Everyone and Everything in Hebron (Just to See part 1)

“So, why are you here?” the soldier asked curiously, not threateningly.
“Oh, just to see,” I said in that gentle voice I had learned to employ when speaking with anyone who is regularly threatened or mocked or bothered—which is everyone in Hebron.

Every single person in and around that old city has been threatened whether ideologically, spiritually, psychologically, or physically. The soldiers in Hebron have been stoned by Palestinian kids and called oppressive for following orders. The international observers and NGO workers in Hebron have endured physical violence and structural opposition to their well-meaning work. The Palestinian elders in Hebron have struggled awkwardly to maintain some level of economic viability even as their ancient home is systematically shut down in the name of security. The settlers in Hebron have been deemed “the crazy ones” for their ideologies, understanding of history, and radical (often violent and illegal) implementation of their ideals. The tourists in Hebron have been nerve-wrecked by warnings from everyone as they pilgrimaged to the burial site of the Matriarchs and Patriarchs of the faith. The school children in Hebron have grown up around literal cages, checkpoints, identification cards and barriers communicating nothing but criminality to their vulnerable minds. The very walls and archways of the place have been spray painted with directives in Hebrew, they crumble in disrepair, or they are stopped up by spiraling barbed wires and cement. Everyone and everything in Hebron feels affronted.

I have developed a new sort of behavior that might be helpful—naiveté, innocence, interest, confusion, and concern. Those things are not threatening. And every bit of it is genuine. I speak with honest wonder in my voice and emulate the kindness I’ve seen demonstrated by the other international Peacemakers here in Hebron.

This is why it made sense when the soldiers would approach me, as they often did, and ask the usual questions: What are you doing? How long are you here? Where are you staying? Where are you from? Why are you here? Our interaction would usually start with their slow approach toward me or a bit of purposeful eye contact. When the soldier was close enough I would say “Shalom” and smile or nod.

Of course, my presence makes things awkward—who ever wants to be watched? And who wants to be watched in the midst of what some might call a national scandal.

A 22 Year Old Spanish-Speaking Nun

The sister hadn’t really responded to me when I arrived in the elderly home on the edge of Taybeh. To almost everyone else my arrival was quite the stir; I had lived and worked there for 4 1/2 weeks in 2008, cleaning, visiting, talking, sleeping, praying.

The young male kitchen staff remembered me and reminded me of the times I worked in the garden. “Remember when you were there? You like to work there...” Lu’ay said smiling openly and pointing to the dirt in front of the entrance, laughing.

“Yes, yes. That was fun for me, gardening and pulling weeds” I said, crouching down to demonstrate what I meant.

When the elderly women saw me, the smiles in their eyes brightened their tired faces so that even now when I think of them tears of appreciation from my heart half fill my throat.

I took a walk with Adlene. We shuffled down the path as she told me in her broken, awkwardly pronoun-ed English about how she fell when she was walking alone a few months ago, “You want to walk, walk, walk up the hill” (there’s a rhythm, childish and lovely in her voice) “but the he gets this far and—” she smacks her hands together, indicating the moment she fell. “Where is my present? From America?”

“What present?” I ask her, a little embarrassed because I don’t actually have a present for her.

“Oh! You my present.” She says smiling and patting my arm wrapped around her own.

I had her stand alone while I gathered flowers, the beautiful little gems scattered about the Palestinian countryside this time of the year. I picked a long, strong strip of grass and tied the colored things together. “Here’s your present!” I said, smiling. We walked back together.

The young nun was new. She had recently been assigned to work with the elderly in Beit Efraim. I saw her silently pushing the wheelchairs from from room to room, but she did not really even acknowledge me beyond a quick smile.

When I returned the next day to visit again, I tried introducing myself in Arabic: “Marhaba. Ismii Rifqa bil arabii, Rebecca bil...”

But she shook her head from behind the man in the wheelchair. “No...”

“Oh, you don’t speak Arabic?”

She looked at me blankly and stuttered something in Spanish. Turns out she only speaks Spanish. I fumbled about in Spanish mixed accidentally with Arabic for the next few minutes, surprising her immensely with my ability to speak at all. Her young face and dark features framed in white habit softened into a smile; I think it had been awhile since she’d spoken with someone in Spanish.

“Cuantos años tienes?” She asked me after a minute of introduction.

“Veinte dos. 22.” The recognition in her face immediately told me she, too, is 22 years old. At 22 she has submitted the entirety of her life to an order that sent her from South America to Palestine for an undetermined amount of time. She has surrendered to Jesus. “Why did you come here?” She asks in Spanish and we try to speak for a few more minutes but not only is my Spanish horrible when I have been speaking Arabic, but the man in the wheelchair wanted water.

“Mucho gusto.”

“Yes, so nice to meet you.”

She amazed me.

Bony-hand knuckles

The sound of bony-hand knuckle flinging awkwardly into bony skull side is not the crisp “bampt” as in the movies. Watching the causes of these awkward sounds of violence has never pleased me.

The first time I heard a punch was in seventh grade. I was practically alone in the lifeless, tile and cinderblock space. I walked out of the bathroom just as Abed, a short dark haired boy, swung up toward his giant friend Clint’s face—his feet actually leaving the ground to make up for the middle school height difference. There was a brief shuffle after that, a small thud when Clint shoved Abed against a wall, and a couple moans.

Windows drowned my high school commons in sunlight. Over the balcony railing I could see a ring of people five thick around a white WWF female teacher and the curly haired little principal struggling between two large black students who yelled back and forth. In the scuffle one student hit the teacher. I could hear only the barn-like ruckus of a crowd. I gawked not at the fight, but at the gathered students. “Why are you watching this in support?”

My first year in Chicago. Three against one in an alley exposed to all of us standing on the El platform. They threw the man on the ground and shoved him, gravel sticking in his knee, I am sure. The train roared behind me. All I did was stare. My train approached and the beating became a stop motion silent movie through the train windows.

That spring I heard how Daley Plaza, with it’s concrete everything, does not forgive. Holding my cell phone to my ear, “Um, yes, please, there’s a fight. There are like 15 people out here.” Less than a foot away from me boney kuckle on jaw or shoulder or chest: Thud. Ahg! Thud. Umf. Thud. Drop. Shuffle. Uuuuggh! Cry. Isak and Ben ran into the fray bravely. Later Isak: “I don’t know why I jumped in there. Any one of those guys could’ve had a knife.” And some of them did.

