I Shall Not Hate by Izzeldin Abuelaish, was a spontaneous gift from a stranger on an airplane flight from Tel Aviv to London. We struck up a conversation across the aisle when lunch or breakfast or whatever meal it was (on airplanes they blend together like time zones) arrived.
I asked her about the book she was reading so intently. She showed it to me and said she’d give it to me when she finished it. I was reading Jesus Freak (Sara Miles) and she was reading I Shall Not Hate. How do such connections happen!! Nimisha is Hindu, a clinical psychologist living in London who travels to Gaza five times a year for two weeks to help treat post-traumatic stress disorder among Palestinians. “I hear horror stories. That’s why I watch dumb movies on airplanes,” she said. “Well, after I finish this book.”
“This book is for everyone,” she said when she, in a short time, passed it across to me.
*******
I thanked her and began to read. The first thing I noticed was that the author was a Palestinian who had grown up in a refugee camp in Gaza and that there was a praise-filled Foreword by a Jewish Israeli physician, Dr. Marek Glezerman, chairman of the Hospital for Women and deputy director of Rabin Medical Center, Israel. Glezerman expressed surprise that Abuelaish, though chronically humiliated by Israeli military border procedures (harrasments really) while traveling for his work, was not “the very angry man I expected to greet.”
On our pilgrimage we visited a refugee camp in Efrata North, south of Jerusalem, established in 1949. We heard a young Arab Muslim, 24, speak of his life there and his dream of returning home to West Jerusalem. He wasn’t angry either but spoke with a kind of derailed depression freckled with hope and good humor. He had 30 hours to go in the university in the camp where, tellingly, he studied psychology and social work. “I’m afraid to graduate,” he told us. “What then? My friend applied for a job in Nablus with 11,000 applicants!” I asked him about his faith in Allah. His answer was simple: “When I choose the good way and pray first.”
As a feisty Christian feminist westerner I felt humbled. How come neither this man nor Abuelaish haven’t given up on God? I thought that until I remembered that I hadn’t either, although my trials have been minor.
Abuelaish is an ObGyn doctor who specializes in infertility medicine. He has a heart for families, mothers and newborns, loss. He was born in a refugee camp in Gaza where life was harsh. But his mother was a “lioness” mother who never let up on him about study, study study. He obeyed and eventually received a scholarship award and went to study medicine. Life in Gaza remained restrictive, and travel back and forth to work required him to cultivate teeth-gritting patience.
Through unimaginable suffering and tragic loss Abuelaish persisted. I Shall Not Hate is his memoir. It’s his testament to his religious faith and to the friendships of many Israeli colleagues who helped him and value his work and person. I’m reminded of the New Testament story of the friends who removed roof tiles to lower their paralyzed buddy on his stretcher down through a roof so he could bypass crowds to get to Jesus for healing. And Jesus told him faith had made him well—his own and that of his friends.
********
Chapter One, titled “Sand and Sky” begins: “It was as close to heaven and as far from hell as I could get that day, an isolated stretch of beach just two and a half miles from the misery of Gaza City, where waves roll up on the shore as if to wash away yesterday and leave a fresh start for tomorrow. We probably looked like any other family at the beach—...” I was hooked.
Abuelaish had brought his two sons and six daughters plus cousins, aunts and uncles to the beach to find peace in the midst of grief at the premature death of his wife Nadia from leukemia just two weeks after diagnosis. Little did Abuelaish know that in a short time his home would be the target, mistaken but never apologized for, of a fatal shelling during the 23-day siege of Gaza (Dec., 2009 into 2010) in which more family members would die. The sustained attack was designed to intimidate Hamas, retaliation for their suicide bombings. But instead it murdered innocent people. Under a photo of himself in a graveyard Abuelaish wrote: “No caption can express a father’s loss.”
Feelings of agony, rage, terror, love, patience, and hope course side by side through this book but never overwhelm the story, nor the author’s peace and friendship platform. The prose is clear and direct—accessible. No facts, no matter how painful, are sentimentalized, minimalized, or sensationalized. This is the work of an ordered mind that manages to stay sane in the midst of insanity. He never blames Israelis for their government’s actions.
Medicine is his practice, healing physical illness and souls as it creates a level playing field of need and compassionate care. Strong Muslim faith is his stronghold. “For the three weeks during the war, we lost our belief in humanity, so God and each other were all we had left.” AND....... friends on the other side. “The tank pointing its guns at my house ... looked like the angel of death. I called Shlomi Eldar.” Eldar, his friend on the putative other side, managed to engineer a military inquiry into the matter and also set up an interview on Israeli radio. The story went viral and that crisis was averted—until the next one.
