogElImmNMC2IqZWpnNxkVADnfmoKW8l8maP4ZiGPflfxnlY3qeVRIlrjMdY27EZSIoFyNfiY468F8YZ5HtWk9ES0n5EcrIHO19KHyMrR4qxl3/s1600/DSCF4121.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OLIVES</td></tr>
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You might be aware of the fact that I'm not much of a fan of olives, but spending a lot of time with my face in olive trees this fall (and thus in a cloud of olive essence) has made me generally a lot more friendly and affectionate with these important and healthy agricultural products.</div>
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But no, I still won't eat them. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1y2Kr5MIdrJq3AYWvGcyFf3HUDgN7SXKy0ikUAdFpmkc3tQcvWf_xtysOzbAf-9qgmvOYnMbIfsSqB8JW1fQRyvVK13vS3LJ9ZRbhEC65oT8NDG_d3TSqx9lBcfMfqy7WQ2dKo22q21n1/s1600/DSCF4127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1y2Kr5MIdrJq3AYWvGcyFf3HUDgN7SXKy0ikUAdFpmkc3tQcvWf_xtysOzbAf-9qgmvOYnMbIfsSqB8JW1fQRyvVK13vS3LJ9ZRbhEC65oT8NDG_d3TSqx9lBcfMfqy7WQ2dKo22q21n1/s1600/DSCF4127.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AND MORE FOOD! Also ladder cuz giggles. </td></tr>
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Also also, you have not lived until you've had legitimately fresh fresh olive oil. By which I mean murky, nearly opaque olive oil that's weirdly spicy. </div>
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It seems that many families in Palestine will basically fill every glass/plastic container they have lying around with fresh olive oil every fall, which is funny to me. </div>
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(Why is our sprite so oozy and Mediterranean and sticky today?) </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxc25C5hdEyG7QqRfauunMK_VgnmNPa_Lf-u_d2R2diDVxIvz4jVZXClv668E_g06_6ru0Zww0ajVXZh8n1GHF5o2dy4HQ8YFzYqeeYupNKqD8cG1FwETEnr1KZu8GhkAxqMi-YGQm_TFb/s1600/DSCF4130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxc25C5hdEyG7QqRfauunMK_VgnmNPa_Lf-u_d2R2diDVxIvz4jVZXClv668E_g06_6ru0Zww0ajVXZh8n1GHF5o2dy4HQ8YFzYqeeYupNKqD8cG1FwETEnr1KZu8GhkAxqMi-YGQm_TFb/s1600/DSCF4130.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1v8suWB5EZP6jHUZcW_AeoJg34x138qLT96zO8rdsrY1SFYIqmGVVYs0CNWeNX1hXa5w_fxo5LjlAdc-nNsQQXnSMvXH4Hl8EYrB-9Q1_3FUrYs7EBt8OPpebfZJoj1M6LmlJPkQ92d-/s1600/DSCF4133.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1v8suWB5EZP6jHUZcW_AeoJg34x138qLT96zO8rdsrY1SFYIqmGVVYs0CNWeNX1hXa5w_fxo5LjlAdc-nNsQQXnSMvXH4Hl8EYrB-9Q1_3FUrYs7EBt8OPpebfZJoj1M6LmlJPkQ92d-/s1600/DSCF4133.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sorting olives! and throwing away crappy ones! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15Z9jWrINlpPYMnfs0anjbNwm-LwaMfIyN9XHzPuqZAMjLFmZZ-NDyuI13kVKj_r6SwpYGw4T68mEYE3keDYmzgRL9chwrDwuZG4SNU5nb8FEERXEf-37WRakScHdHugbUB1fA9OJ63Hp/s1600/DSCF4135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15Z9jWrINlpPYMnfs0anjbNwm-LwaMfIyN9XHzPuqZAMjLFmZZ-NDyuI13kVKj_r6SwpYGw4T68mEYE3keDYmzgRL9chwrDwuZG4SNU5nb8FEERXEf-37WRakScHdHugbUB1fA9OJ63Hp/s1600/DSCF4135.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are a different color!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy9tuD0dh24b3MHHzhc_NZk9Fi2TEcTzFqC9j_0Lae_klO2eZ5vIteQ-BC4b84WAXTTl0ww_Cq0lEUJgkMudi7is9AXkA7cpbSFZyh7Cvi18yFZk9bcpE0YNjX_E33ATPLPEF5kTNRs12n/s1600/DSCF4136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy9tuD0dh24b3MHHzhc_NZk9Fi2TEcTzFqC9j_0Lae_klO2eZ5vIteQ-BC4b84WAXTTl0ww_Cq0lEUJgkMudi7is9AXkA7cpbSFZyh7Cvi18yFZk9bcpE0YNjX_E33ATPLPEF5kTNRs12n/s1600/DSCF4136.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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(L->R) Here's Mahammad and Aman, two new friends I made there, despite the rather large language barrier. I stumbled through some basic Arabic, and Aman struggled through some basic English. <br />
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Two things! The watch on my wrist is now lost. I lost it somewhere roundabouts February-ish, and I planned to replace it until mid-March, at which point I promptly forgot about it. Now I've acquired a rubber band at some point to accompany the yellow strings, which I sort of compulsively play with and wrap around my fingers in odd ways, but which gives me no assistance in telling time.<br />
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My problem is that watches (unlike strings and rubber bands that get weirdly tangled with string) are easy to take off. Thus when I leave Michael alone idly for a couple of minutes, the first thing he does is notice stuff on his wrist, the proper response to which is apparently to immediately take the watch off.<br />
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And so that's what I do. Usually I'm good at catching myself and putting the watch back on when I come back from whatever I was doing, but all it takes is one time in which Michael outsmarts me for my watch to be gone forever.<br />
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I probably took it off on a bus at some point and just left it there.<br />
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I could use some more discipline.<br />
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Second thing: Mahammed, on top of the ladder: Notice the tiny orange rake-type thing in his hand! That's what I affectionately call an "olive rake," and I became very familiar with them in October. You rake olives with it. Out of the tree. For hours. Until the plastic orange-tined fork becomes like a crude, flimsy extension of yourself and you are totally absorbed in the act of harvest and finally reunited -- one with the fruit of the earth and its cycles and thus fully reunited -- one with the earth itself in all its beauty and topography.<br />
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Either that or the olive fumes are more potent than I realized. Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-21438726847767899622015-02-28T09:22:00.001-05:002015-03-01T12:00:26.191-05:00Jericho: City of the Moon, Fragrances, and a Frolicking CamelJust a few weeks ago I spent a day in the city of Jericho, which spends its free time wrestling with a couple other Middle Eastern and Western Asian cities for the title "oldest continuously inhabited city in the world." (Apparently it's still pretty spry for an area that was playing host to groups of camping hunter-gatherers and early agriculturalists 12,000 years ago.)<br />
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It's a beautiful valley of a city, within sight of the murky yet lively Jordan River and the murkier and less lively Dead Sea. Also of great significance to Palestinian, Islamic, Arab, and Biblical history. Here's some pictures with somewhat descriptive captions, and then I'll move on to the important part.<br />
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(Full disclosure, this picture essay is actually sewn together from two different days I spent in Jericho.<br />
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So I'm lying to you.) <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidAbiVyeYJ9mKcEfd7BD92A1-B0Pfckdv1SUn8bchpuBHCf3sW2mFHWLc6sA5ZkPo2jy0tFtP5jFx8GzX39cgZ8fLf64Vi6OI5B6dUye0iix8fnANW8EgcA0SOAi7Gy5Wp_QYCjxAqr6EA/s1600/DSCF4639.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidAbiVyeYJ9mKcEfd7BD92A1-B0Pfckdv1SUn8bchpuBHCf3sW2mFHWLc6sA5ZkPo2jy0tFtP5jFx8GzX39cgZ8fLf64Vi6OI5B6dUye0iix8fnANW8EgcA0SOAi7Gy5Wp_QYCjxAqr6EA/s1600/DSCF4639.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia3GcmjbvrhaM-4zor6QA9CpE2QSug8bMwE37bnxqIKqt2HJuOBiYzC0OUb8ADzAggA3Y4r0wYXh6wn5XhFShi3C45Sky5VCfPB8TKD2HTfkAKZf_fBSy-mxnVv01E-Yo4eTEh7SyA_2f-/s1600/DSCF4649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia3GcmjbvrhaM-4zor6QA9CpE2QSug8bMwE37bnxqIKqt2HJuOBiYzC0OUb8ADzAggA3Y4r0wYXh6wn5XhFShi3C45Sky5VCfPB8TKD2HTfkAKZf_fBSy-mxnVv01E-Yo4eTEh7SyA_2f-/s1600/DSCF4649.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Husham's Palace! An old Muslim palace from the Umayyad Dynasty, the
first Islamic kingdom, begun shortly after the death of Mohammed. (Thus early 700s-ish A.D.?)</td></tr>
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D'aw the little camel out playing in the grass... We're in the middle of
the local equivalent of spring here, so even the desert has a little
layer of green, but also I think Jericho is generally greener than its
surroundings.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39VybyLPCy3Ow3oumJN8LTkx0xwAQ_FNSOJ5Vv1YF-ELDauda5jRBNvZqDX1X2Fg2dvDiYykEmLbJ2FXGEpFJLaf-HZViAhxUqQRCbeo_jWS91GWsDaKGCOEYCKQ52fdd6rO8OTZSnkjk/s1600/DSCF4657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39VybyLPCy3Ow3oumJN8LTkx0xwAQ_FNSOJ5Vv1YF-ELDauda5jRBNvZqDX1X2Fg2dvDiYykEmLbJ2FXGEpFJLaf-HZViAhxUqQRCbeo_jWS91GWsDaKGCOEYCKQ52fdd6rO8OTZSnkjk/s1600/DSCF4657.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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While clearly a Muslim palace, there were crosses and other Christian symbols, statues with faces, and even a wine press. (Depictions of people(i.e. faces) and alcohol are usually forbidden in Islam.)<br />
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Reason 1) The Sassanian empire, the last pre-Islamic empire in the region, had destroyed a lot of stuff, including a lot of Byzantine churches, so the Umayyads were just using whatever building materials they found. Reason 2) The Islamic rulers clearly found nothing heretical in the fact that they had Christian symbols in their house and that they drank wine. Surprise: Religious people sometimes do things that are nominally forbidden in their religion. Bigger surprise: Rulers and elites of all shapes and sizes and eras sometimes operate by their own entirely separate set of rules. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhehn6G6LDvbC4md_87X8iTohWug9U1T5ZJZ3y7WokahXg3Ln74NJOHpK4vWZTacJAA7_lOjeMi_m5XYnV4v4EKKT__fuP9WpfX4umVQ8LkhPBRKsH0sslM3e-QVA_T_5Z0sP7uVsxbFiLd/s1600/DSCF4661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhehn6G6LDvbC4md_87X8iTohWug9U1T5ZJZ3y7WokahXg3Ln74NJOHpK4vWZTacJAA7_lOjeMi_m5XYnV4v4EKKT__fuP9WpfX4umVQ8LkhPBRKsH0sslM3e-QVA_T_5Z0sP7uVsxbFiLd/s1600/DSCF4661.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Largest continuous and intact mosaic floor in the world. Incredibly beautiful and amazing, but unfortunately it's under a tarp and a thick layer of dirt because they're just trying to preserve it at the moment. Powerful piece of Palestinian history and Islamic heritage, currently buried because people can't agree how they want to set it up. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZuvB6wpp-NQZVw8SPScPaDOMxJFWVsLsJX49O9GbZujeBXgDmpxIEMpPpoM6xQ4mSg4Opi7h_5mUSfQZyD2P9kSJnQQyCF-4UNrAbT1cla42cIj_rVR3Fxa8c1uOHPMgiX72yf92VaEGN/s1600/IMG_4358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZuvB6wpp-NQZVw8SPScPaDOMxJFWVsLsJX49O9GbZujeBXgDmpxIEMpPpoM6xQ4mSg4Opi7h_5mUSfQZyD2P9kSJnQQyCF-4UNrAbT1cla42cIj_rVR3Fxa8c1uOHPMgiX72yf92VaEGN/s1600/IMG_4358.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baptismal site at the River Jordan! I'm on the Israeli side, and that structure on the other side is in Jordan. Ostensibly Israeli soldiers will restrain you or someone somewhere will shoot you if you cross that yellow line. People in the foreground are Ethiopian pilgrims.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zofDt85hgj6u7p94IfNXuA0NSe0i9ypHIz_dwvLdOusayqlLeK8tv3NVlYmNosJl8pnBQty3b_3lzY-s_MEGHnQxEZolmjNUt_LUCpgSyza62FnbRAh3b3z0sqivqGwdQ_5nReAAmmwN/s1600/Jericho+(10).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zofDt85hgj6u7p94IfNXuA0NSe0i9ypHIz_dwvLdOusayqlLeK8tv3NVlYmNosJl8pnBQty3b_3lzY-s_MEGHnQxEZolmjNUt_LUCpgSyza62FnbRAh3b3z0sqivqGwdQ_5nReAAmmwN/s1600/Jericho+(10).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jericho. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMIkF9YTy4CPIM-PaO_G9b15h7evYyWB6ZJnwilBEUeesi-FG5twmLQKBFWDH2nxdTWJj0UkNU4LknOW20IrOKTYuXWrJ1s1yrMxwR87i63P_PGK40hafLazop5C8leHTucP6L-ZLISN78/s1600/Jericho+(15).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMIkF9YTy4CPIM-PaO_G9b15h7evYyWB6ZJnwilBEUeesi-FG5twmLQKBFWDH2nxdTWJj0UkNU4LknOW20IrOKTYuXWrJ1s1yrMxwR87i63P_PGK40hafLazop5C8leHTucP6L-ZLISN78/s1600/Jericho+(15).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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At a cafe outside of a monastery after a cable car ride on the Mount of Temptation (Where Jesus was tempted.) <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJeAVcOmTqj8Ls0INGAZA-YHwsacof9QMfj_9qxa0FP5lOpd-ez-EwnYPNkQGjH8BChyuk2VnAcB5ywn07uUz0iqgnxVg5RzRICstCU8zJjc5zQ6sGLyRBUHngSmjckPtJOVoKkXvROKxn/s1600/Jericho+(24).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJeAVcOmTqj8Ls0INGAZA-YHwsacof9QMfj_9qxa0FP5lOpd-ez-EwnYPNkQGjH8BChyuk2VnAcB5ywn07uUz0iqgnxVg5RzRICstCU8zJjc5zQ6sGLyRBUHngSmjckPtJOVoKkXvROKxn/s1600/Jericho+(24).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Looking down from said mountain. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwbnAJfJI0ilez3gY9V__QZF-wWmz0yGOJgHETNzNulnqsoVSZCPKg9HBJHaW4rRYHPI4UHqWFskY3a78TsPx55NjKJgusWCfP_KCLHdJR9UpGTzCmSzp8vq9ICBuqRKQ__1WGPJkMOqt/s1600/Jericho+(30).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwbnAJfJI0ilez3gY9V__QZF-wWmz0yGOJgHETNzNulnqsoVSZCPKg9HBJHaW4rRYHPI4UHqWFskY3a78TsPx55NjKJgusWCfP_KCLHdJR9UpGTzCmSzp8vq9ICBuqRKQ__1WGPJkMOqt/s1600/Jericho+(30).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31H9Ym0tdZvV7VlCXkzFzN_dHYhBPbZEcebdzqC2VZGlQ1aMqrCQZG5FI0_r2sn8pDIB7f8DM_187mUaKUmTjsa-U3sE3LbW3WTeiHZ5lCfwmRlvWTAgRZEBCX9FyoaENNetvfpW3nPbG/s1600/Jericho+(31).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31H9Ym0tdZvV7VlCXkzFzN_dHYhBPbZEcebdzqC2VZGlQ1aMqrCQZG5FI0_r2sn8pDIB7f8DM_187mUaKUmTjsa-U3sE3LbW3WTeiHZ5lCfwmRlvWTAgRZEBCX9FyoaENNetvfpW3nPbG/s1600/Jericho+(31).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Somewhere up there in those rocks Jesus the 1st century Jew suddenly encountered a somewhat anachronistically Hellenistic depiction of the devil and had a very trying experience. <br />