The noisy Irish crowd ebbed back and forth as the drunken boys swung and flailed about. Jeers and puns hid the thud of knees meeting concrete and tearing jeans. Distraught and weak and tipsy I situated myself on the railing. A new confrontation was about to begin but small firey boned Melissa stood right between the two lads, “Back off! Let him alone.” Wee Rachel spoke with an agitator and told me: “He asked me ‘What was I supposed to do?’” I thought, Northern Ireland will tell you and I’ll pray.

I could only understand that one word, in Arabic: “Maksuraa-AAh!!!” Broken. The pained voice cracked and cries of struggle interrupted his speech as it spilled over the barrier of the police station wall next to the synagogue. The rest of the words were too mingled and distressed to catch, confused by the shouts between approaching Israeli Defense Force soldiers and the young, hidden Palestinian man. I watched alongside the other international observers. And then I wrote about it.

Sunflowers in Palestine

Welcome

I stood outside the tiny chapel watching the priest with a grey streaked beard in gold-embroidered robes lead the faithful, dark, serious women in prayers to God and words of adoration of Mary, Theotokos, God-bearer. Lent is an especially important time in the Greek Orthodox church. Not only is the lenten fast real and great, there are numerous additional services and devotions during the 46 days. Candles were the only light in the little space; they created small orbs of light on the frayed and dirty prayer books and the faces of the worshippers.

Young men of 8, 10, 15 years old gathered outside wearing their jackets, peering through the windows smudged with smoke from the years of lit incense in side the chapel. The youth were only partly distracted by me, careful to keep their attention on the prayers. Beautiful devotion. No one has to come to this service, but even though they don’t fit inside on this chilly night, they listen and watch from the other side of the windows propped open with sticks.

Who is this random young woman arriving in our little church courtyard at dusk?

I thought I recognized Maria Khoury's dark hair and her thin frame standing in the open doorway to the chapel. She had a scarf wrapped around her shoulders over her coat.

“Hiyye Maria Khoury?” I whispered to the boys nearest the door, pointing to my host, Maria. The young man I thought I might recognize from my last visit nodded his head.

I touched her back, causing her to turn. The moment she saw me she scrunched her eyebrows together, raising them in the middle with a look of sincere, deeply felt welcome and sympathy: “Rebecca. You made it all the way here. Did you just arrive? Where are your things?" The smile on her face, tired but peaceful, quickly reminded me of her life’s work of advocating for the possibility of Palestinian entrepreneurship and leadership in the context of her little Christian village, Taybeh.

“Is that all you brought?” She asked.

"Oh, it is easier to bring less. Is it okay to leave it there for now?” I indicated my bag sitting on the stone bench connected to the outside construction of the old church.

“It’ll be safe. Come inside, come inside. You must be freezing.”

I was a little cold, but the excitement of fumbling through Arabic vocabulary and driving through the town that, to me, barely existed outside of my memory warmed my heart. As I stepped into the dark room the melodies (and unintentional, off-key harmonies) of the chanted prayers and sung blessings soaked the space around me. The fog of deep, mystic and sweet incense lay in the air as if the very atmospheric composition of a church included the scent. The candles lit the faces of the older women with shadows in their wrinkles and they the smooth faces of the young with the radiance of devotion.

“Welcome to Palestine!” Maria whispered to me from behind, her prayer book in hand. I looked up and met the darks eyes of a Palestinian woman standing across the chapel from me. Welcome.

Flying Standby

"Life at it's best is a creative synthesis of opposites in fruitful harmony."

-Martin Luther King Jr., Strength to Love-

Tomorrow at this time I should be on a flight to Tel Aviv, Israel.

I'm flying standby. Chicago to Philly, Philly to Tel Aviv.
Let me tell you, flexibility paired with tenacity is a hard combo to beat and there's little better training for those two qualities than flying standby internationally. You see, as a standby flyer I fly last. If nearly anyone else wants to get on the plane before me, they will.

First, I carefully pack every object I need for the next 10 days in one bag—the risk of loosing luggage on standby is exponentially higher than regular flying. The bag is my blue backpack fading to white on it's edges (Thank you, Joe Davis. I carry that bag with me everywhere).

Tomorrow I will stand in a line and check in with my airline before I go through security. I'll keep my only bag with me. At this point I'll find out how very likely (or unlikely) it is that I will board my flight. Regardless of the news about my flight, I'll head for my gate.

I will walk to security; place my plastic bag of liquids, old belt, cell phone, borrowed watch, little shoes, metal hair clip, thrift store scarf, and backpack onto the conveyor belt. I'll stand, with my arms up, in between some big wall-like security screening thing, being careful to place my feet as far apart as the yellow foot-shaped markings on the ground are. Then, as long as I don't get selected for extra security checks, I will re-gather my things and get dressed again (unless I'm late for my flight. In that case I'll shove all my clothes back in my backpack and sprint while awkwardly holding up my pants).

When I arrive at the gate I will assess the situation. If all's calm and the usual scattered looking crowd is sitting patiently (or impatiently) in the divided airport seats, luggage sprawled, kindles blazing, then I breathe gently, check in with the attendants and they'll tell me to take a seat, "You'll be called once we've boarded."

If there's a mass of people gathered around the airline attendant, however, I might feel like crying. "Weather's bad. Our flights were cancelled this morning. Everyone's trying to get on this flight." Remember: standby.

When all looks hopeless for me I try to remember: this is an adventure. Trust. Maybe there's someone on the next flight I'm supposed to talk to. Flying standby has done more to build my faith than nearly anything else.

Tomorrow it's supposed to rain. We're talkin torrential downpour. I've decided to try and get on an earlier flight out of Chicago which means I will spend an extra 6 hours at an airport somewhere (either here or in Philly) but it's worth it. If I can't fit on the 9:40 flight, I'll take the 12:00 flight. If I can't take the 12:00 flight, I'll take the 4:05 one. I can't miss that flight to Israel.

I'm going to Israel. (!)

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Paradoxical virtues are important. We followers of Jesus must be toughminded and tenderhearted, as Martin Luther King said. That means we think well and we love well.

Though those two qualities seem contradictory, they are a perfect combo. One without the other is, in the end, deadly. Taking the complexity of this world's realities seriously will always leave us with mysteries.