At one point Abuelaish ran for public office in Gaza as an independent, thinking it might be a way to work for change. His campaign platform stressed the same issues (poverty, health, education) as the Hamas platform. But Abuelaish’s campaign included raising the status of women. Abuelaish lost.
In 2009 he won the Niarchos Prize for Survivorship. How ironic there is such a prize. It is given by the Survivor Corps an organization that works to break cycles of victimization and violence. Nomika Zion, an Israeli woman, shared the prize with Abuelaish. She and other neighboring Israelis, act and lobby in solidarity with Gazans.
Zion (I love the irony of the name!) accepted the award and spoke against the glorification of war. “I am frightened that we are losing the human ability to see the other side, to feel, to be horrified and to show empathy. It’s our obligation to make our leaders talk, to compel them to tell us, for a change, a different story.” Abuelaish in his acceptance speech encouraged action and to think forward together. “The dignity of Palestinians equals the dignity of Israelis . . .” Does that sound familiar?
*******
Having finally to make the hard decision to leave Gaza, Abuelaish got a job and moved his family to Toronto where his children could experience safety and hope for a future. But he plans to return to his native land and continue his healing mission to encourage an internal shift from hate to respect, on both sides at grassroots levels. He isn’t the first to have such a dream.
The very first activity his younger children performed at their new home in Toronto was to take down a section of the fence between their house and the neighbors so the kids could run back and forth. “How prophetic that I witnessed what I had been dreaming about for years for our two neighbors, Israel and Palestine,” Abuelaish wrote.
*******
DAUGHTERS FOR LIFE is the foundation Abuelaish has started. It is dedicated to change the status and role of women through the provision of scholarships for high school and university education. Ultimately he hopes his foundation will create a credible voice for female values throughout the Middle East. I just made a small gift online.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Sunday, July 15, 2012
2012.07.15 Planning End Times—Or Not
I’m taking a break from Israel because I need one for now. Too intense. Also, it’s Sunday—and in the simmering 90s, hotter than the hinges of hell they say. There is no hell and if there is it surely doesn’t have doors with hinges and knockers.
I don’t think much about hell or heaven or death much—at all. Too intense and I feel too vital. But if I do I start to cry because I love life too much to die.
Nevertheless, to be sensible, Dick & I made our first foray into planning ahead so our children won't have to make decisions for us when the time comes when we must live less independently.
We’d like to stay where we are as we age and we’ve picked out our hospital. City R us.
A colleague wrote, Bravo to you both! She and her siblings had tried unsuccessfully to argue her parents out of retiring on one coast when all four kids were on the other. But........ “They had community and history, something that would have been missing in any of our four regions, and they could still come visit. So choosing a place that has other folk you like, if possible, is a solution that really has worked for them. Now, of course, it means schlepping cross-country for each of us, repeatedly, but I suspect it's a fair price to pay for their contentedness.”
So that’s our one plan. So what if we don’t have lots of friends here yet. No offspring has complained. Did we tell them all? At least none of them has to schlepp cross-country. Unless they move—their problem.
So far I’m doing better than my mother, a must at all times. My sister and I had to make that nursing home decision for her. She acquiesced but...... I wished she’d planned or even said anything about it at all. Not a word, not her style.
“So how is it here, Mom?” I finally asked imagining the worst. “Oh, it’s not bad,” she said, then told me how she had a good woman friend. “Just my age. We sit in our wheelchairs and watch all the old men wobble by,” she laughed.
Mom didn’t seem fussed by the mushy tasteless food or the odors. She had no sense of smell, and doesn’t taste exit with that? She actually seemed content. Of course one of the staff let on that “Verbal abuse” was written all over her chart.
The good thing about Mom was that she never made us feel guilty because she made a mockery of everything. She even showed off with pride all the Bingo prizes she’d won—a champ despite advancing macular degeneration. I still have one of them, a little glass red heart. It’s so tacky I love it.
I urge planning ahead. It’s a control issue to laud. It’s also a loving thing to do. You’re also supposed to talk about all this with your children or someone. All you need is a listening mutual conversation.
So far we’ve not talked about anything and have visited only that one place.
I don’t think much about hell or heaven or death much—at all. Too intense and I feel too vital. But if I do I start to cry because I love life too much to die.
Nevertheless, to be sensible, Dick & I made our first foray into planning ahead so our children won't have to make decisions for us when the time comes when we must live less independently.
We’d like to stay where we are as we age and we’ve picked out our hospital. City R us.
A colleague wrote, Bravo to you both! She and her siblings had tried unsuccessfully to argue her parents out of retiring on one coast when all four kids were on the other. But........ “They had community and history, something that would have been missing in any of our four regions, and they could still come visit. So choosing a place that has other folk you like, if possible, is a solution that really has worked for them. Now, of course, it means schlepping cross-country for each of us, repeatedly, but I suspect it's a fair price to pay for their contentedness.”