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Monastery built into aforementioned and seen mountain!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGd-2nI0Hhd4GUpQffjb19x0xaiqDgpFHY_kqTILRgXybMnJdRvCPoxmYXFwvF43KgMgZbjL_f1rEnY4KVfd8KzlJlC8SqogERFJ2tfRRkNT6pdJxBaNTXwCtLgej1DQVqKWb8nIF6pd5/s1600/DSCF4640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGd-2nI0Hhd4GUpQffjb19x0xaiqDgpFHY_kqTILRgXybMnJdRvCPoxmYXFwvF43KgMgZbjL_f1rEnY4KVfd8KzlJlC8SqogERFJ2tfRRkNT6pdJxBaNTXwCtLgej1DQVqKWb8nIF6pd5/s1600/DSCF4640.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the bottom, looking up at the mountain -- cable car station and cafe in the middle, and monastery up a little and to the left. </td></tr>
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And here's a <a href="https://vimeo.com/120879587">video</a> of some YAGMs attempting to sing at/in front of the Sycamore tree where Zacchaeus the short tax-collector is said to have climbed the tree to get a look at Jesus. <br />
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Attempting more manageable and careful approach at blogging. Thus: Go on to upcoming next post to get to the important part! Although Jericho and its history is important too, duh. Palestinian heritage is sort of institutionally neglected in Israel, to the touristic advantage of the Biblical history.<br />
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They pick and choose which centuries of history they want to make legitimate, and then they sink billions of dollars of money into developing tourist infrastructure to emphasize that part of history and the narrative that goes with it.<br />
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The West Bank city of Jericho gives Palestinians a chance to finally give a little bit of a public voice to their usually downplayed and marginalized part of the immense history of this land, but unfortunately they don't have the money or the support or the infrastructure to develop and explore and present that. Thus: an expansive, old, and beautiful mosaic floor under a thick layer of dirt and tarp. <br />
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<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-45831007800029324852015-01-09T15:32:00.001-05:002015-01-09T17:43:51.327-05:00Snow Days in the Holy City <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxs2cA98g0w_pzikYsKY-lOiQGyS0E81gCHLqOVKCegRl8v7bTVjQwbhH6af0RZV94OIVXSG2z1HaaD6WVjLQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe> </div>
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(Snow)storm Huda has hit the Holy Land. </div>
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One day of storm wasn't bad at all -- the roads were clear and there were even some buses running -- but most people didn't even go outside and thus were safely allowed to assume that the outside world was a paralyzed wintry chaos. (They're really not ready for snow here.) </div>
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A lot of it is the cold too, not even the snow. Below zero (Celsius) temperatures here are an excuse to stay home and do nothing (which I took advantage of for a bit). </div>
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Even the muezzin singing out the Muslim call-to-prayer from one of the local mosques seemed to rush through it, like he just wanted to get back home before his toes fell off. (I'm pretty sure most of those are pre-recorded, but still. Fastest call-to-prayer I've ever heard. Moved through the words like a massive clump of snow abruptly dropping off a roof that was not built with precipitation in mind.) </div>
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The worst part was the two days before storm-time, in which the roads were constantly swamped by endless amounts of cars and people rushing here and there, sometimes to get a week's supply of groceries and sometimes to get home before anything started, and sometimes I think people were just driving back-and-forth panicking about everything because it seemed like the right thing to do. (A surprising amount of these behaviors are exactly what I'm used to in North Carolina.) </div>
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Then in another half-day of clear roads I took a ride across town to Beit Safafa to meet up with other volunteers! Then we dropped back below zero and the city turned white. </div>
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The most striking thing: In the two days before the storm the city seemed to come alive -- a usually subdued but active Jerusalem was suddenly full of energy and action -- a frenzied panic that was also sort of a relief because it was related to only the most apolitical part of the daily news broadcast. Then the city turned into a silent, white wasteland.</div>
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Pictures!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9d8vYZ5CwWDvl2YwAwbAJ57OJrybYOC66lN4_jh4_t8vXUKRyOA-p9KpkiAgOfRcwGsbCsrXQo7JEzbM04LL7nq1mMt24yjpw6TD2PzBMfldwpHrYOo8ao1Ikt0dcDQTSCpK8YiFXvs-t/s1600/IMG_4132%5B1%5D.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9d8vYZ5CwWDvl2YwAwbAJ57OJrybYOC66lN4_jh4_t8vXUKRyOA-p9KpkiAgOfRcwGsbCsrXQo7JEzbM04LL7nq1mMt24yjpw6TD2PzBMfldwpHrYOo8ao1Ikt0dcDQTSCpK8YiFXvs-t/s1600/IMG_4132%5B1%5D.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a> </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih702hQrtCuP0oABn2NN4mOusxM2_fOZhN0A3AhLcummo9aDh3Bc1bh3RFvseocV3GryrWl5Up7f_V9G68W-RREN-iunr9cJPcDILWjtv96BeJO1zE3ljiSK2tiTgPhTh8F6UATHjSMCqC/s1600/IMG_4120%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih702hQrtCuP0oABn2NN4mOusxM2_fOZhN0A3AhLcummo9aDh3Bc1bh3RFvseocV3GryrWl5Up7f_V9G68W-RREN-iunr9cJPcDILWjtv96BeJO1zE3ljiSK2tiTgPhTh8F6UATHjSMCqC/s1600/IMG_4120%5B1%5D.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I select this caption to be the obligatory political part of this post. You see that very uniform-looking townish thing there? That's Har Homa, an Israeli settlement in East Jerusalem. One of many in East Jerusalem, but -- what's worse -- is it's many twins throughout the West Bank. Looks very innocent, densely suburbish, heavily subsidized housing, but that seemingly bland and offenseless exterior masks the fact that it's illegal according to international law (and according to every country besides Israel), and it serves as a reminder of a broader Israeli governmental campaign of splitting up the West Bank with scattered outposts of illegally established neighborhoods so as to make a potential future Palestinian state less and less contiguous and less and less viable. And as carefree and fun as snow currently feels in Jerusalem, I feel obliged to keep at the back of my mind the hundreds of thousands in Gaza displaced by the conflict this summer, now struggling to find shelter and warmth. But as I see it, if we (Michael, Palestinians, Israelis, humans) can't find moments of joy and light in even the darkest of times, then we'll never be able to muster the hope and initiative to de-demoralize ourselves and really <i>do</i> anything. Thus snow. Which somehow makes even the darkest night seem eerily cheerily bright through the miracle of refraction. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9d8vYZ5CwWDvl2YwAwbAJ57OJrybYOC66lN4_jh4_t8vXUKRyOA-p9KpkiAgOfRcwGsbCsrXQo7JEzbM04LL7nq1mMt24yjpw6TD2PzBMfldwpHrYOo8ao1Ikt0dcDQTSCpK8YiFXvs-t/s1600/IMG_4132%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snow-capped cacti!</td></tr>
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Later that night we headed back out to really see what Jerusalem had to offer as far as snow quality/quantity is concerned. And just as we were getting started on a small snow creature, we were ambushed by al-shabab! </div>
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("al-shabab" in Arabic means "the youth," or "the boys," and is generally used to refer to trouble-making sheniganeering younger males. But it can also be a neutral term, or even a term of affection -- all of that seems to be mixed up in there.)</div>
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What followed started as a playful snowball fight, gradually escalated to something partially unpleasant (largely because one shab was about 10 years older and threw twice as hard as the other shabab), and then coasted clumsily into something more ridiculous and mutual for about 20 minutes (i.e., my hands were frozen so instead of throwing snowballs I just jumped and dodged around -- pretty soon the kids stopped throwing too and we just slid around and charged each other repeatedly like blind penguins trying to body check a defenseman in a Hurricane's game. Glorious.)</div>
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Then a dad insisted that the kids leave well enough alone, which was probably pretty good timing because I couldn't feel my feet anymore. </div>
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Sorry I don't have any pictures of myself, I'll work on that. </div>
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Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-34799047006459840062014-12-27T17:19:00.000-05:002014-12-27T17:19:09.184-05:00As I Wrestle With History In A City Where There's Really Not Much Else<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The air is so thick with history here -- you can almost choke on it if you're not careful.<br />
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I work around the corner from the Garden of Gethsemane on the Mount of Olives, which is said to be where it will all start/end when the end of the world gets rolling (That's why there's so many cemeteries around it -- gotta be first in line to be resurrected you know.)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2DQar5X_ge-OlZRa_tnn_NPyzEA99uSQo7jetkU7F0v2Y1hsUFTmeCxcU8WSUIOHT2GCZyHNz598CmoCJ-ElAkFiir7kQBK1J0EkObtoOze8DiRsIXcgn6V8LKLCxnO6u4sJQlpuHz5JU/s1600/IMG_2719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2DQar5X_ge-OlZRa_tnn_NPyzEA99uSQo7jetkU7F0v2Y1hsUFTmeCxcU8WSUIOHT2GCZyHNz598CmoCJ-ElAkFiir7kQBK1J0EkObtoOze8DiRsIXcgn6V8LKLCxnO6u4sJQlpuHz5JU/s1600/IMG_2719.JPG" height="297" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The raised area in the back is the Mount of Olives (the middle and lowest of the three towers in this picture is the Church of the Ascension, which I pass by on my short walk to lunch.) </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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I don't think about it very often though -- the air of history there tends to be more subdued, only manifesting itself in sporadic groups of tourists interrupting my path to the cafe. <br />
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Just the other week I was at the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer in the Old City, waiting for a friend to get off work, when I decided to walk the 100 feet over to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the traditional site of Jesus' death and burial, and hang out for a little while. It's a lot more crowded and tense than the Mount of Olives. <br />
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--Not least because the various churches represented here (Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Armenian Orthodox, Ethiopian Orthodox, Syriac Orthodox, etc.?) can get pretty ornery about seemingly insignificant things. (Fist fights between priests of opposing factions are not altogether unheard of or shocking occurrences.)<br />
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But I guess if you devote your life to this stuff and spend the majority of your many years of existence living near and working in this one specific building, you might get pretty uptight and specific about a few things (e.g. how often the rock of Golgotha should be cleaned, to what extent the Greek Orthodox can put their weird gaudy gold candles everywhere, whether or not the Syriacs are allowed to renovate their burnt out chapel, the list goes on). <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm currently standing on the hatch used by the church fathers to enter Jesus' tomb every once in a long, arbitrarily decided, traditionally delineated calendar tenuously agreed upon by the various churches. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside that little alcove is a hole through which you can touch the rock of Golgotha, upon which Jesus was crucified and around and on top of which this church was built. That figure to the left is a priest of some variety of Orthodox (Cause no self-respecting Catholic would condone those garish bejeweled decorations) promptly stepping in for the periodic Windex-ing of the glass for viewing the rock and the wetwipe-wiping of the blessed armhole through which pilgrims can touch the rock. I felt incredibly blessed to bear witness to such a solemn and important ritual. </td></tr>