I pray that, as I travel, I see more of what God sees. Including the paradoxes.

Placement: a note on subversion

I sat down near him on the cold tile floor, but not too near. Placement is an important thing. Placement around strangers communicates more than silence or a cluster bomb of words. Placing one’s self around strangers is a communication art of the most delicate—and powerful—kind. Most people forget and don’t utilize the opportunities to communicate to the world with intentional placement.

The old man wearing all black—black coat, black pants, black hat, black skin—had established himself there on the third step of Chicago’s Union Station west side concourse. It was too bitter cold to be outside. He had his small black duffle zipped open on his right side and his feet spread wide down on the first step. Every once in a while I could hear him rustling in plastic bags holding some kind of food. His frizzy black beard with white hairs weaving sporadically through it was at least 10 inches long and if he stood up I’m sure his tall frame would intimidate most strong men.

So there I sat about 15 feet away wearing Finnish boots, keeping warm under a green Italian coat gifted to me by a Danish friend, my outfit decorated by a Palestinian kofia, writing in a homemade journal with an Irish pen, snacking on M&Ms with a well traveled Taiwanese backpack beside me. I looked like a hodge-podge of nations, if anything coherent.

I didn’t know this gentle-faced homeless man, but all I wanted for him to know was that I trust him. I am in his line of vision and when I sit there I say “I know you see me. I want you to see me. It doesn’t matter to me that you’re homeless. You are a man worthy of honor and I am asking for your protection.” This sort of communication is unexpected. Hopefully it is also encouraging.

I didn’t want to sit directly next to him because, well, that would require a great amount of effort on both of our parts. Conversation, awkward and probably halting, would ensue after forced introductions... And I wasn’t invited. When I walked by the first time he did not look up to make either friendly or hostile eye contact. Maybe he noticed me anyways and wondered about my life. He might have thought up a story or made all kinds of assumptions. Or maybe he was entirely disinterested. Either way, by sitting on his side of the foyer I am asking to commune with him. I was communicating: “Hello. I see you.”

Noticing the humanness and existence of others can and will subvert power structures. The black man next to me had an unkempt beard, as do many (or even most) homeless men. Think: how frustrating would it be to try and shave regularly as a homeless person? Is there humiliation involved in walking into a public restroom to shave? And most homeless women have scraggly hair and dirty hands with hangnails and dry, cracking skin in the winter. To notice and to to acknowledge—if even just by sitting my world-traveled white rear in close proximity—is a powerful thing.

As George Orwell keenly noted and “as dictators seem to agree, such a bypassing of abstractions, such an insistence on the concrete, is a politically subversive act.” Sitting down next to a stranger when there are plenty of other options says, “I see you. Do you see me?” Though small and vastly insignificant, this momentary encounter with another human on the cold floor of a train station on a cold cold Chicago day made tandem our humanity. We shared a space and I chose to set my young, white, privileged presence near this older, darker, poorer presence. And we were both human.

And I got to thinking, We are America, this old man and I. For what is a nation but blood running through veins and songs spurring from lips? It is this, ultimately. Any nation that forgets this and thinks it is independent of its people is operating under false pretense. What is the United States but the immigrant, the mother, the soldier, the lead in the school play, the old kitschy couple, and the souls of our feet? We are the United States.

When this country ceases to be our own place it becomes a farce. Upon further thought I realized that, for my black comrade, this nation may have already become a farce. I have traveled and seen many places. All human. All nations. I am not owned by the United States, a product to be bought and sold. I make this nation alongside the homeless man sharing a seat with me.

Human placement can and does evoke revolutions: Tahrir Square, Cairo 2011. Strangers refused to go home—even in the face of violent opposition—and they ended a 3-decade-long presidency. Subversion is most powerful in its most human forms. You see, because structures normally set themselves above individuals. And governments forget that they only exist because of the people they serve. But Egypt is reminding her government she will not be harassed any longer.

Ultimately, choosing to be in an essential human state with others, sharing space and persevering in placement, disrupts systems because it forces the system to acknowledge its dependence on human existence. That is why people sit in. That is why people march. That’s why people protest in streets and refuse to go home. A nation stops without its citizens and does not exist apart from their imagination and participation.

So there we sat for about 50 minutes. He ate his food out of a crinkly bag and I scribbled words in my journal. On my way out I passed so near him that I could have touched the skin pulled tightly on his dry old hands. I tried to see his eyes, to let him see mine, but, stubbornly, he did not look up. So I walked on and out into the cold and the wind.

My Small Moment of Defiance. A difficult post.

The ancient streets of Jerusalem stretch 12 feet across in the widest sections—no cars allowed in the Old City where I was staying with one of my friends from university, Maggie Hovhenessian. The paths are lined with doorways opening to labyrinth-like churches and nunneries, “famous” hummus restaurants and shops strung wall-to-wall with beaded jewelry. There seems to be little or no pattern to the street design. For all of its history, Jerusalem has been sought after, fought for and traveled to. She has been destroyed and rebuilt over again. The city is more complex and layered than a budding young romance growing into a deep, true love.

Jerusalem’s convoluted construction is further complicated by her population. The Old City is organized in four quarters. There’s the Armenian quarter where, on one warm, heavy night, my host walked me beneath small spheres of light cast on the school’s courtyard. There she showed me her childhood schoolgirl places. Beautiful, exotic Armenian designs with bright blue peacocks made of smooth stone, decorated doorways and fountains.

There’s also the Muslim quarter. I saw much of this quarter on my own as I shopped for a leather purse and various gifts for home. Twice there I lost my way on the weaving road maze and felt threatened. Twice I enjoyed the warmth of Arab hospitality and openness to a stranger. The comparable poverty there was not quite surprising, though I wanted to wish it away.

In the Christian quarter we walked from shop to shop. We made side stops into twisty staircases of hidden Greek chapels. Leafy green and bits of natural light decorated the walls. My friend introduced me to her friends and we talked long with each one, laughing much. This quarter is predominantly Arabic speaking Palestinians, excepting some of the nuns and the monks and the ever-present tourists.

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Just before sunrise I stood on the porch of a rooftop flat above many other Jerusalem rooftops. What seemed like endless layers of square houses and apartments jutted up in the foreground without rhyme or reason. For generations Maggie’s family has lived in a sporadically designed set of close-knit, multi-level apartments that are hidden from view on the street (as are the rest of the homes in the Old City). Her door is only feet from station 8 on the Villa Dolorosa.