So that’s our one plan. So what if we don’t have lots of friends here yet. No offspring has complained. Did we tell them all? At least none of them has to schlepp cross-country. Unless they move—their problem.
So far I’m doing better than my mother, a must at all times. My sister and I had to make that nursing home decision for her. She acquiesced but...... I wished she’d planned or even said anything about it at all. Not a word, not her style.
“So how is it here, Mom?” I finally asked imagining the worst. “Oh, it’s not bad,” she said, then told me how she had a good woman friend. “Just my age. We sit in our wheelchairs and watch all the old men wobble by,” she laughed.
Mom didn’t seem fussed by the mushy tasteless food or the odors. She had no sense of smell, and doesn’t taste exit with that? She actually seemed content. Of course one of the staff let on that “Verbal abuse” was written all over her chart.
The good thing about Mom was that she never made us feel guilty because she made a mockery of everything. She even showed off with pride all the Bingo prizes she’d won—a champ despite advancing macular degeneration. I still have one of them, a little glass red heart. It’s so tacky I love it.
I urge planning ahead. It’s a control issue to laud. It’s also a loving thing to do. You’re also supposed to talk about all this with your children or someone. All you need is a listening mutual conversation.
So far we’ve not talked about anything and have visited only that one place.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
2012.07.11 In the Beginning.....
Packing is not our forte. But all journeys begin with packing.
Every day in Israel the marching orders were the same: water/water/water, hats, name tags (the College isn’t suspect) and sound systems. Also sunscreen recommended. And every day one of us forgot one item or another, usually water, because we all knew that the bus driver had some for sale on the bus. But at least daily outfitting was clear and simple.
I have to be honest, it's never been easy for me to travel light like Jesus recommended. The day before we left I rushed down to Harvard Square just in case Eastern Mountain Sports had something lighter than my safari vest and maybe pants with a million pockets. I hate to carry huge bags and backpack. I thought if I had enough pockets I might be able to swing my arms free. I also hated the ersatz wallet hanging around my neck or strapped around my belly cinched beneath my tee shirt in the front making me look mildly with child. Despite my resolve I obviously was not leaving vanity behind as much as I’d intended.
But LO! EMS had everything including underwear advertised to dry in mere hours that you could stomp on to dry if you liked. They guaranteed that you could go on a 3-week trip with three pairs. True. (But underwear doesn’t take up much room anyway.)
I found crop pants with pockets big enough to hold my water bottle and Kleenex, even my faded Nantucket red brimmed baseball hat if I squished the brim. I hate hats too. Best of all, these pants had an expandable tie waist.
Dick agreed to carry money and passports around his own dear neck so I was all set. Everything crammed into one small bag even two floaty dresses in case I porked up or there was the requisite Anglican cocktail hour of wine, or sherry, and cheese. I did and there was.
Toiletries traveled in a smaller bag and a beach bag held a raincoat (England was part of this trip,) a satchel for gifts we might bring home, and sneakers I never wore tied together for safety.
In a last minute wave of irresistible sentimentality, I grabbed the “babies” and stuffed them into my bag—stowaways, but not Palestinians. The “babies” are two miniature hedgehogs named Ganley, not prickly as real hedgehogs are, but round and plush and cuddly. They sleep with us. This kind of thing sometimes happens as you get a little into dotage, and/or when you feel about four years old emotionally because you’re not at all sure you are really old enough yourself to be making such a big trip.
Honestly we looked like Tommie and Tillie Tourist posing as sophisticates at 5:30a.m. waiting for our taxi. Dick may not (will not) agree with all this humor but when I confessed that the “babies” were on board he grinned.
Getting out of the US was more stressful than we’d expected not having traveled internationally for many years. We got through the patting down and the Xrays, me worrying that I looked fat, but there was some question about the size of the extra large mousse in my cosmetic case. It was the only vanity item I had, save for one lipstick and an ancient eyebrow pencil my daughters die laughing over.
The inspector questioned me and said he’d have to confiscate the mousse. “Ok,” I said sweetly. He smiled and put it back in my case. “We learn to read faces,” he said. Goofy ones!
We grabbed stuff and rushed off—leaving the contents of two other trays behind. One contained my purse and the other the laptop. Rushing back to grab our items, we spotted the man who’d queried the mousse. He was laughing out loud, probably reassured he’d read our innocence correctly.
You have no idea how much unnecessary food I piled in once we got safely to the lounge with all our stuff in tow.