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Here the history is a little more palpable. There's the heavy smell of incense, the dark, germy rocks that had contact with Jesus somewhere along the line, and the cold, rough crosses carved into the stone walls by crusaders who hacked-and-slashed their way to the Holy Land and into Jerusalem so many years ago. <br />
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You feel it in the obnoxious throngs of tourists of all shapes and sizes and origins, and you feel it in the tension between the priests as they go about their meticulously structured routines and mind the strictly demarcated boundaries between denominations and sects. <br />
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But that's just the beginning. I haven't even started on the history of Judaism and Islam in this place, and there are a couple more whole worlds of history outside the realm of religion too. <br />
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This is just a small taste of the backbone of history underlying and looming over this beautiful, complicated place. Thousands of years of Roman and Islamic and Crusader and Turkish and so many other histories overlapping and undergirding each other.<br />
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Then there are histories that define everyday life here more than any others. There is the history of Jews, filled with persecution and defiance, blood, loss, and exile in the face of an always stronger and oppressive power -- and there is the history of the Palestinians, filled with dispossession and resistance, death, fear, and pain, always at the mercy of some grander empire or ruler.<br />
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The air is thick with all of it mixed together, a thousand different stories remembered and countless lives touched and scarred forever by the past and now the present. The sour taste of endless cyclical violence and a blinding fog of irrational fears and hatreds. It fills the air and all of our lungs, and then it sits on the city, pinning it down beneath the tremendous weight of memory. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihU_XTtDynrQgKHARH3rKO7amnKM4g8xOeQqzllz0S8oWAowr3N6YTGHjU6OQYH2yu_zcnPtOEBQizdc6QpM3m1UmJ-7trSrMrf3iWJTJIJoG6PSNFbP83XY1LhBR72ibM6pZRVp0hqDpk/s1600/IMG_2804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihU_XTtDynrQgKHARH3rKO7amnKM4g8xOeQqzllz0S8oWAowr3N6YTGHjU6OQYH2yu_zcnPtOEBQizdc6QpM3m1UmJ-7trSrMrf3iWJTJIJoG6PSNFbP83XY1LhBR72ibM6pZRVp0hqDpk/s1600/IMG_2804.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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I appreciate the history; I enjoy learning about Jesus' life and what we know about it. But I can't seem to ever be touched by it. No matter how often I walk the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Pain, the way Jesus walked under the weight of the cross, I can't seem to find meaning in it for my spirituality today. I don't <i>get</i> anything out of it. <br />
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I see the people around me as I walk and I can't make the disconnect. I can't find the beauty of this history because I can't see it apart from the people here now, who live with the weight of all this accumulated history on their backs day in and day out, year in and year out.<br />
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This is the history that brought about the reality of today: occupation, fear, deprivation and indignity -- and this is the history that makes the future look like more of the same: distrust, unrest, crippling stalemate and painful cycles. The accumulated weight of history keeps us in the past, and forbids us from progressing into a future of justice and peace.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrCtqxo5ppaqqcYKYzUSuhrcEkUExQ5ddLU5WjVor3Qq1bfOycthQ1757qPCZAdIFr5SZtd-_iVhCSDf-fusQM4txB2LlMEss3mloStDRcx0okFioEyzn0xjK6Cd7UEBib_MGPnbp7nDvW/s1600/IMG_2812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrCtqxo5ppaqqcYKYzUSuhrcEkUExQ5ddLU5WjVor3Qq1bfOycthQ1757qPCZAdIFr5SZtd-_iVhCSDf-fusQM4txB2LlMEss3mloStDRcx0okFioEyzn0xjK6Cd7UEBib_MGPnbp7nDvW/s1600/IMG_2812.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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It's not all of history that's to blame! And there's hope there too. But we have to unearth it. We have to keep walking the Via Dolorosa, the way of suffering, the way of <i>weight</i> -- until we find a way to redeem it. To reconcile it with the world I see around me. To bring this ancient history back to life and full communion with life as it is lived here, and free all those here burdened by its weight. <br />
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But that just got a lot more high-minded and rambly than it probably deserved to be. (And confusing because history means so many different things) This is as much a personal process as it is a hypothetically region-wide or possibly global one. I'm sorting through these histories, finding this weight, trying to reconcile all that I see and all that I know and all that I believe. I'm trying to find Jesus here.<br />
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But once I say that it seems pretty silly.<br />
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All I really need to do is look up. Those people aren't just <i>watching</i> me as I meander my way across Jesus' historic steps through the Old City and up to what is now the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, built on the rock of Golgotha. They're walking it too, and they've been walking it since before I was born. <br />
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Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-17084960487550810752014-12-07T10:57:00.000-05:002014-12-07T16:20:52.318-05:00I Bought a Coffee Mug Today. It Was Made in China. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What did most people occupy their lives with just a couple hundred years ago? Well that's easy, it seems to me like the majority of people would spend their days busily preparing and producing material goods, like food (totes obvi) or useful and important tools for living like chairs or clothes or any of a wide array of different instruments for making coffee.<br />
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Then we got all industrial and now most of those things are mass-produced -- lower costs, less time investment, and often better quality (with the primary loss as far as the actual good is concerned being only that EVERYONE'S EVERYTHING LOOKS EXACTLY THE SAME.)<br />
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Also there's no "love" or "compassion" or "the least bit of human contact" cooked into my twinkie or sewn into my polo, but whatever. </div>
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But wait! That's a lot of displaced employees. People can't just sit and lazily enjoy the fruits of industry their whole lives! Money in modern economies doesn't work that way, and people seem to rapidly lose dignity and the capacity to not hate every aspect of their lives when they don't have something like work to do or the ability to "provide" in some sense. Plus, we spread like kudzu and cane toads, so there's a lot more of us now. What do all those people do?</div>
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Well it turns out a lot of them sell souvenirs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg10Q6qCiMUQ5IqEr_vh8H0XOC8k4snDw6_UsIDnFKXLj4U1KY7v4bnnO1etK1UN0kQBnq1uo6jvXLYDGhXhQGYPtlxzZgjas5VcXAJPqaZc8-bFqupqWp99LWeNbIMEST1KRtfguMbqxbv/s1600/DSCF4405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg10Q6qCiMUQ5IqEr_vh8H0XOC8k4snDw6_UsIDnFKXLj4U1KY7v4bnnO1etK1UN0kQBnq1uo6jvXLYDGhXhQGYPtlxzZgjas5VcXAJPqaZc8-bFqupqWp99LWeNbIMEST1KRtfguMbqxbv/s1600/DSCF4405.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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Which is kind of ironic -- or something -- because they're either the last remaining outlets for the actual handmade goods, or they sell the worst of the worst of the kitschiest, cheesiest, most mass-produced and uniform of the industrial goods -- and then attempt to pass it off as handmade. </div>
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That can be a good job, and it can be an easy job -- but it probably depends a lot on where you are, what the economy and political environment is like around you, that sort of thing. </div>
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If you're one of umpteen billion identical shops in the Old City of Jerusalem, and you happen to reside in a country where tourism and thus your income are entirely contingent on the thoroughly volatile geopolitical situation, you might have a pretty rough go of it.<br />
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And it only gets worse if you're in, say, Bethlehem. (Because giant concrete walls and security checkpoints might not deter violent extremists or contribute to political solutions, but one thing they sure are good at is scaring away tourists.)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Less than a day after Jesus changed water into wine: Local resident: "You know what, I bet if we charcoal that onto a crude 1st century equivalent of a postcard, goshdarn-it, people will buy it!" </td></tr>
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So when it comes down to it, if you're forced to choose between A) lying to tourists' faces and trying every tactic in the book to trick or simply guilt them into buying a small coffee mug with a print of a mosaic on it for five times the standard sell price or B) not feeding your family -- then the choice is not a difficult one. </div>
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And as far as selling out your conscience, soul, and intrinsic human dignity go, there's a lot lot lot lot lot lot lot lot lot lot worse you can do "just to get by" than trapping a tourist in your shop with free coffee and inventing stories about the "people" who "made" this factory-mug by hand (while you discreetly tear off the price tag from the bottom of the mug). </div>
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And there's space for redemption and honor in there too! Because every friendly welcome into a shop and offer of coffee or tea doesn't have to be an empty commercial gesture. You can really touch people's lives that way! (Which I guess is part of the exchange, if we want to look at it economically.)<br />
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And there's some sort of cultural/national pride and empowerment thing that can go into that -- as long as you don't feel like the symbols of your heritage are cheapened to the point of meaninglessness by being mass-produced in foreign factories and aggressively hocked at foreigners.<br />
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But yeah. I can't imagine it feels good to lie to tourists every day, even if the hospitality is always genuine. But that's life -- it's out of your control! You do what you gotta do! No matter how it makes you feel about yourself afterward. </div>
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Disclaimers: I do not intend to cast shame or color perceptions of either souvenir store pictured.<br />
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(They're just the ones I have pictures of.)<br />
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(Also if shame was cast on any individuals anywhere then I did something wrong.)<br />
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Also for the record: I did not overpay for a coffee mug. However, haggling was a long, arduous process.<br />
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And good language practice. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PWfc6u5dVQwsHvEEcJgTNmR_v5JnmgI2-_XrC3yc8PIQ5e-LRYK3IKNSpLGXRnIuhCVuq0WBtFsS7Wykz-Y6vS-D3a9jf1RTqec5Pskg1LP9CmjhweostwT3B7AApsSaNd5KDGV-MRYe/s1600/DSCF4038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PWfc6u5dVQwsHvEEcJgTNmR_v5JnmgI2-_XrC3yc8PIQ5e-LRYK3IKNSpLGXRnIuhCVuq0WBtFsS7Wykz-Y6vS-D3a9jf1RTqec5Pskg1LP9CmjhweostwT3B7AApsSaNd5KDGV-MRYe/s1600/DSCF4038.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speaking of other ridiculous consequences of the post-industrial age... This was the most relevant picture I found before I realized I had pictures of actual souvenir stores. Jerusalem's Bus Stop Graveyard. </td></tr>
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Bibliography:<br />
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blah blah something about service economies<br />
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gross generalizations<br />
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Anecdotes <br />
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probably Wikipedia<br />