The morning mist obscured TV satellites and wires lined with drying laundry and I cried softly wondering if true hope could ever come to the people of this city.

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Kneeling on one knee I flicked through a basket of different plastic-wrapped prints of 5x7 paintings of Jerusalem. Pretty little things, those prints. The large stones of the street beneath me had divots and waves and ruts in them from the hundreds of years of travelers’ walking pilgrimages. I had been in The Old City for 24 hours and in Palestine for 32 days.

The constant traffic of shoppers, mothers, tourists, nuns, and small boys moved around me as I knelt next to the basket, trying to determine the best print for each cousin back home. Then, interrupting my very focused search for the perfect souvenir, a black pair of shoes stopped about three feet away, indicating a man was facing me, waiting for my attention. Then an indistinguishable male voice from above said, “Shalom!”

Shalom? I questioned with resentment in my mind, Hebrew? I’m in the Christian quarter where everyone speaks Arabic. Who says Shalom here? Looking up I saw a pale but strong elderly man with a big white beard, round hat, black ankle-length cloak, hands held behind his back. Behind him, hanging cloths of colorful woven fabric and traditional black Palestinian dresses with red stitching waved gently in the breezed created by the passersby. He smiled a kind, small smile.

“Hello,” I replied cooly with neither consideration nor interest.

I was frustrated that he assumed I would speak Hebrew. Looking away from him, I began shuffling through the prints again.

He kept still but for a knowing nod, “Ahhh,” looking down at me he asked “Are you here from America?”

“Yes.”

“How are you? Are you here for long?”

Curtly I replied, “I’m fine, thank you.”

I began to feel both of my knees resting on the ground and I intentionally remained in a knelt position. I did not feel like standing up to talk to this stranger. This man who had the gumption to assume I should speak Hebrew though I was in the Arabic-speaking quarter. I resented him and everything he stood for, everything he brought.

Within a few more seconds the tense encounter ended, the Jewish elder recognized my disinterestedness and he walked quietly on. It wasn’t until months after this encounter that, in my small moment of defiance, I had hated this man. Not because he did anything particular to me, but because he was a Jew in Israel.

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Maggie and I visited the fourth quarter, the Jewish quarter, on Shabbat. We entered the spacious, well kept area and Maggie explained excitedly, “Shabbat is a special time for you to be here. It’s different and people are quiet on the streets and happy.” As she explained this, there was a family of Jews dressed almost completely in black walking across the courtyard. The girls wore long skirts and the boys wore dress pants with small ringlet curls swinging gently on their cheeks, as they crossed the courtyard together. From there we proceeded toward the Western Wall.

The ancient wall is an area of significant history and fame. We wandered there, observing the circles of dancing and singing Zionists from a short distance. I leaned over to Maggie and whispered “It’s so hard. Their joy is at the expense of the lives of our friends.” At one point I was alone and had a question. I looked around trying to decide who to ask.

From far off I chose to walk carefully but purposefully up to two Israeli soldiers. They looked kind enough. A little unsure, I approached them and stuttered slightly “Excuse me... Shalom. Could you tell me what the hours of this place are? I mean, does it close or open at a certain time?”

Without even a hint of an accent—faded, corrupted, or otherwise—the soldier said to me, “I don’t speak English.” The look in his beautiful dark eyes and chiseled face, browned evenly by the semitic sun, filled me with shame. I looked away for a moment toward the space swarming with tourists and locals then I looked toward his softer, less arrogant comrade, and then back at him.

“But you just—” I started. Then I saw the large automatic weapon strapped across his broad, strong chest. A few pockets and a belt with a soldier’s equipment embellished simply the olive and khaki uniform. This man was an IDF soldier, part of one of the best trained and equipped armies in the world. Somehow I had forgotten that. In that moment I remembered I stopped seeing him as a man and my heart shifted. This is probably a zionist, fighting for Israel, his people’s homeland. In doing this, he has maimed Palestinian lives.

When he looked down at my nervous face and said, “I don’t speak English,” with pristine pronunciation his angry eyes and stubbornness communicated much more than his unwillingness to help a foreigner, especially an American. He was proud of Israel and served as her protector. Any intrusions—cultural or otherwise—were not welcome. Israel is a Jewish state, after all.

After my moment of hesitation I re-awoke my situation. I held his handsome eyes in mine for a second longer than felt comfortable—it was my small moment of defiance—and I then moved away in submission and exhaustion. The past month of my life I watched my friends submit and contort their lives to the Israeli occupation. Such a close encounter with any of that occupation’s perpetrators felt either like betrayal or weakness. And I hated that soldier for that feeling.

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Derry, too, was covered in snow

This morning (well... afternoon) I woke up to the brightest day I've ever seen here. Snow reflects light. I think everyone in Ireland should probably spend the whole day outside so they can finally get enough Vitamin D.

[Dublin from the Gravity Room-the top of the Guinness Storehouse. Photo Credit: Juliet G.]

Yesterday, Juliet and I walked out of the Dublin Guinness Storehouse and I was enjoying the adventure of walking on ice-coved cobblestone roads and crunchy snow (though I was enjoying much less the biting cold). I saw some kids sliding around ahead of us as they bent to clump the snow into small weapons. Just as I was turning to my friend to say something like: "Aren't the kids in Dublin so cute? You know, playing in the snow and all?" one of the boys, not reaching my shoulder in height, yelled something incoherent at me, wound up his snowball-holding arm, and chucked the cold thing right toward my face. Thankfully, I ducked in time and managed not to fall down because of the ice.

[Juliet on the treacherous streets]

He made a break for it and ran across the road toward his other buddies. Wide-eyed and stunned, I looked around for a second trying to decide if he actually meant to hit me in the face. With a quick assessment I decided he, in fact, had aimed directly for my face. I turned around and yelled lamely after him, "Hey you! You, you young kid! That was such a bad idea! Poor choice!!!!"

Then I looked at Juliet as she, too, struggled to walk in trackless-but-fashionable boots and, laughing, shared my amazement, "That kid actually tried to hit me in the face. Stupid kids."