Our voyage was bon, and we matured considerably en route. When we arrived, bedraggled for our London overnight, a lovely man named Fernando invited us, after official closing time, into the restaurant for a delicious plate of pasta, comfort food. He told us some of his faith story—raised in Portugal as a devout Roman Catholic but not really believing much of it—and asked us to pray for him in the Holy Land.
We did.
Every day in Israel the marching orders were the same: water/water/water, hats, name tags (the College isn’t suspect) and sound systems. Also sunscreen recommended. And every day one of us forgot one item or another, usually water, because we all knew that the bus driver had some for sale on the bus. But at least daily outfitting was clear and simple.
I have to be honest, it's never been easy for me to travel light like Jesus recommended. The day before we left I rushed down to Harvard Square just in case Eastern Mountain Sports had something lighter than my safari vest and maybe pants with a million pockets. I hate to carry huge bags and backpack. I thought if I had enough pockets I might be able to swing my arms free. I also hated the ersatz wallet hanging around my neck or strapped around my belly cinched beneath my tee shirt in the front making me look mildly with child. Despite my resolve I obviously was not leaving vanity behind as much as I’d intended.
But LO! EMS had everything including underwear advertised to dry in mere hours that you could stomp on to dry if you liked. They guaranteed that you could go on a 3-week trip with three pairs. True. (But underwear doesn’t take up much room anyway.)
I found crop pants with pockets big enough to hold my water bottle and Kleenex, even my faded Nantucket red brimmed baseball hat if I squished the brim. I hate hats too. Best of all, these pants had an expandable tie waist.
Dick agreed to carry money and passports around his own dear neck so I was all set. Everything crammed into one small bag even two floaty dresses in case I porked up or there was the requisite Anglican cocktail hour of wine, or sherry, and cheese. I did and there was.
Toiletries traveled in a smaller bag and a beach bag held a raincoat (England was part of this trip,) a satchel for gifts we might bring home, and sneakers I never wore tied together for safety.
In a last minute wave of irresistible sentimentality, I grabbed the “babies” and stuffed them into my bag—stowaways, but not Palestinians. The “babies” are two miniature hedgehogs named Ganley, not prickly as real hedgehogs are, but round and plush and cuddly. They sleep with us. This kind of thing sometimes happens as you get a little into dotage, and/or when you feel about four years old emotionally because you’re not at all sure you are really old enough yourself to be making such a big trip.
Honestly we looked like Tommie and Tillie Tourist posing as sophisticates at 5:30a.m. waiting for our taxi. Dick may not (will not) agree with all this humor but when I confessed that the “babies” were on board he grinned.
Getting out of the US was more stressful than we’d expected not having traveled internationally for many years. We got through the patting down and the Xrays, me worrying that I looked fat, but there was some question about the size of the extra large mousse in my cosmetic case. It was the only vanity item I had, save for one lipstick and an ancient eyebrow pencil my daughters die laughing over.
The inspector questioned me and said he’d have to confiscate the mousse. “Ok,” I said sweetly. He smiled and put it back in my case. “We learn to read faces,” he said. Goofy ones!
We grabbed stuff and rushed off—leaving the contents of two other trays behind. One contained my purse and the other the laptop. Rushing back to grab our items, we spotted the man who’d queried the mousse. He was laughing out loud, probably reassured he’d read our innocence correctly.
You have no idea how much unnecessary food I piled in once we got safely to the lounge with all our stuff in tow.
Our voyage was bon, and we matured considerably en route. When we arrived, bedraggled for our London overnight, a lovely man named Fernando invited us, after official closing time, into the restaurant for a delicious plate of pasta, comfort food. He told us some of his faith story—raised in Portugal as a devout Roman Catholic but not really believing much of it—and asked us to pray for him in the Holy Land.
We did.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
2012.07. 08 West of Eden
When we left St. George’s College in Jerusalem the departure briefing was, well, complete. We were told how to behave exactly and what to say when and if we were questioned getting through security at Tel Aviv. For example, if asked where the college was located we were NOT to say East Jerusalem but rather near the AMERICAN Colony Hotel, or on Salah Hadin Street, or across from the Israeli District Court. And please no attempts at cuteness or humor.
We ditched our nail and mustache scissors and put our course certificates of graduation and the St. George’s ceramic tile (sharp-edged weapon?) we’d all received in one envelope. Opting for transparency. We had nothing to hide except our nerves.
At the airport we were shuffled into a long line to go through security. We and one other man were pulled out of line. We didn’t know why. The young man security guard was very courteous and asked us where we had been, stayed, how long and were we alone, etc? Who directed this course? Dick said Kamal Farah. I was thinking the name of the American Dean of the college might have been less provocative than a Palestinian name, Christian Episcopal priest or no. But truth will out, and Dick brilliantly added a detail—that Kamal had taught at HEBREW University.