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<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-301663053990256802014-12-05T08:19:00.003-05:002014-12-05T08:19:58.316-05:00Out of the Mouths of Infants: Grunts and Incomprehensible Chattering(Leaving out pictures and names for privacy reasons cause kids, sorry. But hey! Look forward to my next newsletter! And if you want that and aren't on a list for it/you want past newsletter, send me an email at miked3592@gmail.com)<br />
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I've worked with kids before. I'm by no means a stranger to playing with children, although the ones I'm playing with now are a little smaller than I'm used to. Being silly and playing games and dealing with tantrums and accidents isn't totally new to me, although it's true I am generally accustomed to children who can, given the proper space and time, successfully dress themselves with minimal assistance.<br />
<br />
So that's new for me.<br />
<br />
And as I sit here and reflect, holding crayons still as my 3-year-old companion meticulously peels the wrappers off like a conscientious matron polishing silver, I realize the daily joys and tribulations and oddities I'm facing here at my kindergarten/preschool/daycare hybrid in East Jerusalem are pretty irregular, actually. It's an environment both uncannily familiar and ridiculously different.<br />
<br />
There's the age range, from nearly one all the way to five, which leads to some pretty silly interactions.<br />
<br />
And then there's that whole language thing. Yikes.<br />
<br />
There's a lot of overlap in comprehension with the kids, because if someone shouts "GET DOWN FROM THERE" at you enough in any language, you're going to understand it eventually. But to really effectively communicate fully with all these kids, you need to be competent in Arabic, English, German, and maybe Czech. That's not to say those are all the languages different kids there know, but it's enough to get by.<br />
<br />
So in a single work-day I end up speaking a blurred, clumsy mix of English, Arabic, Norwegian, German (in steeply descending order of my actual competence), and sometimes even some Spanish by accident. One girl knows Italian, so Spanish is close enough, right? The crayon girl knows Norwegian, English, and Arabic, so I try to speak Norwegian to her -- just for the fun of it, and it grabs her attention a little better (you don't hear Norwegian very often here.)<br />
<br />
There's a thick mix of local Palestinian children and children of internationals working with various NGOs and such -- not to mention a lot of mixed families that makes it even harder to spot the internationals versus the locals. <br />
<br />
I get a lot of chances to practice my Arabic though, because there's very little pressure when speaking to a 3-year-old. If I don't make any sense, maybe they just look at me funny -- which is whatever, because they were already gonna look at me funny. Or maybe they're crying about falling off the slide or I'm hurriedly carrying them to the bathroom -- regardless, they're not going to call me out on my bad grammar.<br />
<br />
And the older kids even help teach me! Well, to an extent.<br />
<br />
Some of them chatter endlessly and adorably to me in Arabic, not really caring whether I understand or not, while some speak Arabic but for some reason or another decide to communicate mostly in grunts. One particularly eloquent grunter likes to point to things and teach me vocabulary, but I know enough Arabic to know he's usually wrong. Maybe he's just messing with me?<br />
<br />
Another girl is always super pumped to teach me more words, but whenever I point at an object and ask "shu hay?" she just tells me what color it is.<br />
<br />
Most of the time though I just feel bad that I can't understand more of the incessant rambling and mumbling of the small Palestinian children as they play and wander about indulging their wild and vivid imaginations, beautifully unrestrained by all that "reality" and "knowledge" and "physics" that they'll pick up on as they continue growing. If only I knew a little more Arabic, that world of play and magical possibility wouldn't be so closed to me...<br />
<br />
But then I hear the Canadian kid climb onto the slide and exclaim to no one in particular something like "You're a tomato -- mommy where fardinar!" And suddenly I feel a little less bad about my lack of comprehension. <br />
<br />
<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-61471894653773128122014-11-09T13:16:00.005-05:002014-11-09T15:45:47.817-05:00Lutheran Pride in the Religiousest City on Earth <div style="text-align: center;">
"This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in
righteousness, not health, but healing, not being but becoming, not rest
but exercise. We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing
toward it, the process is not yet finished, but it is going on, this is
not the end, but it is the road. All does not yet gleam in glory, but
all is being purified."</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Martin Luther</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
(Photos by Danae Hudson)</div>
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<b>EXPOSITION</b><br />
<br />
So October 31st was Reformation Day. If you are of the Protestant persuasion, perhaps you had a special service of some sort, or maybe you'd just halfway noticed an increased incidence of Martin Luther quotes popping up on bulletin boards and newsletter-tables-of-contents. Or maybe you had no idea, that's also very possible.<br />
<br />
When I was at UNC, we Lutheran students celebrated by donning our Halloween costumes and taping the 95 theses to the door of the Catholic student ministries building. So at least we celebrated it? <br />
<br />
Here in Jerusalem though, Reformation Day is a pretty big stinkin deal. Perhaps because it's not majority Protestant Christian like America, and thus the ethno-cultural-religious significance of the holiday is a lot more apparent, and the effects of that initial act of "Reformation" (the whole nailing grievances to a church door thing) are consciously felt a lot more often?<br />
<br />
<b>TANGENT</b><br />
<br />
Hard to say for sure. Religious identity in America in general isn't really super salient or talked about much, so I guess it'd be doubly unusual to have some sort of "Protestant" or "Lutheran Pride" event.<br />
<br />
Whereas here in the Holy Land, religious identity is proudly and assertively on display, perhaps only second in its significance to the behemoth that is "national identity," which just happens to be somewhat angrily and confusedly inextricably intertwined with the question of religious identity -- WHICH of course brings us to the fascinating question of the place we and Palestinian Christians occupy in this tremendous regional Palestinian/Israeli conflict that seems so strikingly to be divided across ethno-religious lines in regards to which we are not clearly situated, so we should just drop this question before it takes us further off topic. <br />
<br />
<b>GETTING TO THE POINT</b><br />
<br />
So in the shadow of a tense, conflict-ridden Friday in Jerusalem (just the latest Friday in a couple consecutive months of escalating pressure) and the first gloomy, dark, wet day I've seen in my whole two months here, we Lutherans descended on the Old City, assembling at what has become my home church this year: The Lutheran Church of the Redeemer, founded in the 1800s by Kaiser Wilhelm and now home to a motley mix of congregations of different languages and nationalities.<br />
<br />
Redeemer on your average Sunday is already an exciting and fascinating smorgasbord of different peoples and voices and nations sharing the space and schedule-dancing around each other, but this service was something else entirely. (Smorgasbord is only appropriate because of the strong Scandinavian influences at play throughout the church space. A mixed buffet including meatballs and cabbage rolls would not be entirely out of place.) <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_yDlF4XJNAd3Ou72clUS9r8jxwdgh16BdNfjnLRqtfuzcd1H8D2Fz326Ikcbk2HrzmIShzzXYq0_hggK76kiicZM6tnHd2YGYgZJ_gkLuxXI7wufuYTKhB6vdUToymmBZWV7vDUZJnI_H/s1600/10-clergy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_yDlF4XJNAd3Ou72clUS9r8jxwdgh16BdNfjnLRqtfuzcd1H8D2Fz326Ikcbk2HrzmIShzzXYq0_hggK76kiicZM6tnHd2YGYgZJ_gkLuxXI7wufuYTKhB6vdUToymmBZWV7vDUZJnI_H/s1600/10-clergy.jpg" height="230" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The liturgy cycled spontaneously back and forth from Arabic to English to German, and sometimes all three at once. (And the prayers of the people took that and kicked it up a notch with some Dutch, Norwegian, Swedish, Finnish and Danish.)<br />
<br />
A whole parade of presiding clergy marched in at the beginning of the service, with not only Lutherans but Anglicans, Mennonites, United Church of Christ priests and probably Methodists, hailing from not just America, Palestine and Germany, but Denmark, Sweden, Finland and the Netherlands. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOqL3sd4mtzhw6Is2VvZSN9CrjhzMCv9EHuFtszPq7aWqDs1dIcushd9YTmFxX2w2FQu42OlNbxWjgbXsaQ_AARxkSDDXHUUxxCAyT2kvOi8yinWflquU-sWEgkniVfPsU_7Jh3EeEjnZ/s1600/7-procession.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOqL3sd4mtzhw6Is2VvZSN9CrjhzMCv9EHuFtszPq7aWqDs1dIcushd9YTmFxX2w2FQu42OlNbxWjgbXsaQ_AARxkSDDXHUUxxCAyT2kvOi8yinWflquU-sWEgkniVfPsU_7Jh3EeEjnZ/s1600/7-procession.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
And you see those guys in hoods and the other fancy looking patriarchal looking figures around them? Well, they're the patriarchs. Mixed in there you've got Ethiopian Orthodox, Armenian Apostolic, Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Coptic Orthodox, and Syriac Orthodox (You can tell by the hat-shape.) Cause no Jerusalem Reformation Service would be complete without representatives of every other Jerusalemite Christian denomination falling asleep in the front rows and getting tipsy on free reception wine. <br />
<br />
As you can tell, it was a pretty huge deal!<br />
<br />
Although... it wasn't really the most elegant service.<br />
<br />
Actually, it was downright messy in parts, if only because of the conflicting bulletins, the communion riot, and the whole thing where it sounded like mildly syncopated, throaty garbage when we sang.<br />
<br />
"A Mighty Fortress is Our God" was a clumsy
linguistic tangle of incomprehensible overlapping mumbling, and the Germans always
seemed to have more words than us. The Lord's Prayer was more of the
same but quieter and with less organ.<br />
<br />
But what matters is that we were there. The wild, eclectic mix of peoples of all different backgrounds and origins and walks of life -- and the wild potential, the possibility that this joyous and messy pluralism represents.<br />
<br />
We were gathered there in the midst of turmoil to celebrate Reformation. Reformation in the past and Reformation in the now. <br />
<br />
Religion can be an escape, a way out of the circumstances of the world. Like a cornered animal it turns fatalistic and apocalyptic, turning within itself like the hedgehog of cosmology showing its spines.<br />
<br />
But even if we had wanted to escape from the worldly circumstances bearing down on Jerusalem in general and the Palestinian Christian community in particular and just mindlessly peacefully celebrate for one night, that's not an option here.<br />
<br />
"Upon your walls, O Jerusalem, I have set watchmen; all the day and all the night they shall never be silent," began the first reading, and the chanting drone of the Muslim call to prayer filtered into and through the church, filling the silences between words and sentences with the melodic reminder of the city around us.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
It took me back, just hours ago, to my trip across the city earlier that morning. The Israeli government, in response to growing tension and violence, had completely shut down access to the Al-Aqsa Mosque and the Al-Aqsa compound for the first time in I think probably decades. <br />
<br />
The center of East Jerusalem, around the Old City, was swamped with heavily armed Israeli security forces. Positively marshy with martial enforcement. Like a bog of bogus political logic. Did I mention it was a really unseasonably gross and wet and hazy day? <br />
<br />
I waited at a bus station for nearly 45 minutes (45 minutes longer than I normally would've) because the buses just couldn't get there. But that wasn't because of the security.<br />
<br />
Lined up in front of one of the Israeli barricades were dozens of Muslims, young and old, lined up in even rows. They couldn't get to Al-Aqsa (the third holiest site in Islam), so they prayed at the barricade, kneeling down on carpet squares from home, cardboard they'd found on the way, or just on the wet dark street. They prayed, they bowed, they worshiped, they milled about a bit, and they went home.<br />
<br />
<br />
It was profound and powerful and vaguely intense. I anxiously watched from the impatient bus line, satisfied by the reasonable distance between me and the inevitably political act I was witness to, but nervously plotting an escape route just in case.<br />