After our 4-hour bus ride home, we saw that Derry, too, was covered in snow. We hailed a Derry taxi and rode back to the student Village. As we pulled up, I was delighted to see dozens of people out on the only little hill within the village. They were decked out in hats, coats, sweatpants, and wellies for warmth; equipped with plastic blow-up chairs, trash can lids, and cardboard boxes for sledding; and armed with many many tightly packed snowballs for war... Someone made a facebook event for a Duncreggan Student Village snowball fight. For the next several hours people were outside (and sometimes inside) our flat causing a ruckus and enjoying the rare snowfall in Derry.

Later that night the girls came in covered in snow and freezing. "Hot chocolate!!" They squealed. "Put the milk on to warm, Rebecca!" And I did.

People watching in Milan is not like people watching anywhere else...

[Angela and a man in Army gear in front of the train station by her house.]

I flew to Italy yesterday morning.
After my traveling companion, Juliet, and I arrived in the Milano Centrale train station (pronounced Mee-LAH-no chin-TRA-lay... ahhh Italian), we spent a few hours people watching. We staked out a spot to sit next to one of the main stair cases. Few people go around the side of the station to take the escalator or search for an elevator. Instead, most people take the three flights that lead up to the cavernous space near where the trains leave.

People watching in Milan is not like people watching anywhere else. Being one of the world's fashion capitals (right there with Paris and NYC) and being Italian, the people just look good. They wear stitched leather shoes, mix their blacks and browns fashionably, and never before have I seen such a number of elderly ladys with fur coats and tiny dogs.

One older gent, in particular caught my attention. Even though Juliet was mid-story, I had to hush her quickly, "Juliet, look! Man lighting his pipe, man lighting his pipe!" I forced myself to nod my head vigorously so as to keep from pointing. He was walking quickly enough to lean into the long gait carrying him past us. His brown fedora, brought far down onto his forehead, had a ribbon of warm color where the leather strip usually buckles. He carried a leather bag in one hand and used the other to light the wise-looking wooden pipe held between his lips. I could see the strong flame flicker from his movement but, as if he often successfully lit his pipe on the go, he had no problem puffing out the first bits of smoke before he left our line of vision.

That night we at italian pizza (hand made and wood-fired by some really kind Arab men), drank wine and made our own focaccia bread with Angela's family's olives. Today we slept in (Juliet and I had only had a 4 hours of sleep traveling here) and then traveled out! We had cappuccinos in a cafe by the train, visited the Castello (several museums inside), walked to the Duomo, listened to a pianist in the cold, and ate the best Italian gelati.
I love Italy.

[The side of the Castle...]


I know I haven't blogged in quite some time. Juliet took a few minutes and blogged last night. She inspired me.

And I like the tourists here.

The waters turn white from jumping onto the top of the strangely hexagonal rocks. They race in and out, in and out. These pillars of stone form the mythic Giant’s Causeway, a unique formation of rocks that were, as they myth tells it, built and partially destroyed by giants. The ocean’s waves arrive and make their crashing, leaping turn back out into the mass of the Atlantic. The sound booms and the white water sprays upward.

The textures in this place are mad. All of the rocks are in cleanly cut stacks, about a foot in diameter. The stacks are unevenly worn away, forming something like hexagonal checkers pieces stacked one on top of the other because of a kinging. Hop scotch here would be epic. Now this place, this inlet of beautifully strange rocks in front of these magnificent cliffs, is a true wonder. Everyone should visit.

And I like the tourists here. They’ve walked or ridden down the long path below along the ocean or the path above along the cliffs and don't seem to be in a hurry. Upon arrival they stand, wander, play about. Pairs and trios find a spot to sit here on the western, sunny side of the rocks. They feel the warmth of the sun, squint their eyes, scrunch their noses, look at each other, sniff the air clean ocean air and smile.

When we first begin walking on the Causeway I look up and see a sort of mist beginning to cover the land farther from us. Turning to my friends I call out, “Hey, it’s raining over there, I think.” And then warn, “It’s about to rain here, too, I think!” Sure enough, the rain runs right over top of us while the sun still shines. I hear a stranger say, “Look out for a rainbow.” Turning around, I breathe deep and close my eyes in reaction to such beauty. A full rainbow stands between me and the cliffs. There are neither leprechauns nor gold, but a gentle peace in abundance as the bright colors begin to my left in the ocean and arch into the sky, returning at the rocks splashed in tide waters.

I and my friends sit on the rocks accompanied by the sonorous and constant waves. Rhey gently comments, “I think this is, like... good for my soul.”

Bright clouds silhouette a mountain pass, creating the background for a mini inlet between the two small peninsulas of the mysteriously formed rocks. Wet, darkened stones shine bright white and grey as the sun hits them.

People give each other turns standing at the crest of the rocks; their bodies cast shadows onto the mist from the crashing waves. This eerily but comfortingly plays on the dramatic light. When the sun has fully arrived I can barely look to the water it reflects the sun so brightly.

“I’m finally starting to feel happy here,” I say, looking at my friends. This place, this journeying out into a new land, it is good for me.

I talked with an warm older Irish lady as we sat waiting for our bus to leave the Causeway. She had a face that looked as though she’d lived through many dark days but smile wrinkles giving light to her eyes. She said, looking out over the hills toward the ocean, “There’s a peace about this place. It’s the infinity of the sea and the light. It’s brilliant.”

I could see humans planting bombs.

[Looking out over Belfast!]

This past weekend I went to Belfast. On the bus there my friend gave me a full hour lecture concerning Northern Irish history and the current state of political affairs.

The bus was pretty full from the start, and we didn’t know the bus’ political composition. In light of the very real bombing last week here in Derry, this was a legitimate concern to me. While she was talking I glanced around, noticing the elderly people sitting a few seats in front of us. I perked my ears to hear the young men around us quip about the RA (IRA). Though I appreciated it, I wanted to hush her relentless (and enthusiastic) retelling of sectarian violence, terrorism, and oppression. These people lived the troubles. They know the rebels, the paramilitaries, the dead, the fear.

I confessed to her, “I simply don’t see any reason for the violence. I’ve spent the last two years concerning myself with the possibility of legitimate causes for a terrorist’s activity. Now that I’ve seen it happen in real life it seems so useless. So dumb and destructive and unwanted.”

My friend was quiet for a bit, then she said something profound. She said they (these Real IRA members who set off the car bomb) may have grown up in the homes of former IRA members who have a family heritage in the republican movement. She said it’s possible that they want something to fight for. She said they probably want to be a part of something bigger than themselves.