The man behind us said these interrogations used to be much worse. I took that as a good sign. Proceedings continued with careful inspections of the infamous tile. The supervisor was called in on the case. The tile passed.
Dick’s passport took more time. Several times he was asked to take off his glasses while someone looked from his face back to the passport and back again. He gave his most endearing smile. They at last established he was who he is, just 10 years older. Thank God for age, not a usual recipient of thanksgiving. A couple of light jokes about age passed between us and the inspector. We were your age once, etc. etc. It eased the mood.
My passport was questioned as to my name. Not same as husband’s? Which was in question, the name, the husband, or my seemingly unattached status? It took two tries but I finally identified my first husband's name and said my maiden name was my middle name.
The good part was that we were now free of the still lengthy slow line and proceeded to the Xray process ahead of others still in line. Dick’s bag was opened. What was his Rx mouthwash? For gums. I half expected the woman inspector to ask him if it worked.
All carry-ons and luggage stamped and approved we left, casually sauntering to Executive Lounge. We wanted to run.
Theories about being singled out: we looked older and shouldn’t have to wait in a long line? Arbitrary/random tactics? We looked innocent enough to be suspicious?
What I take away however is the respect we were showed by the young man and the smile on his face most of the time. More friendliness than we were led to expect we’d receive, and a grace we returned.
************
On the plane I met a beautiful woman who gave me a gift—what a grace-incidence.
We struck up a conversation and shared laughter when the young woman’s opposing seat-mate immediately raised the screen between the seats. “I smiled at her but now she can’t see me. So I’ll smile at you,” the woman said to me. I, sitting across the aisle, returned the smile.
(The seats in business class are arranged in a way that one person sits facing forward and the other facing rear. They form a unit almost like a lovers’ curved S-shaped couch. But an opaque barrier can be raised between the two, for privacy. You don’t have to look at your seat-mate. )
I spotted the title I Shall Not Hate on the book the woman pulled out to read. I’d seen it in a bookshop in Jerusalem and the title felt magnetic. “It’s a great book,”she said. “I’m almost finished with it. I cried a lot reading though. When I’m done I’ll give it to you. We all need this book.”
I told her no need I’d get it…... but by the time the food started arriving she handed it to me in a generous way I neither could nor would refuse. I began to read it. The author Izzeldin Abuelaish is a Palestinian physician who began his life in a refugee camp in Gaza, not unlike one we’d visited on our pilgrimage. This is his memoir. His wife died young of cancer, and he lost three daughters to Israeli military shells on his home. He has treated patients on both sides of the conflict, has worked with Israeili medical people, and received help from them in his time of greatest need. Abuelaish now lives and teaches in Toronto—and never forgets his beloved family home in Gaza.
An Israeli Jewish physician, Dr. Marek Glezerman, chairman of the Hospital for Women and deputy director of Rabin Medical Center, wrote a Foreward proclaiming Abuelaish as one who could and would promote relationships between Palestinians and Jewish girls. It is his memory and dream. He has started a foundation to support the long hard work of building relationships based on truth not ideology.
I haven’t finished the book but I must relate one incident Abuelaish recounts. Going back and forth to work weekly between Jerusalem where he worked and Gaza where he lived in the mid 90s was fraught with frustration for the good doctor. Initially the hassle came from both sides, Palestinian harassment from Hamas and grief from Israel border patrol on the other side. The guards were rude and gruff. He stayed patient. After a time they got to know Abuelaish, to “accept my existence,” he writes. Enough to ask him for prescriptions for birth control pills for their girlfriends, because he specialized in infertility medicine.
Once a security agent stopped him, not to dispute his papers but to ask a personal question. She was getting married and her menstrual period was due two days before the wedding. Did he have any advice for delaying her period? He did and took time to give her the information she needed.
************
As we prepared to de-board in London I thanked my new friend again for the book and asked, prompted by some of the themes of the book, her dark skin, and the specialized meal she received, if she were a Muslim. She is Hindu and works as a clinical psychologist who lives and practices in London but goes to Gaza for two week stints about five times a year to help with the treatment of victims of trauma who suffer from chronic post-traumatic stress syndrome.
“It’s such a little time to give really, but the stories I hear. I Skype my friends every day for my own trauma. And I watch dumb movies on TV.”
I thanked this woman of faith for her ministry and thanked God, by whatever name, whose healing knows no bounds and no barriers, even opaque ones.
We ditched our nail and mustache scissors and put our course certificates of graduation and the St. George’s ceramic tile (sharp-edged weapon?) we’d all received in one envelope. Opting for transparency. We had nothing to hide except our nerves.
