Stones

Lili can safely play with stones

My two “little” granddaughters (ages 5 and 3) were visiting last week.  At one point, Lili, the three-year-old, picked up some rocks from the parking strip in front of my building and started throwing them.  My reaction was visceral – I grabbed her arm and started to shout at her, fearful for her life!

Almost immediately, I realized what I was doing and I calmed down.  We were in Portland, Oregon, not in Palestine, and the IDF was not about to detain this child for rock-throwing!

Later, while on the Oregon coast with the girls, I noticed several children picking up rocks and aimlessly throwing them.  “It’s what kids do,” I remember an EA friend saying last year after her return from Bethlehem, and before my departure for Tulkarm.

While other grandparents watched their grandchildren idly tossing rocks as part of their beach play, I remained uneasy.  “They’re just being kids,” said a grandmother sitting beside me. 

“It’s fine -  here,” I said – “I just think about what would happen if we were in Palestine,” I added, at which point I launched into stories of children detained for rock-throwing across the West Bank (see blog post “Please Pray for the Children" – July 14, 2013). 

I was, of course, grateful that my grandchildren would never have to live in fear of being detained by soldiers for an innocent game, but my heart remained heavy as I thought of the children who would never enjoy the childhood pleasures that these youngsters took for granted.

Elias Chacour speaks at Mar Elias

And then I started thinking about another kind of “stones” – the living kind, as the Palestinian Christians frequently call themselves.  I remember my first visit to Palestine in 2008 – the first time I understood it as an actual place – and hearing Elias Chacour speak at Mar Elias.

“We are the living stones,” he told us.  “We are the descendants of the first Christians, the ones who were here at the time of Christ.  People come here to see the stones, the ancient land, but they don’t see us.”

During my stay in Palestine, I met other living stones.  Not a lot – remember, I was living in a Muslim city in which remained only one church, which had been burned during the violence of the second Intifada and later restored. 

Daoud and his son

But, while in Tulkarm, I met Daoud, one of three remaining Christians in what had once been a vibrant Christian community.  He was the self-appointed caretaker of Mar Gerias, the once-vibrant Greek Orthodox church that Daoud and a cadre of Muslim friends had lovingly re-built after the fire.  And at the time of our meeting, he was building toilet facilities for the rare visitors who came long distances for occasional services at the church.

We also met Moana, an Anglican who could only rarely attend worship because she worked on Sundays (the Middle-Eastern weekend is Friday and Saturday), and her mother, who was housebound and depended upon visitors for her fellowship.

Unlike the stones thrown by the children, which appear to be limitless, the “living stones” are in danger of extinction.  The Israeli government blames Muslim “persecution” for the departure of the Christians but, based upon my observations and interviews, it is far more likely that the Israeli government itself is to blame.

Greek Orthodox Church Mar Gerias

While I observed nothing but courteous and friendly relationships between the Christian and Muslim “Arabs” (the pejorative term by which the Israelis lump both groups), the actions of Israeli soldiers, settlers and “government policies” themselves seem to be the real reason that Palestinian Christians leave to seek more hospitable surroundings. 

When one wants peace, it is difficult to live in a situation that breeds war.  And when one’s children are being threatened, a move to safety is the natural reaction.  So I pray for the stones – that the living ones will have the strength to stay in the face of adversity and that the children can play without fear.

Change

Recently, while doing a presentation about my experiences in Palestine, I was asked, “What kind of a change did your time there have on you?”  It isn’t the sort of a question one expects from a stranger – it isn’t even the sort of question that family members and friends have asked me much.  And I’m not sure my spur-of-the-moment answer - something about having been told it would be a “life changing” experience (which it certainly was!) - could possibly cover the impact that Palestine had on me!

During “de-briefing” – both in Jerusalem and in Washington D.C. – we were told the symptoms of “post-traumatic stress” syndrome, and given practical “hints” on how to deal.  I thought I did pretty well in those early days – if you can disregard the tears when I tried to relate some of the sadder stories, head-shaking about people who didn’t “get it” and an obsessive need to explain the entire Palestine/Israel “situation” to casual acquaintances (in 50 words or less!).

Not surprisingly, I soon recognized that many people – probably most people – weren’t all that interested, either in my personal experiences, or in the “big picture” of what life under Occupation was – either for me in the short term, or for my Palestinian brothers and sisters in the long term.

Most people have their own lives to live and their own concerns to deal with.  Whether these concerns were of a personal nature or a “cause” in which they believed as strongly as I believe in ending the Occupation, I soon realized that I couldn’t expect them to embrace this issue with the same fervor that I did!

But how did this experience change me?  Well, I realized while still there that I liked being outside my “comfort zone;” I liked dealing with new challenges!  I had to do things that I didn’t really want to do (who wants to get up at 3:15 am for checkpoint duty?), but I also did a lot of things that expanded my horizons.

Poppies, I am told, are a symbol of perseverance!

I learned to approach “strangers” and listen to what they had to say (sometimes directly and sometimes through an interpreter!).  I sat in front of a computer and forced myself to write – reports, blog posts, letters – and re-discovered the joy I found in expressing myself in writing.

Now that I am home, and am involving myself in “advocacy,” I find myself feeling much more comfortable about approaching people to ask for things (“Would you like me to come speak to your group?”) and, indeed, to speak to “strangers,” be they in large groups or individually.

The “pep talks” I give myself are along the lines of, “What are you afraid of?  You were doing this in Palestine and you didn’t even speak the language there!”

I also find I am more empowered to speak to issues that concern me – and not to worry what other people think.  But, at the same time, I find myself listening more, and talking less, trying to see where the other person is coming from instead of jumping in with my opinion. 

Patience, which was never one of the virtues with which I was blessed, has entered my life.  No longer do I tap my feet and breathe out sighs of exasperation when waiting for someone or something.  I find I can sit quietly and just think (is this meditating?), enjoying the feeling of the sun on my face or watching people as they walk by me.  Again I am reminded of the Palestinians.  If they can remain patient after 65+ years of waiting for a homeland, I can wait 15 minutes for my lunch date or bridge game!

Reports of a child being arrested, a community being demolished, an olive grove being burned can still move me to tears – followed by a rush of anger. 

"If I can move just one grain of sand on the beach..."

How dare they?!  And why does my country continue to be complicit in these "war crimes"?

But then I remind myself of what I said before I left on this journey.  “If I can move just one grain of sand on the beach at Tel Aviv, I’ll feel I’ve accomplished something.”  And I did.