And all of the sudden they weren’t monsters without minds and without families and without dreams. I could see humans planting bombs.

Now. None of this realization makes what they did okay. But, so importantly, it re-humanized them to me. I was afraid because I thought I’d found a situation in which dehumanization was a legitimate response. And that scared me. The potential in me to dehumanize is just as real as within a Ku Klux Klan member. I must guard against this inclination.

[A mural along the Falls Road, a Nationalist/Republican area of the city. The left mural reads: "OPPRESSION BREEDS RESISTANCE]

-----------------------------------

As I spent the weekend in Belfast, as city still wrecked in sectarianism, I continued to think about violence. We watched Michael Collins with our newfound Belfast friends. [Michael Collins is an excellent movie--I recommend it to anyone. Liam Neeson... need I say more?] The movie is about the leader of Ireland’s war for the Republic. It is during these years that Northern Ireland voted to remain under British rule.

I want to believe that violence isn’t useful. But I simply can’t. Violence got Ireland their republic--alongside diplomacy, but definitely proceeding that diplomacy. Though it is hell, war gets plenty done from that hell.

What amazes me is the way in which being part of a cause, especially one worth violence, can saturate a life with meaning. And I find myself longing so deeply to be a part of a cause that demands everything from me. Something bigger than living. Something worth killing for.

It is so easy to get caught up in a pursuit of some greater cause. I confess that, in the past, justice has been my god.

As a person of this inclination I must check myself. Why do I want the things I want? Is it because I want to be near Jesus or because I feel a need to infuse my life with meaning? In my clearer moments, I want to follow Jesus until, if necessary, I lose my life. With the grace of God, those moments will become more and more often.

I still believe that the people of the Way are called to love their enemies: that never looks like killing them. I must remember that this doesn’t diminish the depth of our struggle. We must struggle in the name of our God... in love.

[The Peace Wall between the Unionist/Loyalist Shankhill Road and Nationalist/Republican Falls Road.]

People here find violence neither constructive nor effective...

I heard the huge sound and knew immediately it wasn’t fireworks. I leaned out my window to see what I could see. There across from the L shape of our flat's building I saw Melissa opening her window. “Did ye hear that?” She called across to me with her always enthusiastic voice, “Look! There’s fuckin smoke! Look at the smoke! I felt it shake. It’s a fuckin bomb.”

In seconds there were about 7 or eight people gathering in windows across the way and I could hear more people yellin from their windows below me. Imelda and Emma, my flatmates ran into my room speaking quickly; “Did you hear that? What the fuck was that? Awww, fer fuck's sake, it was a bomb... I bet it was at DaVincis, the hotel.”


More and more smoke was raising into the sky about a mile away. "Welcome to Derry," Emma said angrily, walking out of the room.

(Student's returning to their rooms after gathering post-explosion)

---------

A few minutes later, as dozens of students gathered together outside excitedly responding to the bomb, we heard from our friend Emer who had been driving home when the bomb exploded. She texted Emma, letting her know that she missed the bomb by a few minutes (it's on her route home) and that she was okay but shook up.

---------

Two of my flatmates are from the Republic. They both expressed awe and fear over the attack. "We're not used to this," Rachel said, referring the the people from the Republic of Ireland. Imelda confessed that she'd never been so afraid, "I'm rethinking my decision to come up here for Uni. I'm still shakin'."

The situation here is the following: there are some joint initiatives and power-sharing policies between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, but since 1921 the northern province of the island, Ulster, voted to remain a part of the United Kingdom. There is a Protestant, majority in Ulster, as opposed to an overwhelmingly Catholic majority in the southern part of the island. The ones who are actively seeking to maintain connection to the UK are called Unionists (if non-violent) or Loyalists (if advocates of violence).

Traditionally, the Protestants have maintained the greater amount of political, economic, and social control. In the late 1960s and 1970s a civil rights movement (inspired in part by the US Civil Rights Movement) advocating for just treatment of Catholics in Northern Ireland who at the time had fewer cultural, housing, employment, and educational opportunities than the Protestants. They were often treated unfairly within the justice system and targeted unjustly by overwhelmingly Protestant police forces. Nationalist (non-violent) and Republican (violent) groups wanted separation from the UK and unity with the Republic of Ireland.

Terrorist activities peppered and then saturated the movement against an oppressive system. The Irish Republican Army (IRA) bombed pubs and transportation centers. British soldiers and Ulster police attacked civilians. Targeted assassinations from the Ulster Volunteer Foce (UVF) and the IRA became more and more common. Today, nearly everyone in the country has been affected by this violence.

In the late 1990s and just after 2000 a peace agreement began demilitarization of the armed groups and started initiatives of inter-group reconciliation. Since the Good Friday Agreement much of the violence has disappeared.

People here find violence neither constructive nor effective... Most people. There are still some dissident groups, such as the Real IRA (RIRA), who believe they should use violence as a destabilizing force. They want to stir up a resistance movement for the independence of Northern Ireland from the UK. Thus the car bomb at the Ulster Bank.

Apparently, according to the RIRA "The role of bankers and the institutions they serve in financing Britain's colonial and capitalist system has not gone unnoticed...It's essentially a crime spree that benefits a social elite at the expense of many millions of victims" (http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2010/sep/14/real-ira-targets-banks-bankers).

Everyone I've talked to from here would say something like what one of my flatmates said: "“Fuckin bastards. Psychotic, is what it is."

---------

As a result of this dissidant attack there's been a flurry of conversation about the terrorism here in Northern Ireland. Most of my friends from here have experiences, either recent or from their childhood, connected to the sectarian violence of the Troubles:
"You know that pictures of the people on Bloody Sunday? The guy with big glasses in the murals? That was my uncle."
"My uncle died in that attack."
"I was just a cadet for the British Armed Forces. We were fucking kids and the IRA were threatenin' to attack us."
"My granny hasn't marched since that day, Bloody Sunday."
"We were supposed to go out to that pub that night, but decided not to. It was bombed later."



If you're interested in more about the car bomb and responses to it:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-foyle-west-11473586

Tattle Tale Socks

At the top of the hill I take my jacket off and sit gently down on the bench overlooking the River Foyle and the old Arts building. The day is a beautiful, a cool-in-the-wind but warm-in-the-sun kind of day. I was on my way to the practice rooms but I just had to take in some sun. (I think I've developed a Vitamin D deficiency since I came to Ireland. When the sun shines, every moment must be cherished.)