At the airport we were shuffled into a long line to go through security. We and one other man were pulled out of line. We didn’t know why. The young man security guard was very courteous and asked us where we had been, stayed, how long and were we alone, etc? Who directed this course? Dick said Kamal Farah. I was thinking the name of the American Dean of the college might have been less provocative than a Palestinian name, Christian Episcopal priest or no. But truth will out, and Dick brilliantly added a detail—that Kamal had taught at HEBREW University.
The man behind us said these interrogations used to be much worse. I took that as a good sign. Proceedings continued with careful inspections of the infamous tile. The supervisor was called in on the case. The tile passed.
Dick’s passport took more time. Several times he was asked to take off his glasses while someone looked from his face back to the passport and back again. He gave his most endearing smile. They at last established he was who he is, just 10 years older. Thank God for age, not a usual recipient of thanksgiving. A couple of light jokes about age passed between us and the inspector. We were your age once, etc. etc. It eased the mood.
My passport was questioned as to my name. Not same as husband’s? Which was in question, the name, the husband, or my seemingly unattached status? It took two tries but I finally identified my first husband's name and said my maiden name was my middle name.
The good part was that we were now free of the still lengthy slow line and proceeded to the Xray process ahead of others still in line. Dick’s bag was opened. What was his Rx mouthwash? For gums. I half expected the woman inspector to ask him if it worked.
All carry-ons and luggage stamped and approved we left, casually sauntering to Executive Lounge. We wanted to run.
Theories about being singled out: we looked older and shouldn’t have to wait in a long line? Arbitrary/random tactics? We looked innocent enough to be suspicious?
What I take away however is the respect we were showed by the young man and the smile on his face most of the time. More friendliness than we were led to expect we’d receive, and a grace we returned.
************
On the plane I met a beautiful woman who gave me a gift—what a grace-incidence.
We struck up a conversation and shared laughter when the young woman’s opposing seat-mate immediately raised the screen between the seats. “I smiled at her but now she can’t see me. So I’ll smile at you,” the woman said to me. I, sitting across the aisle, returned the smile.
(The seats in business class are arranged in a way that one person sits facing forward and the other facing rear. They form a unit almost like a lovers’ curved S-shaped couch. But an opaque barrier can be raised between the two, for privacy. You don’t have to look at your seat-mate. )
I spotted the title I Shall Not Hate on the book the woman pulled out to read. I’d seen it in a bookshop in Jerusalem and the title felt magnetic. “It’s a great book,”she said. “I’m almost finished with it. I cried a lot reading though. When I’m done I’ll give it to you. We all need this book.”
I told her no need I’d get it…... but by the time the food started arriving she handed it to me in a generous way I neither could nor would refuse. I began to read it. The author Izzeldin Abuelaish is a Palestinian physician who began his life in a refugee camp in Gaza, not unlike one we’d visited on our pilgrimage. This is his memoir. His wife died young of cancer, and he lost three daughters to Israeli military shells on his home. He has treated patients on both sides of the conflict, has worked with Israeili medical people, and received help from them in his time of greatest need. Abuelaish now lives and teaches in Toronto—and never forgets his beloved family home in Gaza.
An Israeli Jewish physician, Dr. Marek Glezerman, chairman of the Hospital for Women and deputy director of Rabin Medical Center, wrote a Foreward proclaiming Abuelaish as one who could and would promote relationships between Palestinians and Jewish girls. It is his memory and dream. He has started a foundation to support the long hard work of building relationships based on truth not ideology.
I haven’t finished the book but I must relate one incident Abuelaish recounts. Going back and forth to work weekly between Jerusalem where he worked and Gaza where he lived in the mid 90s was fraught with frustration for the good doctor. Initially the hassle came from both sides, Palestinian harassment from Hamas and grief from Israel border patrol on the other side. The guards were rude and gruff. He stayed patient. After a time they got to know Abuelaish, to “accept my existence,” he writes. Enough to ask him for prescriptions for birth control pills for their girlfriends, because he specialized in infertility medicine.
Once a security agent stopped him, not to dispute his papers but to ask a personal question. She was getting married and her menstrual period was due two days before the wedding. Did he have any advice for delaying her period? He did and took time to give her the information she needed.
************
As we prepared to de-board in London I thanked my new friend again for the book and asked, prompted by some of the themes of the book, her dark skin, and the specialized meal she received, if she were a Muslim. She is Hindu and works as a clinical psychologist who lives and practices in London but goes to Gaza for two week stints about five times a year to help with the treatment of victims of trauma who suffer from chronic post-traumatic stress syndrome.