<br />
I still don't know what to make of it. There were feels but I can't untangle them enough to name any and the whole experience thoroughly resists effective processing, let alone blog-worthy metaphorizing.<br />
<br />
What I'm trying to say, (or at least what I'm going to say), is that the situation here is tense and tragic and painful and obscenely implausibly complicated. The only thing that's clear is that something has to change.<br />
<br />
There's a lot wrong here, and there's a lot wrong in the world, and there's a lot wrong in "the church," whatever that means, and there's a lot wrong with us, whoever that is.<br />
<br />
<br />
So in lieu of an escape, and with me unable to process enough to give you an adequate emotional conclusion, I'll offer you what I then received in that church in the Old City on Reformation Day, with so many different people coming together to share. <br />
<br />
It was delivered in Arabic, but I'll be nice and give you the English.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you."</div>
<br />
<br />
Hence, Reformation. <br />
<br />
<br />
I'm not much of a "quote" person. It feels more lazy than anything else most of the time. But there are some things I just can't say. <br />
<br />
<br />
"This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness, not health, but healing, not being but becoming, not rest but exercise. We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it, the process is not yet finished, but it is going on, this is not the end, but it is the road. All does not yet gleam in glory, but all is being purified."<br />
<br />
Martin Luther<br />
<br />
<br />
"We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.<br />
We are prophets of a future not our own."<br />
<br />
Oscar Romero <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://knitpurlpraypreach.blogspot.co.il/2014/10/sermon-for-reformation-day-2014.html">Follow this link for the sermon, delivered by the excellent Pastor Carrie of the English congregation.</a></span></span></b><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: blue;"><a href="http://elcjhl.smugmug.com/Congregational-Ministries/Joint-Services/2014-Reformation-Service/"><span style="background-color: yellow;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white;">AND HERE FOR MORE PICTURES</span></span></span></a></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<h1 class="quoteText">
</h1>
Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-77514542866481842912014-10-12T13:39:00.002-04:002014-10-12T16:51:21.231-04:00One Hot Day in Super Land: A Glimpse of Peace in a Cheesy Amusement Park<br />
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<br />
People
keep asking me questions about politics, violence, and ISIS (or as it's
called in Arabic: "da'esh." The apostrophe here meaning that all
immediately surrounding vowels should be pronounced like a growling cat
mid-strangulation).<br />
<br />
Which I guess is understandable,
because I'm in Jerusalem which is in the Middle East and both of those
proper nouns carry a lot of baggage and crop up in the news on a regular
basis. But instead of any of that I'm going to talk about fun and silly
things like amusement parks because that's what I'm actually doing. <br />
<br />
<br />
So
I'm living with a wonderful intern/associate pastor/vicar type
character named Fursan, and he runs the local church's youth groups --
which means I get to tag along to all sorts of things! And for some of
our break from work/school this last week (Because of the Islamic
holiday Eid al-Adha), Fursan and the middle school/high school/young adultish youth
group decided to go to a magical magical place called Super Land. <br />
<br />
So
I got up reasonably early on Monday morning, had my standard breakfast
of cultured milk fat, jelly, and coffee, and prepared to ship out for
Super Land. I of course had very little idea of what on earth Super Land
was, but I was soon to find out. After waiting an unnaturally long time
for everyone to gather and the bus driver to show up, we got going. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5l-R1OBDpaK5Aei-9yatyugDC6j0sgXD0GC85KhT0__p3uF_EUWUqfNeDQDCb7zrddNjWcEWjdBoT_rJLO9fvu3oN2mTFsA6FWEOS-Nihj9l6dQozrfwR02SOiN1OesslUKNlbt9vBm9l/s1600/DSCF1415.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5l-R1OBDpaK5Aei-9yatyugDC6j0sgXD0GC85KhT0__p3uF_EUWUqfNeDQDCb7zrddNjWcEWjdBoT_rJLO9fvu3oN2mTFsA6FWEOS-Nihj9l6dQozrfwR02SOiN1OesslUKNlbt9vBm9l/s1600/DSCF1415.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the park: Clean, manicured, and potentially a *few* native trees. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBlJJOACuPJ5DIRStD0JdPD0lEJNJUm28LTpWXh6s7yfGq9cfVyFiG-Kz6nJ1x7yhtcqU-dnFnZ8xitKICsp97eBWqJxWUUuKRdOx2duK5i7U1oDFo8guMFiKBzcXdsoxG8JGHXYaNfg3/s1600/DSCF1416.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBlJJOACuPJ5DIRStD0JdPD0lEJNJUm28LTpWXh6s7yfGq9cfVyFiG-Kz6nJ1x7yhtcqU-dnFnZ8xitKICsp97eBWqJxWUUuKRdOx2duK5i7U1oDFo8guMFiKBzcXdsoxG8JGHXYaNfg3/s1600/DSCF1416.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also: Lines. Already lots of lines. Deep sense of foreboding kicks in right about now. </td></tr>
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Not too long of a drive, probably less than an hour. Super Land is west of Jerusalem, near Tel Aviv, in a town called Rishon Lezion
-- if that means anything to you. And what did I find there in Super
Land, you might ask? Well, amusement park stuff, duh. Exactly like an
American amusement park except it was all in Hebrew and the demographics
were a wee bit different. Here's some more photos! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_dUMaf17j24QsmuGQYLtsztWXFJ60IZNFS43-8p_3Sp0mvpDjMTMT67IZm6LE4reEXyV6D6zZpcwDd__xq5DE64A3ulaBctJzia3GO6UcymbYzQ_7Xb-TUvGpzATDpR7NA6BJhQmvjQ5/s1600/DSCF1417.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_dUMaf17j24QsmuGQYLtsztWXFJ60IZNFS43-8p_3Sp0mvpDjMTMT67IZm6LE4reEXyV6D6zZpcwDd__xq5DE64A3ulaBctJzia3GO6UcymbYzQ_7Xb-TUvGpzATDpR7NA6BJhQmvjQ5/s1600/DSCF1417.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It
doesn't look very crowded in this shot, but yes. It was crowded. This
just looks relatively empty cause people aren't allowed to form lines in
the middle of the walking areas. Anywhere they were allowed to form a
line, it got pretty dense with humanity. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDkSJz0LNcrqhqgLTKlKNwxpmOshThmhr37KFiq3JQ5ksRrA-fWVsv6HO-VZ5ozQil-JWPOwirZrDpXo6WtIPfwoMWL3wHodyTD0gLTU-EJbUt3gL6_cU7LEcwz1axgL6Zze3-NyLRirR/s1600/DSCF1424.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDkSJz0LNcrqhqgLTKlKNwxpmOshThmhr37KFiq3JQ5ksRrA-fWVsv6HO-VZ5ozQil-JWPOwirZrDpXo6WtIPfwoMWL3wHodyTD0gLTU-EJbUt3gL6_cU7LEcwz1axgL6Zze3-NyLRirR/s1600/DSCF1424.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hebrew! Various warnings and instructions variously bolded and highlighted and underlined and ovaled and "!!!"ed. </td></tr>
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<br />
The language situation was a little weird. Coming out of East Jerusalem, where most signage includes Hebrew, Arabic <b>and</b>
English, and where most people speak Arabic, if not also English, it
was a little weird coming into Hebrew-Heavy Super Land. Although Arabic
is one of Israel's two official languages, it was a bit of a struggle.
There were a few employees who spoke Arabic, but most of the time we all
had to rely on the Israeli clerk's stumbling English, and sometimes I
had to rely on the twice-removed mediation of my Arab companions with
their haltering bits of Hebrew skills. (That felt weird.)<br />
<br />
Not
that I would've been able to understand if everything had been in
Arabic? Whatever. I spent most of my day just trying to soak up language
ability. I was the ajnabe (foreigner), the ward of the group, suddenly
removed from the context I'd just begun to learn how to navigate and
thrown into a different one (that looked oddly familiar in a kitschy,
American sort of way).<br />
<br />
And even though Fursan and the
motley assortment of middle school, high school, and college kids were
in a vaguely foreign environment themselves, they took care of me. Some
of the younger ones used the only English they had to verify that I had
fun after every ride, and all of them seemed to feel responsible for
making sure I ate and didn't get lost on my way to the bathroom. <br />
<br />
(We
could note here also that these kids don't know me super well, and I'm
not especially communicative, what with the semi-permeable language
barrier membrane that I'm slowly but steadily creating pores in for me
to peer through or whisper-mumble something half-articulate and only
partially incorrect through. Pretty humbling.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx60EBfEfmSBV9CZs3ymbmUvo3wjdN9dXQLbhJAEVN1G7apWXsYZYu5Xd11Oak06HN2ZWjWWELkMtgtrqz6NfPVCwfbBxRfn7N-J5KDApE3BCyi96O7HHRdJPV9OQrdAzvCg4lqxvkT3Yk/s1600/DSCF1426.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx60EBfEfmSBV9CZs3ymbmUvo3wjdN9dXQLbhJAEVN1G7apWXsYZYu5Xd11Oak06HN2ZWjWWELkMtgtrqz6NfPVCwfbBxRfn7N-J5KDApE3BCyi96O7HHRdJPV9OQrdAzvCg4lqxvkT3Yk/s1600/DSCF1426.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some
of my young Palestinian Christian companions getting off of
that-one-ride-where-the-boat-spin-swings-you-around-in-a-circle. Like
most things at Super Land, it brought me back to state fairs in North
Carolina, and bringing with it, of course, all that attendant anxiety
about the safety of those shoddy fair rides. Some things never change. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyPGRW264vtK6EWi9qehFIloLIqbGWqSpAGg8u53lTWVLb83e-IZj1lbcX2YvzzMJH9_useUavLbzOD8MXYxLdEUI5zZNhQw4yQ3Ygke4E25UVZAgVRVAXr4srTohk6N0apB7VFunyHAQ/s1600/DSCF1428.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyPGRW264vtK6EWi9qehFIloLIqbGWqSpAGg8u53lTWVLb83e-IZj1lbcX2YvzzMJH9_useUavLbzOD8MXYxLdEUI5zZNhQw4yQ3Ygke4E25UVZAgVRVAXr4srTohk6N0apB7VFunyHAQ/s1600/DSCF1428.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's the Super Land mascot-type-character. Kinda scary. And I don't get it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJj_F5i2Zy0JEFLDCfvZRujxcrFkhs0JEtBKo2lCdgkh-sZYb_oV1raFJ0F1kPbAW6WNfFnMgMs1BoTm-4oyah82Cm-JB-cBz9Cwk-bGD75hjALmzsL1wbgjaGEVG7KAveGt_IFXN3bd2/s1600/DSCF1430.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo5lhZwSH7blXWlyTqHfqe0EjKLaMBtfj7nyW0Ar9nqZG4jKvS2NrzuTEV8ts69QHGBZS4cBPBQhAvSrODskj6LTKVvA1ss9qijOB4_WQ5sFVL-koHSIQ8eRVSq4KOkslV3cOSoG_H9u_r/s1600/DSCF1431.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo5lhZwSH7blXWlyTqHfqe0EjKLaMBtfj7nyW0Ar9nqZG4jKvS2NrzuTEV8ts69QHGBZS4cBPBQhAvSrODskj6LTKVvA1ss9qijOB4_WQ5sFVL-koHSIQ8eRVSq4KOkslV3cOSoG_H9u_r/s1600/DSCF1431.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They
have bumper cars here too! In listening to Arabic conversations going
on around me, I'm often limited to just understanding the occasional
word here and there, like "peace," "shoes," or any of an extensive range
of prepositions, but I now have reason to pride myself on being able to
deduce what ride we're going to before we get to it. Cars (Sayyaraat)
is bumper cars, chairs (karasi) is that one thing with the chairs, and
trains of death (Qataar al-mot) is roller-coasters! I have not been able
to corroborate that roller-coaster translation anywhere online since my
trip to Super Land, but I stand by it. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig7EW9QL4KFDGQJ1pBX_-ZIqkxsgNhIL3Zt8SRV2XezbkPx0xA26V1CKHbKa9qhxAd9rELpntXZdjLXjD15R08iIFlNAqJulCho0-D9aRVoLXCcbQQjNtGyNBk63EPeSyd42KnNfJRwPWB/s1600/DSCF1432.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig7EW9QL4KFDGQJ1pBX_-ZIqkxsgNhIL3Zt8SRV2XezbkPx0xA26V1CKHbKa9qhxAd9rELpntXZdjLXjD15R08iIFlNAqJulCho0-D9aRVoLXCcbQQjNtGyNBk63EPeSyd42KnNfJRwPWB/s1600/DSCF1432.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends! Waiting in line!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvpIFN_bVJa470i9EMLdc2LMfFgXbsBwj4DanIDuTAS1AL2CNCpqfiowI9aiRE_f5vDpYRXORkfSUOOUqZ6aXKZW-IFK0ZO8C3q15OPv9dEnPpl6etgeimHHteMugM7ijzYNbXdmDe9ka/s1600/DSCF1434.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvpIFN_bVJa470i9EMLdc2LMfFgXbsBwj4DanIDuTAS1AL2CNCpqfiowI9aiRE_f5vDpYRXORkfSUOOUqZ6aXKZW-IFK0ZO8C3q15OPv9dEnPpl6etgeimHHteMugM7ijzYNbXdmDe9ka/s1600/DSCF1434.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apparently the Middle East has bumper cars too. Who knew? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCWgWap2ORoxXWXgzfHkFOHmqGL_yTQF3EWTHUC_QKDLHXY_ARfiZv4-RU4i8U9TitdXPDuEXDrS7ukXoexgzjQPFqHrStjQbl6OYGJmpRnTtRSvwnZb883J0MtiI_DeWYV_F5dtD2Trsl/s1600/DSCF1437.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCWgWap2ORoxXWXgzfHkFOHmqGL_yTQF3EWTHUC_QKDLHXY_ARfiZv4-RU4i8U9TitdXPDuEXDrS7ukXoexgzjQPFqHrStjQbl6OYGJmpRnTtRSvwnZb883J0MtiI_DeWYV_F5dtD2Trsl/s1600/DSCF1437.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And
these are the chairs I was talking about earlier. The ones that pick
you up and swing you around like a sepia-tinted Kansas twister. I
remember *loving* this ride as a kid. Not quite sure why. I think it
just felt very high and intense, but I was firmly in a chair so it felt
safe. High point (haha!) of many a yearly family trip to the state fair.