The fall leaves crisp by me, carried by the breeze, and I pull out my journal. I look down at these clothes I put on so carefully today: classic yellow cardigan, favorite rusty v-neck, black high waisted pants, kenyan earrings, necklace from my mom, and black hand-me-down shoes.

I try not to care that, when I cross my legs, my white socks are all exposed against my black shoes and pants. They sit there, those dumb socks, like little tattle tales, whining out to the world that I am not nearly as fashionable as I'd like to be.

I also try not to care that my belly noticeably nudges against my high-waisted pants and tucked in shirt. Tucked in shirts are not all that flattering most of them time. In light of this, however, I think I've started tucking my shirts in because my belly pudges a little. I tuck them in declaring, "I won't hide the way I am! I am who I am in this body! I am this!" I say, trying to smile.

After about forty minutes of enjoying the writing and the sun and the leaves and the bench, I put my jacket back on, tug my pant legs down a bit to cover my white socks, tuck my shirt back in, and head happily down to the practice rooms for the next several hours. And I do smile.

Nothing un-thought

I am struggling with this blog.

I've committed to it.
I regularly regret this commitment.

I don't feel I have anything of significance worked out well enough to say. Why should someone take time to read anything that I write?

My writing, I've held, has actual meaning and is significant as it reveals what I believe is true. I never purposefully write falsities, whether for a research paper or a letter or a facebook comment. When I write for other people (and an indiscriminate number of people, as is the nature of online blogs), I feel as though I am bearing a part of my unrefined and unprotected soul.

This soul-bearing is most dangerous because it is really only true in the moment of its writing; I am not a fixed, definable entity. I change. The writing I do now is only a sketch for thoughts and ideas and parts of me. But what I've written here is--as it is permanently available for public access--carved in stone.

The problematic nature of the public is that is is a carving of something that's moving. It's not quite accurate.
What's written here is an eternal display (as if worthy of display) of a mere momentary sketch.

Yet! I will eternally be sketching and my transient conclusions will never be anything but that-changing. Therefore, If I hold to this notion of protection and privacy until some kind of internal conclusion or completion, I will never write anything for others to see...


And would this be such a tragedy? Is it so important that others see and know what I write? Would the absence of my thoughts, my words, my experiences and ideas be any great loss?

All of these experiences I'm having are so complex that any kind of articulated assessment of them seems premature and pretentious. I think nothing novel. Nothing original. Nothing unprecedented. Nothing un-thought as of today.

I am a processor of connections, a linker of worlds. A line drawer. A sketcher, some might say.
But maybe someone will see something useful or beautiful or worthwhile in a sketch or two...

I live in Duncreggan Student Village (the Village).

There's. So. Much.

I've been in Derry for just half a week.

I've met all 4 of my other flatmates and many of their friends (GREAT people, really! They've been takin care of me.)
I've meet about 30 students from China, the States, France, Germany, Spain, the Philippines, Taiwan, India... (O! And one of the other Americans speaks Arabic! He spent the last two years in Morocco and Egypt. I almost cried when I found out)
I've been to the campus pub for a free drink and good conversation, to a club for dancing, to a cafeteria for some cheap food, to Hannah's apartment for dinner with 5 other Americans (breakfast sandwiches!), to Rhey's apartment for cereal, to the three charity shops for cheap clothes, and to the prayer room on campus.

I think I might join the Gaelic team (check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDwXzyZtKp0&feature=related).
I'm pretty sure I'm taking a piano course (along with a module on Genocide and one on Self, Identity and Conflict and in independently researched and specially supervised course with this brilliant politics professor).
I plan to travel nearly every weekend. I only have class Tuesday and Wednesday.


I am just in love with the Irish way of living together. I know I'm going to learn so much about community while I am here.Not only do the girls who are friends with my flatmates come over and eat full meals together (they've always invited me) but even the people who come by and clean the flats know each person they clean for by name. How often does that happen in the States?

Tonight, after I walked back from the international students' event, some people in my hall saw us from their window, opened it, and shouted for us to come up. We did and joined the party, playing guitar, drinkin beer, makin jokes. A very nice time.



I'm pretty excited about the relationships that are all coming so naturally with both the Irish and the other Internationals. Praise God.

Pray that I find a church.


I like this part of my room. I bought that painting at a charity shop in London... love

I am inclined to receive this

Hi all. It's been a few days. I apologize. For a little while there I wasn't able to get on my computer and for a little while I was too busy and for a little while I was sick. . .

On Saturday of last I woke up extremely late. Friday night was my transition from my first host family to the next, a student at Regent's College. Though I was sleeping on the wooden floor of a friend's dorm room, I slept well into the, ehem, afternoon. I was tired, to say the least.

When I finally left the campus for the day, I didn't get too far. I found myself the most-likely-arabic restaurant (Marco Polos, A Taste of Mediterranean Cuisine) and went in, ordered an english breakfast (NOTE: don't order english breakfast from and restaurant that specializes in pita, hummus, and falafel... it probably won't be very english, or very good.) I found out they were arabs and I said something arabic and from that moment we knew we'd be friends. Though, because I am bit better at Spanish than Arabic and the one man is better at Spanish than English, we mostly spoke in Spanish... for hours. We walked together to retrieve a letter I'd written to Teddy (my beau) in another part of town and enjoyed each other's company. At one point it took a good 5 minutes for me to ask "Have you ever eaten in the Eagle and Child Pub?" It's a pub in Oxford where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein used to met. Trouble is, I didn't even know the word for author in Spanish. Good thing we are both patient people.

That night I enjoyed the pleasant company of my hosts friends at Regent's College. We shared music and plenty of laughs.

Sunday morning I went early to Marco Polos and got free toast and hot morning drinks for me and a friend. "There is no money between friends," said Abu Naser when I pulled out my wallet. I love that so much.

I then quickly made my way out to Virginia Water, a place just outside of London, to spend the day with the people who hosted me my last time through London. The father is the vicar of a parish there. The family is just wonderful. They made me feel so at home; after the service I read C.S. Lewis' "A Pilgrim's Regress," drank tea, ate lunch with the family, and fell asleep curled up on the couch. Katie, the daughter I made fast friends with the last time I was there, and I watched Friends and attended the evening youth service together.