“It’s such a little time to give really, but the stories I hear. I Skype my friends every day for my own trauma. And I watch dumb movies on TV.”
I thanked this woman of faith for her ministry and thanked God, by whatever name, whose healing knows no bounds and no barriers, even opaque ones.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
2012.07.04 Tender Icon of Hope
Worship in London on Sunday before we left for home was beautiful, although full as always with He's and he's and Hims...and lots of Fathers.
The parish, All Saints Margaret St. does not let women priests celebrate. Clergy are working on it slowly but surely. Building rehab came first of course. And it is elegant.
I tell you, despite great music uplift and Eucharist and a good sermon, I felt excluded from both humanity and divinity by the all-male language for things holy/godly.
And there was the gospel read from Mark, chapter 5, in which Jesus heals the daughter of Jairus, president of the local synagogue, and calls the girl "daughter" .......AND the hemorrhaging woman whom he also restores to health and the human community. TWO females included into community, religious and social. So what is wrong with this picture in so many of our churches?
I do think it will take a healing miracle of Jesus to bust up two of the two most recalcitrant idols in most liturgical churches: pews and language. Social justice thrives outside the walls, but what about justice in the worship language? OK, my soapbox again.
I was myself healed from my ire as my attention was captivated watching a young family with 2 small daughters, maybe 4 and 2. And a baby doll. The 4year old cared for her baby and never complained. The 2 year old slept and only peeped when Mom tried to apply a brush to her knotted hair. She deftly avoided the brush by swiveling her head fast.
The 4 year old in time asked her dad to lift her up so she could see. Her attention was riveted on the lovely statue in front of her of the BVM (not the latest car but, for those who might not know, the Blessed Virgin Mary.)
The statue represents Mary as Queen of Heaven all crowned and majestic, her right arm supporting Jesus, of toddler age. He holds an orb as if it were his ball to play with and his right foot and right hand swing out and point outward towards the observer. Go!
The little girl began to swing her foot in and out, (imitatio dei,) a feat that looks easy in statuary but didn't quite work for Daddy's grasp. Down she came but later Daddy took her up to see the votive candles in front of the Mary and Jesus statue and with great patience and care showed her how to light a small candle carefully, then place her coin in the slot. She nodded vigorously and pointed up to Mary. She knew something. God knows what:)
Flesh and blood icons are the best.
*******
Happy and blessed American Independence Day. We are lucky. Despite my critiques I am patriotic. America, home of the mostly free and the occasionally brave, my home. We struggle still with the vision of equity and democracy
And pray for peace and inter-dependence for Israelis and Palestinians......... and for all those who have courage to serve their country and still ask dream of a war-free peace.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
2012.07.01 Israel With Love
To wrap up our 2-week whirlwind stay in Israel we used our free time to take a taxi to Ein Karem on the outskirts of Jerusalem to get a dose of beauty, always soul-food.
We and two people from the St George’s course, both parish priests, a man from Newfoundland and a woman from Australia, went to the Hadassah Hospital. The hospital’s synagogue houses the Chagall stained glass windows.
Marc Chagall an orthodox Russian Jew and artist designed and executed the windows. Each one represents one of the blessings (biblical) that the patriarch Jacob gave to each of his 12 sons, each now representing the 12 tribes of Israel. It’s history and biblical mythology/parable to me, but here there is a high degree of biblical literalism. Either way worthy or remembering for the God who gives blessing and creativity.
We were welcomed into the synagogue by a pleasant friendly woman who explained the 20-minute tour. You sit in seats arranged in a square of three sides. One must never have one’s back to the torah scrolls on one side so we had to circle back round so as not to pass by the Torah. The presentation was a careful explanation of the symbology of each window and then when music played you did the musical chairs number so to face the next set of 3 windows.
The colors are vivid and the imagery rich. I had a sense of the universal in the midst of the particularity of this nation’s biblical history. Each window is dominated by a particular color and symbols that bespeak the tribe’s identity.
My beloved Dick, aka Sim, is actually descended from the tribe of Simeon. (Some of the Jews of this tribe ended up in Italy in one of the many dispersions.) Simeon’s window is red for blood —a warlike tribe, the most contentious of them all, except maybe Benjamin. My Sim can be a bit hot-blooded at times :)
Hadassah is a women’s Zionist organization of America founded in 1912. Zionist good works and zeal are not new. Today the Hadassah Medical Center is a teaching hospital and a huge complex with what seems like a mall in the middle of it:) Very American. Their mission is that medicine is to serve as a bridge-builder, healer of illness and relationships. There are Arabs, Jews, Muslims all working, teaching and training there together. And all patients receive equal treatment regardless of race, religion, etc.
