This is the first in what I hope will be a series of reflections on our recent trip to Israel/Palestine.
I've been wondering how to start this series. A look at the complicated geopolitical history of the region perhaps? What about the religious history of the region? Or, maybe a review of the key players and events over the past fifty or sixty years.
No, I think I'll start with the people.
And let me be brutally honest about why I'm beginning with the people. As I have said before, we in the west have been force-fed a narrative that tells us that Palestinians--all Palestinians--are dangerous, if not terrorists. And this is, if I can be blunt, a lie.
Those of you who have been on trips to the Holy Land have experienced this, whether you're aware of it or not. Remember the warnings? Having spent three days at a Franciscan guesthouse right on Nativity Square in Bethlehem, I've seen this narrative play out with my own eyes. The tour bus pulls up, and the pilgrims on board fairly run into the church. Ten minutes later they are back out, and heading quickly for the bus, some looking suspiciously over their shoulders at the local Palestinians who, I'm convinced, come to watch the show. Don't stray from the group, and for God's sake don't talk to anyone. The bus moves on quickly to the next holy sight, or, at the end of the day, for the relative safety of West Jerusalem, with the pilgrims uttering a silent prayer of thanks for making it safely back to civilization.
Obviously I’m exaggerating, but I don’t think I’m exaggerating much.
I want to suggest to you that this scenario is intentional. It’s planned. It’s carefully designed to keep people from actually meeting a Palestinian. After all, an encounter might lead to a conversation. A conversation might lead to some level of understanding, and understanding has an annoying habit of revealing truth. And truth, even just a little, would reveal this narrative for the lie that it is, and shatter it completely.
In further posts I hope to get deeper into why I think this is the case, and why this narrative is critical to the status quo in Israel, but for now I want to tell you briefly about a few of our encounters with new Palestinian friends; not the incredible speakers we heard from, but the people on the street.
This is me with our new friend Nasar. I’ve already written about our encounter with Nasar, but I want to reference it again. In an atmosphere of fear where people are told not to talk to strangers, Becca and I jumped into a car with one. That may strike some as foolish, but we were already aware of “the lie”, and we felt safe in doing so. This simple exchange remains a very significant and meaningful part of the trip for me.
Ramallah also stands out for me. We were early for our meeting with the PLO Negotiation Support Unit, so we stopped and visited Yassar Arafat’s tomb. Yes, I said PLO. Yes, I said Yassar Arafat. Maybe it was the nice weather, but I remember Ramallah as a town of smiles. Smiles from the kid with the automatic weapon guarding Arafat’s tomb. Smiles from the guys making falafels. Smiles from the older gentleman selling strawberries from his cart. Smiles from the people on the street.
Perhaps it was because he was feeling guilty over Becca and I getting “left behind” (no pun intended), but in Ramallah our fearless leader Jeff gave everyone his cell number with the following instructions. “If you get lost, stop anyone on the street and ask to use their cell phone. They’ll give it to you, and they’ll more than likely take you to where you need to be.” This may sound trite to some of you, but it captures the feeling we had, a feeling of safety, a feeling of being among friends.
Ramallah also gave us one more lesson. About half-way through the day one of our crew realized their wallet was missing. (I won’t mention Ian’s name to save him the embarrassment.) Obviously concerned, he traced his steps all the way back to the little market near the PLO offices where he had bought a drink. The older gentleman behind the counter smiled as he handed back the wallet, contents intact.
And everywhere we went, people asked the same question. Whether they were folks we met on the street, or those scheduled to address our group, they all wanted the same information.
“Why are you here?”
When we told them we had come to see for ourselves what was really going on, they usually visibly relaxed, smiled, and to a person they responded with the sentence.
“Thank you for coming, it means a lot to us.”
You see, they know better than us about the false narrative. They know that the rest of the world doesn’t see what is happening, doesn’t really see them at all.
And when we asked them what they thought we could do to help the situation once we returned home, the answer was also universal.
“Tell people what you saw here. Tell people to come and see for themselves. Tell them the truth.”
And so in my own small way, that’s what I’m doing. I’m telling you what I saw. I’m telling you about the people we met. And I’m telling you about the false narrative.
The thing about maintaining a fiction is it takes a lot of energy. Sooner or later cracks appear, and the truth starts to leak out. I think that’s what is starting to happen here.
Inshallah.
Introduction
That’s Greg Barrett, one of our crew, and my room mate in East Jerusalem. Greg is an author (The Gospel of Father Joe) and a journalist, and along with Shane Claiborne, joined us directly from his second trip to Iraq.
Yesterday The Huffington Post carried one of Greg's pieces, originally posted on Brian McLaren's blog. I'm glad to call Greg a friend. He says he doesn't miss my snoring, but I know he's just putting on a brave face for me.
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