Truly God is good. That day was immensely encouraging. Here's an excerpt from my journal:

"I almost unabashedly accept the way my heart feels, beating a small rhythm and pushing life through my chest... And my beating heart, if I think about its presence, I am nearly confident of hope and a little sad of things left behind, across the large sea. Yet I am inclined to receive this. To know this. I perceive hope and excitement and still a persistant hesitation in my heart."

But God has been speaking to me about knowing Him as my first love. Truly as my first love. To read His word as a letter, a connection, with the most dear love of my life. To pray as if speaking and listening to the one I most want to hear from. To love others as a way to show Him love. Oh! May this be true in my heart.

We must have played Guess Who 15 times

God truly has provided all I need and filled this day with joy.

My first host and her family were wonderful... I stayed two days in a beautiful home in one of the nicest areas of London. Edwardian architecture, I was told.

I ate dinner with them the first night, leftovers the next (I came home too late for dinner) and sushi tonight. Toast for breakfast each day.

Her daughter, a treasure chest of curiosity and kindness, adored me for some reason. We must have played Guess Who 15 times and she asked again and again if I'd come back to see them in January.

Amy, my host, spent hours looking up hostels for me (just in case this second living situation didn't work out) only to find that they were literally all booked. She printed my plane ticket, asked me about my life, told me all about the best things to see in London, and drove me to and from Regent's College to drop me off at Hannah's for the second leg of my journey. Twice.

Today I saw the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace...

went to St. Martin-In-The-Field's church for a free concert, some time in the chapel, and great lunch...

and just delighted in the tourists delighting in being together at Trafalgar square.

I am now staying with Hannah, a friend of a friend, at Regent's College. We just spent the last 1 1/2 talking in her hallway... So good. Tomorrow is The Mayor's Thame's Festival. (http://www.thamesfestival.org/) I'm pumped... and it's all free. Though it may rain.

Cheers,

from London

Later we talked about love.

(photo-Statue of Eros. The most photographed place in London)

I slept! Like the dead, I slept. Very happy dead.

This morning when I woke up I, for a quick moment, forgot about my travels entirely. "Rebecca?" someone called. And then I realized that my host in London was knocking on my door. "If you get up early it will make jetlag less difficult."

Functioning with so much more cogency than the night before, I gathered myself and my things for the day, ate breakfast and wandered off! I decided to first walk Regent's Park, a garden of the Queen herself! A boating lake surrounds much of the garden. The small body of water, lined by willow trees (sometimes weeping, especially when it rains), is play ground to hundreds of geese, ducks, swans, and herons.

I walked into the park and chose a section that looked less tame. It was woodsy and a waterfall sounded through it. I stepped of the traditional path and walked through a bit of mud to sit by the rushing water. I sat there thinking, and then praying and then reading in Genesis, Luke, and Psalms... and of course praying again. God met me there in that park, by those falls. I prayed psalm 23 for the first time with genuine feeling.

You see, this has been very difficult for me, for some reason. I've struggled with feeling quite sad and lonely (especially looking forward to 5 months) and less excited than I wanted to be.

But then! What a wonderful thing God did. He led me, like a good shepherd. I walked over bridges and by ponds and right into a rose garden. I've never seen so many roses! Pink and orange and white... Yellow roses called "Poetry in Motion" and red roses called "England's Best."

As I entered the next section of roses, (a circle of them, in fact) I saw a woman settled on a bench. I don't say sitting, because she was, in fact, making her home there. She had on her trolley 3 suitcases nearly the size of mine, two bags, and an umbrella. Two yellow shirts dried, draped across the back of the bench. It rained yesterday. I stopped to mention the beauty of the day and we got to talking about the garden. "Yes. You see the roses. Everyday they change, becoming different. Losing or growing," she said with an accent. Our small friendship began as I tarried there, chatting. She invited me to sit and for the next hour we proceeded to talk.

Through the awkwardness and in the joy we learned about each other's lives. She came from Romania to be an Opair but, to her horror, the situation turned out to be some kind of scheme and she's been homeless for 2 years now! She showed me her books, including the New Testament and Psalms book someone gave her. Later we talked about love.

She told me she appreciated that I wanted to sit and talk with her. "Most people, they see you with this," she said, pointing to her belongings in transit, "and they want nothing with you. They are not concerned whether you live or die."

Talking with her made me feel so alive! So real and human! I loved it. Before I left she offered me biscuits (cookies) and we hugged. Oh, and a squirrel got real friendly with us...

It Rained... but these people are exceptionally kind.

Arriving in London...

Only an hour after the plane landed, I couldn't help but think, "I've arrived in London and I've absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I can't find my bag. My phone won't work at all. My laptop can't be recharged. I don't know how many pence are in a pound. It's raining... I did get through customs, though!"

When I asked an airport employee whether I could find free wi-fi somewhere, his sympathetic reply was, "There's nothing free here, love. Welcome to the UK!"

Eventually, I made my way across the city on the Underground (the Tube, as it is playfully yet practically referred to here). I got to take the Jubilee Line. Isn't that a great name? I got off at St. John's Wood station. Also a great name. Then I finally laid claim to a table outside Beatles Coffee Shop where I ardently people watched, wrote, and shook my head side to side to keep from falling asleep. I was almost entire successful in avoiding slumber, though I may not have avoided looking slightly insane.

I'm currently staying in a former teacher's sister's home. What generosity on her part. Dinner, rest, a shower, advice for touring London.

I look forward to exploring tomorrow... without my huge 50 lb bag.

I really like the Brits. There's a kindess I've noticed in people here that I've not seen before.

Oh. And I found a painting here in a consignment store that is amazing. Bought it. I need something to put up in my new place!

CHEERS!

Floating...

All day long I’ve been floating in peace. I feel it around me and in me.

I fell asleep at about 1:30 last night (after packing all evening) and woke at 5 today. Running on fewer than 6 hours the night and day before, I’ve been pretty docile for a small lack of energy, but also because I don’t have a sense of urgency or anxiety. I’m pleased to say that, though just found out I may not board the next flight to London and I do not know when the next flight out is, I am still okay.

On sunday my friend, Rachel, asked me, “what are you worried about?” and immediately my mind began spinning about all the things, like wild animals released around me, I could worry about. However, after taking just one moment to review these creatures, I realized that nothing was worry-able: God is bigger and more able than any other power that might come against me or these plans.