Re-Entry at Camp Latgawa

Working on a quilting project at Camp Latgawa

I’ve been home for about two and a half weeks now; most of my friends and acquaintances recognize that I’m back; others still greet me with the usual litany of “how was it” and “did you have a good time?”  I supposed I’ll get used to it; everyone has his or her own concerns and few have time or energy to go outside their comfort zone to explore the bigger picture! 

Last weekend I went to a “quilting retreat,” an annual event held through my church’s conference, that I have been attending for the past four or five years.  I enjoy the uninterrupted time to work on whatever sewing projects I’m involved in at the time, the beautiful setting (Rogue/Umpqua National Forest in southern Oregon), and the delicious meals lovingly prepared by the camp managers, Eva and Greg.

Breakfast quiche at Camp Latgawa

I also usually enjoy the camaraderie of the other women who attend – each working on her own project(s), yet having the time to offer an opinion of how something is turning out, or assistance with a problem or question.

This year was different.  Oh, I still enjoyed the uninterrupted sewing time – finished a graduation gift quilt for my 18-year-old grandson, Shawn, and got a good start on a quilt that will be a gift for Katie and Jeff’s October wedding.

Shawn's graduation quilt

I enjoyed the food too – although it made me sad to know that this is Eva and Greg’s last year as camp managers.  After 13 years, the birth of baby Molly last year caused them to re-think their life goals; they will be moving to the Bahamas so Greg can become a scuba instructor! 

The difficult part for me was the constant presence of 17 other women – all perfectly nice women whose company I would normally enjoy.  This time, the size of the group (really too large for the facility!) and their constant “cheeriness” was difficult for me to deal with. 

I know it wasn’t them – either collectively or individually – but me.  Someone once said that I would come back changed, but the world around me would be the same.  I tend to forget that when I’m involved in everyday activities – only to have it hit me over the head at often-inopportune times!

Trail to "Dead Indian Springs"

A few of the women were interested enough in my experiences to join me one evening while I shared stories and answered questions.  I appreciated their interest more than I realized at the time – perhaps it was the validation that I really had something to say and that there are people who are open to hearing it?

The setting of the camp – and the hiking trails therein – were my salvation!  Out there, I could enjoy the beauty of nature, to talk to God and to think about the paths that my life has taken, and continues to take!

Re-Entry

Poppies for endurance...

I’ve been back in Portland for almost a week now.  I’ve resumed my early morning swims, played a few bridge games, attended my own church (with its English-language service!) and  had numerous encounters with people who have noticed that I’m back!

For me, one of the strangest, and most difficult, aspects of homecoming has been that many people don’t quite know how to talk to me, or how to treat me!  After all, the questions one asks when someone returns from a two-week vacation are not the same questions one asks when someone comes back from an extended stay in what is widely perceived as a “conflict zone!”

Still, “Did you have a good time?” is a common question.  The words that spring to my lips are, “I wasn’t there for a good time,” but I know that comes across as sarcastic, and I really don’t want to turn people off!

I have lots of photos of cute children...

Another common question, “How was it?” is an open-ended query that is impossible to answer in one word or one sentence.   One slightly more savvy person said something to the effect of, “You’ll have to be careful of what you say, won’t you?”  I’m afraid I was less than tactful when I replied that this was a topic on which treading lightly didn’t really factor in – I’ve seen too much to walk on tip-toes among those who don’t know and don’t care.

I told my pastor today that returning home in this situation was a little like having a family member die – many people don’t know what to say!  May I offer a few suggestions?

When I hear “tell me everything,” what I think is meant is “tell me one quick story that won’t change my pre-conceived notions, and then be prepared to discuss the latest episode of ‘Mad Men’.”  If you really want to hear my stories, spend enough time with me to let them emerge slowly.  Some of my stories are painful to tell – and painful to hear.  Are you sure you want to hear them?

...but do you really want to see photos of children being arrested?

If you don’t want to talk about where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing – don’t!  Tell me how unusually good the weather in Oregon is for the time of year.  Ask me what kind of food I’ve been eating while I’ve been gone.  But don’t ask questions that you don’t want honest answers to!

Don’t ask to see my photos – unless you really want to see my photos!  Yes, I have lovely pictures of cute children, blooming flowers and produce markets overflowing with abundance.   But I also have photos of crowded checkpoints, children being arrested and men in hospitals.  Do you really want to see those – and hear those stories?

or photos of "caged" men at checkpoints? 

If you care about me – and about what is really happening in Palestine – ask me openly and honestly.  I’ll respond in the same way – and maybe will shed a few tears or embarrass you with a spontaneous hug. 

If you care about me – but, for whatever reason, feel uncomfortable discussing this place where I’ve left a large chunk of my heart – that’s okay too!  I still love you.  Just try to understand that I’m seeing the world in a different way from the way I saw it a few months ago.

In'Shalla

The sun will rise...

While in transit between Jerusalem and Portland, I spent several days in Washington, D.C., where I shuttled back and forth between meetings on Capitol Hill, and my host’s home in Arlington.  Washington has an excellent Metro system, and it was easy and (as a senior!) inexpensive to rely on this transport as we shuttled back and forth.

On my last day in D.C., while waiting for a train, I was suddenly struck with the difference between transport in the U.S. and in Palestine – and, through that, by a major difference in the lifestyles and mind-sets of the two places.

The flowers will bloom

In D.C., as, indeed, in Portland and other US and European cities with public transport systems, there is, invariably, a system of schedules and notifications.  By means of an electronic display board at the station, I could observe, for example, that an “Orange line” train would arrive in 4 minutes; a “Blue” train in 8 and another “Orange” in 12.  And most of the time, the trains (or busses or streetcars) arrive at the scheduled times and nobody thinks much of it!

In Palestine (and indeed, in Israel as far as I could tell), the public transport system is very different.  While the futuristic-looking light rail running through Jerusalem makes an attempt to keep to a schedule, most other transportation is by bus or service (a sort of “shared taxi,” provided in vans).  These vehicles only operate when full, which make it very difficult to schedule appointments, or make time-sensitive plans with any degree of accuracy.  I have boarded services that have immediately left for their stated destination and I have waited almost two hours for a bus to fill before taking me where I wanted to go.

“In’Shalla,” they say -  “I’ll meet you at 10 – In’Shalla.”  Literally, it means, “God willing.”  It was the first Arabic phrase I learned – and the one that I still hear and use the most.  More than a religious phrase, it is simply a commentary on life.

For example, we usually figured that it would take about three hours to get from Tulkarm to Jerusalem.  In’Shalla that we didn’t have to wait long for a bus or service.  In’Shalla that there were no delays at the checkpoint. 

I came to see this phrase as an expression of the less structured lives that the Palestinian people lived.  I was shocked, for instance, when Muawya, our driver-translator, received a wedding invitation two days before the event – and he told us that this was the way it was always done.  In’Shalla the wedding would occur as scheduled.  But why tempt the fates, who could always throw in a last-minute disruption? 

Once, while walking through the village of Shufa to a weekly women’s discussion group, one of the Palestinian women asked my Swiss colleague and I if we had “get-togethers” like this where we came from.  Fifteen women?  With nothing more pressing to do than spend the morning drinking coffee and laughing with each other and with their Western guests? 

“No,” we replied.  “Women where we come from are too busy with jobs and families.”  And that, I reflected, is too bad.  While I wouldn’t have traded my usually busy life for the slower, more constrained lives of my Palestinian sisters, still it was nice to spend time in a culture where not everything had to happen yesterday – a culture where In’Shalla was a way of life!

.... and, In'Shalla, the sun will set