That and fudge. Family pictures were eh. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtehQ-thdlWkAUQE6xsXIi8qRpjyWO7-7Ci4vOcG3ZuuuMNUL39et43WGZzbmqkkJNDWNgXbkTy96MXdJElZmmkgpbU5DH0N1BC-sT07R4XaNXvUWgAvpmxhHgIcWx7SslUkfLChxUc5Gv/s1600/DSCF1439.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtehQ-thdlWkAUQE6xsXIi8qRpjyWO7-7Ci4vOcG3ZuuuMNUL39et43WGZzbmqkkJNDWNgXbkTy96MXdJElZmmkgpbU5DH0N1BC-sT07R4XaNXvUWgAvpmxhHgIcWx7SslUkfLChxUc5Gv/s1600/DSCF1439.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kablam! America but in a desert ecosystem! Which makes you really start to question the logic of all the water rides. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<pre class="tw-data-text vk_txt tw-ta tw-text-medium" data-fulltext="" data-placeholder="Translation" dir="rtl" id="tw-target-text" style="height: 36px; text-align: right;"></pre>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHvdHXetUkhhgFxaEe6simbkewjL7OumqTu1ecIc9e4G8ka2upGsmUySeId0fOADMBmEYLI2WkNK-nciWvoITaTCmjT_GZmSWUMbdUcE6iB1m2_VUWFyLx39SLjaoRUqj9Ee0NPSEsX4q/s1600/DSCF1418.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHvdHXetUkhhgFxaEe6simbkewjL7OumqTu1ecIc9e4G8ka2upGsmUySeId0fOADMBmEYLI2WkNK-nciWvoITaTCmjT_GZmSWUMbdUcE6iB1m2_VUWFyLx39SLjaoRUqj9Ee0NPSEsX4q/s1600/DSCF1418.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A
Jewish orthodox family trying to read the map. It was a pretty small
park, but I gained very little in terms of confident navigating ability
during my day there. It was like a miniature Holy Land equivalent of a
local state fair trying to be Six Flags. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJj_F5i2Zy0JEFLDCfvZRujxcrFkhs0JEtBKo2lCdgkh-sZYb_oV1raFJ0F1kPbAW6WNfFnMgMs1BoTm-4oyah82Cm-JB-cBz9Cwk-bGD75hjALmzsL1wbgjaGEVG7KAveGt_IFXN3bd2/s1600/DSCF1430.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muslim woman wearing hijab, apparently texting and trying to find her friends. They're probably stuck in a line somewhere.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<pre class="tw-data-text vk_txt tw-ta tw-text-medium" data-fulltext="" data-placeholder="Translation" dir="rtl" id="tw-target-text" style="height: 36px; text-align: right;"></pre>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia10XTpvW0Ywzo3YwG7NGCtSrbCIEF2WlFqWUCCB0_RQIUkBkAms6krxUteWGOWXHsE607S_Z_9mOC7gMw5E4LaSQ49vyNK3SWMfqIpZuIxEl3hF0gFqYnQkVhCOOdqUart5dweipLRZp3/s1600/DSCF1442.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia10XTpvW0Ywzo3YwG7NGCtSrbCIEF2WlFqWUCCB0_RQIUkBkAms6krxUteWGOWXHsE607S_Z_9mOC7gMw5E4LaSQ49vyNK3SWMfqIpZuIxEl3hF0gFqYnQkVhCOOdqUart5dweipLRZp3/s1600/DSCF1442.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muslim man carrying an overexcited child as they watch people do that crazy fly up in the air and back down thing. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">Anyways,
it was a good time. And just like fairs and amusement parks and cheap
country buffet restaurants in America, Super Land gives you a glimpse of
a society at its most united. No matter the race, the socio-economic
background, the religion, ethnicity, or political disposition, everyone
comes together. Arabs, Israelis, Palestinians, Jews, Muslims,
Christians, Arab-Israelis, Jewish Israelis, Palestinian-Arab-Israelis,
Palestinian-Arab-Christians-who-live-in-Israel, etc. etc. and probably
many other religious minorities like Druze and Baha'i that I can't
confidently identify or spot in a crowd. (And many other fancy and
complicated and unexpected ways of putting together the many descriptors
I just listed above). </span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">They
were all there. And they weren't there to voice their grievances,
legitimate or quasi-illegitimate, they weren't there to cause tension or
to politicize or to protest or to rationally express the myriad ways
they've been wronged or to irrationally announce their radical response
to whatever it is. </span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">They
were there to have fun. To live their lives. To give their children an
exciting day of rides and games. To stand in line with their family for
the bumper cars. To wait in a queue with their friends for the fancy
chair ride. To patiently pass the time in semi-organized linear segments
of people to spend less than 5 minutes on a "train of death" with the
people they love most in the world (plus that weird ajnabe they're being
nice to).</span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">And all that is not to say it's perfect unity, total peace. Of course not. And if it were it'd be a farce, a bold-faced lie of an anecdote-turned-metaphor. The tensions are still there. It transcends the conflict but it does not hide it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">From the language discrepancies to the (drunk?) Arab man who tries to start a fight in line for the log-flume, to the Israeli staff woman <i>screaming</i> at every other person in line about how seating works on the log-flume (often in what is *at least* their second language), to the Palestinian youth who cut in every line until an older man who can command respect tells them to stop -- to the countless people who simply <i>aren't there </i>because a dividing wall, a fee, and endless webs of arbitrary, convoluted, explicitly racist bureaucratic processes are keeping them away. </span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"> (And that's for West Bank Palestinians -- Families in Gaza just have a military blockade in the way.) </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBBPwhgd9xjFfBqEQpKDH_SRVRFhSpCYfYWO12DJSJZJH-EBFeDq5q38egKOMq2NdzrCzvFfQsZK9h-_9wBmrN6su9NOiozgEKSsoQesgXpH8Z7WKPmXingZQcTBadrwIGJHoXHr7sbr-/s1600/terrestrial+jerusalem.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBBPwhgd9xjFfBqEQpKDH_SRVRFhSpCYfYWO12DJSJZJH-EBFeDq5q38egKOMq2NdzrCzvFfQsZK9h-_9wBmrN6su9NOiozgEKSsoQesgXpH8Z7WKPmXingZQcTBadrwIGJHoXHr7sbr-/s1600/terrestrial+jerusalem.png" height="523" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The
shaded middle-left area is Israel, the blue line is Jerusalem, and the
solid orangish line is the dividing wall. I'm in the ambiguous part of
Jerusalem that's "Israel?" but not Israel. The wall is sometimes a huge
concrete wall and sometimes just a fence, but to cross it you have to go
through a checkpoint. For West Bank Palestinians to cross for short
visits they have to apply and pay and wait for it to be processed, and then it's still subject to the whim of whoever processes it. And there ends the educational bit for today. This map came from <a href="http://t-j.org.il/JerusalemAtlas.aspx">http://t-j.org.il/JerusalemAtlas.aspx</a> , go visit for other cool informative cartography.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And
anyway we don't need something like amusement parks to hide the
conflict and tension for us. Where is God in that? What it does is something far more
significant: It allows those peoples to come share a space, flaws and
all, and explore and exhibit their common humanity despite and through
and in the midst of those tensions.That's where God is. In redeeming that space and those lives and giving us a chance to be a part of that. <br />
<br />
Because kitschy overpriced "fun" and waiting in lines is something the whole world can enjoy!<br />
<br />
Given the territorial access and economic means, of course.<br />
<br />
Which is a pretty huge caveat.<br />
<br />
But yeah.<br />
<br />
It's still something. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Also: I've been living in Jerusalem for three weeks now, so it might behoove me to give you a little bit of an overview of what life is like for me right now -- before I slip back into a more scattered, anecdotal blogging style. <br />
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So yeah! I live in Jerusalem, which is a couple layers of city on top of each other, the older layers of which are some of the oldest layers of city in the world. <br />
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The whole city is dense with cultures and histories and traditions and faiths, overlapping, intermixing and weaving together in tremendous and beautiful and also occasionally morally revolting and traumatizing ways. One way or another there's a lot of feels. <br />
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Then there's the politics. You can't turn a corner or buy a bag of chips without choking on it like abnormally thick, rancid, polarizing, volatile air.<br />
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A brief sample: I'm living in Jerusalem. Israel claims it as its capital, but the international community (by which I mean pretty much everybody, but also specifically the big guns at the U.N., including Amurkah.) puts their consulates in Tel Aviv, and when they put "Jerusalem" on official documents, like under "birthplace" on passports, they just leave off the comma and specific country.<br />
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To be specific, I'm living in East Jerusalem. But where is East Jerusalem? Well Israel says it's Israel. And they treat it like it's Israel, but everybody else puts their hands over their ears and kind of ignores that.<br />
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But that's cause they've got their eyes set on very particular solutions to this whole massive trainwreck of a geopolitical struggle and taking their hands off their ears for too long might endanger those idealized plans and this is all tongue-in-cheek and neither-here-nor-there so we're-just-going-to-put-politics-Palestine-and-Israel-all-away-for-now. But yeah, I'm in a fairly awkward, confusing position, geographically speaking. <br />
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So I'm living in Jerusalem. <br />
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It's sort of a city in a desert, except there's a bunch of pine trees and grass and various other temperate plants because a lot of people wanted to make it look European. (Cigarettes and capris would've been much more effective and much less intrusive to the indigenous ecosystem)<br />
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I live in a neighborhood called Beit Hanina, and I attend church at the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer in the Old City. It's part of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Jordan and the Holy Land, which is the primary representative of the spunky, self-confident global minority that is Palestinian Lutherans.<br />
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I'm working at an odd preschool-daycare sort of hybrid run by the ELCJHL, and I play with children, and there's a lot of interesting adventures and quirks to get into there, but we'll get into that later. Needless to say, silliness, tears, etc. etc., lots of weird and fascinating language difficulties and opportunities, many different smells (few pleasant), etc.etc.etc. whatever.<br />
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Food! Food is good. I'm currently living on a diet consisting mostly of cheap Hospital lunches, invites to occasional local bbqs, and leftover Bible Study pastries.<br />
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Only sort of. But I'm eating a monstrous amount of yogurt, hummus, and fresh produce. That's about it. Vegetables, oil, and milk fat. (With live cultures!) <br />
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Also for the last week I've been having the most incredible inexplicable cravings for dark chocolate and coconut. I've been rapidly burning through some funny imported Polish coconut cookies but I'm never satisfied. I usually trust that my body knows what it's doing better than I do, so I sort of just follow its lead, but this might be one of those times where I have to step in and demand that it put down the Dr. Gerard Kubanki Kokosowe. (now with Podluzne kruche ciasteczko wypelnione kremem śmietankowym i wiórkami kokosowymi!) <br />
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Here be pictures. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1tLIMJ6HDeXGymWDLcOOxBfC0ioowGR3F1YqQ-HTyjNJEbcRRTje-QGbRoYRurId7l7np6MpWt7jzPNRMBvrpyo1QGPbMftrlUU-0CPQur0YKvU0m2ZNaBXlqGfyJcJEMaCQd6pDFO4Me/s1600/IMG_2738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1tLIMJ6HDeXGymWDLcOOxBfC0ioowGR3F1YqQ-HTyjNJEbcRRTje-QGbRoYRurId7l7np6MpWt7jzPNRMBvrpyo1QGPbMftrlUU-0CPQur0YKvU0m2ZNaBXlqGfyJcJEMaCQd6pDFO4Me/s1600/IMG_2738.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">rice and lentils and onions (mujuddara) and what is probably yogurt or tahini sauce. (R-L cause that's how they do here)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7gMf3IIZBCEj_X4-GxRrGFHZlTxJo56MIkbDmfnMkQ2DFyvtf0vAsXfUJVfztb2jhecYcr92gat8k5fEAWkPgq3p71vQ1p3ZxYC8zYiOz1eplzeOeLDHwFqnMQbQ61JdiPwLLdEEuLlg/s1600/IMG_2739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7gMf3IIZBCEj_X4-GxRrGFHZlTxJo56MIkbDmfnMkQ2DFyvtf0vAsXfUJVfztb2jhecYcr92gat8k5fEAWkPgq3p71vQ1p3ZxYC8zYiOz1eplzeOeLDHwFqnMQbQ61JdiPwLLdEEuLlg/s1600/IMG_2739.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cucumbers and tomatoes and various other things diced up, and probably drowned in parsley (tabbouleh!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0nsiyRaZMVIl7Y4ZzqWk4HlN9NTn38xdEC8tYm194wmxRC2bk3_o6wRvsy2c91nBbp8rVwb17mO4LzYyLlqguPEnEU7pOSeHWNuW1iJC8LFBdEHHnVLPNAeo1emrDMTbDz5IIiIBNM-xe/s1600/IMG_2747.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0nsiyRaZMVIl7Y4ZzqWk4HlN9NTn38xdEC8tYm194wmxRC2bk3_o6wRvsy2c91nBbp8rVwb17mO4LzYyLlqguPEnEU7pOSeHWNuW1iJC8LFBdEHHnVLPNAeo1emrDMTbDz5IIiIBNM-xe/s1600/IMG_2747.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">shakshouka and coffee! Egg, tomato stuff with various other vegetables mixed in, anddddd parsley. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaCuFtt1dTXHnqElPX0HLUViZnqpYTrnFrorVCb3nTkVHvbeNRgnLZkBCGcWT6fTO3q-pOOVgr23qlBzZQktBvfbwn7HKR1wSsJ5K1VXiDGKaCaIO-sSASkgkHa89vTcqNwR847eRMFg9-/s1600/IMG_2753.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaCuFtt1dTXHnqElPX0HLUViZnqpYTrnFrorVCb3nTkVHvbeNRgnLZkBCGcWT6fTO3q-pOOVgr23qlBzZQktBvfbwn7HKR1wSsJ5K1VXiDGKaCaIO-sSASkgkHa89vTcqNwR847eRMFg9-/s1600/IMG_2753.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did I mention I work on the Mount of Olives and can go chill out here in the mornings, only minutes from my workplace? No I don't think I did. Hey look, the sovereign nation of Jordan! (The hazy, faint mountains in the distance) And now we return to your regularly scheduled food programming. </td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkXwNFlzDm730oInSPLJkAKCgx4_G1jM5-TVO0uTFqc40EfdZMMHxC4rBGG-PDFzBRMiVwBCEbBmltIYRLyYu-_ciStcmmYz9EIEKj6WZWgUuBPrOZrgKhJutabEKPhnWFXjOsU9z1Nsi/s1600/IMG_2757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkXwNFlzDm730oInSPLJkAKCgx4_G1jM5-TVO0uTFqc40EfdZMMHxC4rBGG-PDFzBRMiVwBCEbBmltIYRLyYu-_ciStcmmYz9EIEKj6WZWgUuBPrOZrgKhJutabEKPhnWFXjOsU9z1Nsi/s1600/IMG_2757.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most meals outside of my flat consist of many little plates like this. It's a little overwhelming. Also this is just the appetizer round. It's called "salads" and it's an opportunity to stuff your face with hummus and arugula. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtzmoE3HdlRZ71w5UfpbY0dAUXqlkp9BfrLemPK-6YWpYjuKq9mK75U-aB9uSZRZSkefjtDCWyJiFCG9Yr0u_sZf5eV6hl5VAIRmdEEd0I16yx5SC4WX9CJ7Jxzql0lHW3c20qXZMgt09/s1600/IMG_2768.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtzmoE3HdlRZ71w5UfpbY0dAUXqlkp9BfrLemPK-6YWpYjuKq9mK75U-aB9uSZRZSkefjtDCWyJiFCG9Yr0u_sZf5eV6hl5VAIRmdEEd0I16yx5SC4WX9CJ7Jxzql0lHW3c20qXZMgt09/s1600/IMG_2768.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And after salads... Meat! And potatoes! And more vegetables! And more meat! And usually someone will complain to the waiter at this point about the woefully insufficient supply of hummus thus far received. Then more hummus will be delivered, and there is generally much rejoicing. (If you don't eat all the hummus and/or complain about there not being
enough, you're probably not adequately fulfilling your social
obligations.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hMVxX4inJsDSQXjaUmfufE0Mne73Q9GCtx7q2d9xGu40Fswh81KoHAnh9UtaJucJ_9Zoc0tiOIkKYjOt6EtXmsGzhDYYw08zIBCDJwzGLHVDs1crJ9BDEZBgEHgVCIKT893TPVAVvzXM/s1600/IMG_2769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hMVxX4inJsDSQXjaUmfufE0Mne73Q9GCtx7q2d9xGu40Fswh81KoHAnh9UtaJucJ_9Zoc0tiOIkKYjOt6EtXmsGzhDYYw08zIBCDJwzGLHVDs1crJ9BDEZBgEHgVCIKT893TPVAVvzXM/s1600/IMG_2769.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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Oh parsley. You're like that friend I thought I sort of knew cause you were always kind of hanging out on the fringes with our pals back in high school, all ground up and somewhere in that ubiquitous "generic spices" category, but now I get to know you and see you in your element, as an individual, on your own terms, and wow you taste funny. <br />
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Also the lemonade here is made with mint. I don't think I'm ever coming back. (Kidding! I'm kidding! Don't deport me!) Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-73585679011227326412014-09-22T14:58:00.002-04:002014-09-23T01:25:57.653-04:00Flashes of Coffee, Cats, and Assertive Hospitality: First Impressions of the Holy LandThe hour spent taxi-ing from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem after our flight is the longest hour I've ever experienced. I want to sleep and I have to sleep but I already slept for maybe half of the 11 hour flight and if I sleep much more I know I'll be awake all night.<br />
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I blink repeatedly to keep my eyes open, telling my body it's not time to sleep yet and trying to keep hushed the shouts of "LIES!" it keeps throwing back at me. I want so bad to be able to look out the window and calmly observe the middle eastern landscape, but I keep stumbling violently into dreams and I can't tell what's real -- all I know is I'm uncomfortable. I feel more cramped than I actually am because my body blindly, angrily somehow still thinks it's on a plane.<br />
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We get out of the shuttle at the front of our East Jerusalem neighborhood, send our bags ahead in a friend's van, and begin the trek to the flat. First lucid observation outside of the airport: There are a lot of cats. Cats of varying breeds and levels of healthiness swarm like squirrels through the alleys and dumpsters and into the streets. They're the only creature I've ever experienced that can "not care" in an intensely threatening manner. Lots of cats in Jerusalem. Huh. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyBteEbIcfvX_rBtBedJN0zWFv4UE8CA1GlE8OVk142zN9I7absNXJS4sXhNXbq62omB585-BlZoHPCDAdcSk3b1F5pJB7OU37RnsquB8lvMFTwPkG03XC3LRKRP5W_lbqBkQIaDTrhAB_/s1600/IMG_2696.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyBteEbIcfvX_rBtBedJN0zWFv4UE8CA1GlE8OVk142zN9I7absNXJS4sXhNXbq62omB585-BlZoHPCDAdcSk3b1F5pJB7OU37RnsquB8lvMFTwPkG03XC3LRKRP5W_lbqBkQIaDTrhAB_/s1600/IMG_2696.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This lone cat subsided from creepy staring long enough for us to take an artsy shadow shot. Thanks! You can go back to licking yourself.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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Beginnings are weird. Of relationships, of experiences, of adventures -- no matter what exactly is being "begun," the beginning seems to do the same sort of thing. In the long-term it doesn't look like it amounts to much: first impressions fade, you settle in, you might barely remember how it all started -- but beginnings set the tone and lay the defining groundwork for the structure and dynamic that is to come.<br />
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It was my first day in my flat, in my new space, my first step out of structured orientation and into independence. I'd moved in and then left again to go explore -- and when I say explore, I mean stumble around aimlessly and nervously trying to cobble together Arabic phrases in my head and find my way to the store and back. After an hour of anxiously and awkwardly finding my way to a store and buying an Arabic version of "The Giving Tree" ("Shajara il-Kareem"), I was on my way back home, struggling with the overwhelmingness of everything.<br />
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I was excited to be out on my own (not including my host-brother-uncle type character who wasn't here yet at that point), but all of my confidence and overflowing energy was suddenly nowhere to be found. I was so eager to finally climb out of the nest and get away from the small family of birds I'd spent a month of orientation with that I didn't even notice that there was apparently no ground there, just a lot of open air and a terrifying sense of height.<br />
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But then I see a coffeeshop in the distance. My last hope at comfort and stability: coffee. I plan to regroup and recenter myself with a nice, hot cup of the local bean water, which is similar enough to my experiences with bean water in America that it's familiar and a little bit nostalgic.<br />
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I walk in and start throwing around coffee-buying-related-Arabic-phrases like nobody's business. I'm on home turf now, I tell myself.<br />
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But wait! I'm fascinated by the sights and smells of the coffeeshop and its long bank of piles of beans and various coffee-related machines and contraptions that I don't understand -- but the cashier's blank looks and blunt English responses tell me two things: 1) I have some things to learn about coffee here. 2) Also Arabic. I've got a ways to go there.<br />
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And 3). This is not a place you go to buy a cup of coffee. I seem to be buying a half-kilo of Arabic coffee. Whoops.<br />
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But then we start talking. He's caught on to my feverish commitment to speaking Arabic as much as possible, so he tries every phrase in Arabic now before switching to English (after I pathetically repeat, "shu?" "shu?" "shu?" (What?) for lack of a better phrase with which to say "I'm sorry, come again? I have no clue what you just said but I want to.")<br />
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He affirms me and my attempts to speak language, I tell him I'm living in the area for the year and volunteering with the local Lutheran church, HE KNOWS THE PEOPLE I'M STAYING WITH, we converse, he pontificates about the local culture and what my year ahead has in store for me, HE DECLARES HIMSELF MY FRIEND; Inside my head I'm freaking out, one little positive social encounter and I'm overjoyed, words have happened successfully between me and people AND SOME OF THEM WERE IN ARABIC. <br />
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I'm flipping out on the inside but on the outside I'm still going through the motions of a commercial transaction. I pay, I take the coffee, and I go ahead and leave, closing our conversation in the process and making abundant promises to stop by in the future and check in.<br />
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As I leave with an absurd grin on my face, the last 10 minutes a big happy blur, I realized I closed that conversation a little abruptly and totally could have lingered a bit. Was that awkward? Yes. But he didn't mind. He was just going about his day and making mine in the process. (Leaving out names and exact places so he won't be overly associated with my making a fool of myself.)<br />
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Also I got the wrong kind of coffee. If I put this in my coffee-maker I'll get a cup of mud and a disgusting coffee-maker. Whoops. <br />
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One week later? I'm moved in for good and settling in, finally finishing blog. Also I have the right kind of coffee now. Everything is as it should be. <br />
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<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-73892983141292722862014-09-08T12:24:00.003-04:002014-09-22T15:10:40.679-04:00New Beginnings and an End to WaitingIt's been less like stasis and more like a sort of limbo, a weird, indefinite holding pattern of weeks on end, shuffling our feet, twiddling our thumbs and pacing through Detroit and Chicago as we wait for the powers that be in the Israeli consulate to give us a thumbs up.<br />
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We go to YAGM orientation and then the rest of the YAGMs leave. We tearily say goodbye as they disperse across the globe, and then we lie around Chicago and go to a museum and our sentimental feels start to get a little puzzled. <br />
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The other YAGMs who got their visas late start to abandon us too, but it's okay! We drive to Michigan! Things are happening and we're going places! We watch some movies and it's interesting and there's a whole bunch of band geeks and Jesuit retirees and everything's hunky-dory.<br />
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Then the band kids leave us too. We tearily say goodbye as they tromp off to start the school year, disturbed and perturbed by the clingy, sobbing young adults from Chicago. The cafeteria starts to empty, the schedule begins to loosen, and all of us start showing up to every meal 5-20 minutes late. Pretty soon even the employees there start disappearing, and we're left pining for a weekend retreat group to come ask us to be quiet or simply a staff person to come refill our coffee and nag us about the mugs and spoons we keep squirreling away from the dining hall. <br />
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But then we see the light at the end of the tunnel, albeit shrouded in a murky haze of visa uncertainty and regional conflict. We drag our things back to Chicago and try to keep our heads up, but the doubt and abandonment issues of recent weeks cast a pall of uncertain futility over our efforts to remain something vaguely resembling "positive."<br />
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Then commence two days of chaos. We drive and walk and public transport our way back and forth to and from Trader Joe's, the Israeli Consulate, and the ELCA Churchwide office countless times. We face sudden interrogation at every turn from embassy security officers, grocery store staffers, and well-meaning receptionists.<br />
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"Are you having a pleasant browse?" "So how's the visa situation?" "Are you carrying with you a weapon or anything that may resemble a weapon?" As we slump over our cart in the frozen food aisle and wait for the latest stressful 7-way phone conversation interchange to end -- as an ELCA staffer passes us in the hallway on their way to another productive and fulfilling work venture through which they meet a purpose and feel validated -- as a deep, hushed, and strongly-accented voice shoots rapid-fire questions at us over a phone and ushers us up to the 31st floor of a building with messily transliterated name tags.<br />
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Through last minute sprints across town, through reschedule after reschedule and visa delay after visa delay after desperately awaited cross-country overnight package after desperately awaited cross-country overnight package, our long period of waiting in limbo began to come to an end.<br />
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An end arose in sight, but we were too doubtful, too beaten down by past betrayals and past hurts to hold too firmly to hope. Monday. 5:30 p.m.ish. With a slightly-better-than-decent chance of all visas and flights appearing in the right place and time.<br />
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We've spent nearly a month on orientating, and now we're finally being retrieved from the dirty cryogenic chamber in the ELCA's basement. But we feel loved! And validated! And ready (more or less)! My body's just afraid to get too excited for fear of disappointment. <br />
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(Pictures will be added after arrival overseas in order to make more clear any weird, unexplained portions of this.)Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-80153397343902434642014-09-02T21:01:00.002-04:002014-09-02T21:01:18.101-04:00Stepping Stones to Community While We Float in Limbo (i.e. Michigan)The upside of getting your visas delayed? You have two whole extra weeks to spend exclusively with your fellow travelers in tight community. And the downside? You have two whole extra weeks to spend exclusively with your fellow travelers in tight community. <br />
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But in the end it's net-positive! (And I'm not just saying that because some of my four fellow volunteers and two country coordinators will likely end up reading this.)<br />
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Living in community is not an unproductive venture. Something important and valuable happens when you live in a tight space with a small group of people -- with only the hustle and bustle of the retired Jesuits all around to distract you from each others' irritating little personality quirks. <br />
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Living in community (initially) is one of those vaguely painful and somewhat uncomfortable processes (like starting at a new school or dental surgery under anesthesia) where you commit yourself to going through some awkwardness, swelling and irritation, and then you come out the other side good as new (except perhaps with numb chipmunk cheeks or a little syringe for cleaning the food gunk out of your mouth for the next few weeks.)<br />
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(Speaking of the dentist, I've continued working steadily on my Arabic, and I think I can honestly say that I've never made weirder noises in my life. Doing a lot of gargling and spitting. A'yup.) <br />
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You fake it until you make it, essentially. You create community by acting as if it's already there (assuming nothing goes seriously wrong to disrupt and derail your dental surgery in progress). And just like any good medical procedure, there's a standard sort of process to it. (I work at camp, so this is something we work on and watch in action and theorize about on a weekly basis.)<br />
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We arrived at YAGM (Young Adults in Global Mission) orientation only vaguely familiar with each other, like those people you did that group project with that once in Spanish 250. So for that first week we were on our best behavior (the 5 of us but also the other 60ish YAGM volunteers). We had fun, got to know each other, and engaged in friendly shenanigans, but we didn't totally relax. We thought before we spoke, watched our manners, and generally kept our quirks at bay.<br />
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In the school of thought I come from, we call that pseudo-community: We feel like close friends that are really there for each other, but we don't really actually know each other yet. As soon as pressure appears and you sort of have to work as a team or even make a decision together, the facade starts to show some cracks. You've come together as a community like cold marshmallows, gently fitting together and rubbing up against each other with no real pressure or friction, but without any real cohesion or strength to resist outside forces.<br />
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The YAGM community at the end of the first week of orientation was not your ordinary pseudo-community, but you can only do so much in a week. The YAGM authorities not only broke the ice for us but
proceeded to shove us into the lake, forcing us to get to know each
other at a serious level instead of dwelling at the surface and standoffishly chatting about our preferences in pets and toothpastes. It was a bit cold under there but it had to be done.<br />
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The crazy-stressful experience of the impending life adventures and challenges and the sense of foreboding that comes with that helped to start bonding our marshallows together a little more thoroughly, and the shared vision and mission gave our marshmallows the will and momentum to stay firmly together -- but it will be up to the rest of the year to come to turn that gooey mass into a rock hard, sticky safety net of emotional support and compassionate conviction.<br />
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So we had an impressive amount of collective marshmallow cushion to rest on as a community by the end of that first week, but the true comfort of community hadn't begun to set in quite yet. (So maybe orientation heated us up to melt us together, but I didn't finish drying?)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSxjc5NK9DRtPDO2Jy9iUHXJ2ay0ZBs5gUf3lUkEdT5nJEUKB9j5dbe-a_5k0YycZyzYmjlurGbTq_neTRD4319T3iP3nv8Uj57H9YjMoqpdaQvpmzMLPU1FU5eAshBhf4AzTeV_-EyW5C/s1600/YAGM+JWB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSxjc5NK9DRtPDO2Jy9iUHXJ2ay0ZBs5gUf3lUkEdT5nJEUKB9j5dbe-a_5k0YycZyzYmjlurGbTq_neTRD4319T3iP3nv8Uj57H9YjMoqpdaQvpmzMLPU1FU5eAshBhf4AzTeV_-EyW5C/s1600/YAGM+JWB.jpg" height="300" title="YAGM in Michigan (photo credit Jeff Vonwald)" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The YAGM team headed to Jerusalem, meeting with our lovely Arabic tutor, Sally.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Whatever. It's a complicated process, different people progress at different rates, and the stages tend to melt into each other like soft, cylindrical spongy confections made from sugar, gelatin, and egg white. But by the time us Jerusalem peeps started getting our quality time as a small gorup after everyone else left, the "best behavior" was fading fast. I felt myself relaxing and letting the quirks fly. (Mostly a lot of mumbling, random falsetto, giggling, weird non sequiturs, and picking corn kernels off other people's plates.)<br />
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And that's a good sign. Comfort and genuine behavior is important in a community! But it also means your little cloud of personality can start getting in other people's way, and you sometimes find that other people's collected masses of condensated quirks tick you off a little bit. Interpersonal cloud conflict is going to happen in any attempted community, but for it to really work, you've got learn how to work around those barriers of personal eccentricities. And if you're really a high-functioning community, you'll find out how to harness them.<br />
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So us Jerusalem YAGMers have had a valuable two weeks to learn how to actually function as a team, but also to start learning how to tolerate, appreciate, and love each other fully. Yay!<br />
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God's peace and goodbye for now!<br />
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<br />Michael<br />
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<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6626172971207172630.post-19744784311117563942014-08-23T23:13:00.004-04:002014-09-23T01:29:38.744-04:00Waking up in Michigan The long wait for visas continues. Hope is alive and well, and she's tentatively scheduled us a flight to Tel Aviv for September 6th, but she has her fingers crossed and she keeps checking her phone so I'm not really sure how to read that behavior. But we're optimistic! And we sternly, semi-confidently expect visas to arrive before September.<br />
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In the meantime, we've ventured to Michigan, where we're staying at a fancy Jesuit retreat center that frequently plays host to various church groups and band camps. (Sweaty band kids keep stealing our table.) ("Sweaty sousaphonist" is a term I wanted to use just then, but then I would be making assumptions about what instruments the various sweaty children play, and that's a problem. You can't sacrifice your integrity for a cheap joke Michael, especially when you're not even sure that's the proper term for a musician who specializes in the use of the sousaphone.)<br />
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But besides the adorable children visibly struggling their way through primary school (bless them), I really enjoy the random pictures of Pope Francis scattered about the facility (bless him), and I have much appreciation for the copious amounts of complementary coffee of questionable quality (BLESS IT, I guess).<br />
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It's definitely a little anti-climactic to be sitting here in Michigan after a week of orientation, rather than getting to actually get going, but I'm trying to see it as an exercise in patience.<br />
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And it's not like we don't have plenty of orientating and preparation to do for our time in the Holy Land anyway? With our team of volunteers and our humble coordinators we've already started diving more deeply into the history of the region -- so we should be all read up and ready to go in a couple more life-times of careful study and analysis. (Which at least means we won't be running out of things to do anytime soon.)<br />
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Then there's the whole language learning thing! I've been producing spit, phlegm, and gaspy wheezes all summer in anticipation of learning Arabic, but it's helping surprisingly little. Apparently there's a little more to it than that? It's actually a pretty beautiful and complex language and it's a lot of fun. But yes, there is a lot of spitting. <br />
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Our first vaguely on topic Middle East venture for orientation was a casual trip to the Oriental Institute in Chicago last Wednesday (after the other YAGM volunteers started catching flights). I say "vaguely," because how relevant is the history of the Hittites and the Assyrians to the Middle East today? Also because the whole "oriental" label is a little iffy for me, in a "what-does-that-really-mean?" sort of way. (For me it was more of a museum about western archaeologists and their conclusions about Sumerian trade routes than a museum about the Sumerians themselves -- if you know what I mean.)<br />
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But whatever. Life goes on and learning continues. <br />
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<br />Michael Dicksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07630077710701410301noreply@blogger.com1