Our Palestinian taxi driver told us, in broken English as he dropped us off, that everyone worked there together. He smiled with great pride and pleasure. It made me feel good. If left to the average man and woman and child there would probably be a better chance at peaceful living.
In the 1967 war some of the windows were damaged. Chagall came to restore them and said, “You take care of the war and I’ll take care of the windows.” At no cost. He left a bullet hole in one of the bright blue glass pains—I typo’ed the wrong spelling. It should be pane, but maybe not. The bullet hole remains as a sign of remembrance, reminder of how fragile human resolve can be when it comes to loving your neighbor as the one God commands.
I felt an uplift and thought again that the arts are able to offer images in words and pictures, drama and music, and good speaking, that transcend the ugliness that often accompanies human discourse.
After farewell and stuffing suitcases we all left the college and the befuddled Jerusalem with full hearts and confused heads.
Jerusalem the city of tears. Jerusalem seems to have a full measure of beauty and an equal measure of misery—and all over the one God they share and can not share, the God whose desire is always to have mercy.
*******
One night in Tel Aviv in a luxurious hotel facing a beach and the blessed true-blue lightly salted (that is, not loaded like the Dead Sea) Mediterranean. The Mediterranean takes me back to 5th grade geography and ancient world studies. So swimming in the Mediterranean felt like a thrilling dip into time itself.
Tel Aviv today, however, represents modernity if nothing else. It’s as religiously secular as Jerusalem is religiously religious—each having its own rituals.
Tel Aviv caters to the international community. I love hearing all kinds of languages sounding in the lobby and restaurants. The resortish area looks a bit like Miami, high-rise hotels stacked up sideways along the beach area and more tourists than God has critters. Having fun in the sun, which is hot but not punishing thanks to the sea, the sea, the beautiful sea.
The beach sand is silken, so welcoming your foot sinks straights in, cozily wrapped, a safe kind of feeling like a kitty settling into a soft lap for a purr. The sea is salty, bathtub warm, and oddly refreshing, its small waves bouncing you from all side. Delicious.
Littering the sand are many small objects—not shells but cigarette butts. I want to be horrified and righteous—until I remember that there is no such thing as an unmixed blessing.
We and two people from the St George’s course, both parish priests, a man from Newfoundland and a woman from Australia, went to the Hadassah Hospital. The hospital’s synagogue houses the Chagall stained glass windows.
Marc Chagall an orthodox Russian Jew and artist designed and executed the windows. Each one represents one of the blessings (biblical) that the patriarch Jacob gave to each of his 12 sons, each now representing the 12 tribes of Israel. It’s history and biblical mythology/parable to me, but here there is a high degree of biblical literalism. Either way worthy or remembering for the God who gives blessing and creativity.
We were welcomed into the synagogue by a pleasant friendly woman who explained the 20-minute tour. You sit in seats arranged in a square of three sides. One must never have one’s back to the torah scrolls on one side so we had to circle back round so as not to pass by the Torah. The presentation was a careful explanation of the symbology of each window and then when music played you did the musical chairs number so to face the next set of 3 windows.
The colors are vivid and the imagery rich. I had a sense of the universal in the midst of the particularity of this nation’s biblical history. Each window is dominated by a particular color and symbols that bespeak the tribe’s identity.
My beloved Dick, aka Sim, is actually descended from the tribe of Simeon. (Some of the Jews of this tribe ended up in Italy in one of the many dispersions.) Simeon’s window is red for blood —a warlike tribe, the most contentious of them all, except maybe Benjamin. My Sim can be a bit hot-blooded at times :)
Hadassah is a women’s Zionist organization of America founded in 1912. Zionist good works and zeal are not new. Today the Hadassah Medical Center is a teaching hospital and a huge complex with what seems like a mall in the middle of it:) Very American. Their mission is that medicine is to serve as a bridge-builder, healer of illness and relationships. There are Arabs, Jews, Muslims all working, teaching and training there together. And all patients receive equal treatment regardless of race, religion, etc.
Our Palestinian taxi driver told us, in broken English as he dropped us off, that everyone worked there together. He smiled with great pride and pleasure. It made me feel good. If left to the average man and woman and child there would probably be a better chance at peaceful living.
In the 1967 war some of the windows were damaged. Chagall came to restore them and said, “You take care of the war and I’ll take care of the windows.” At no cost. He left a bullet hole in one of the bright blue glass pains—I typo’ed the wrong spelling. It should be pane, but maybe not. The bullet hole remains as a sign of remembrance, reminder of how fragile human resolve can be when it comes to loving your neighbor as the one God commands.
I felt an uplift and thought again that the arts are able to offer images in words and pictures, drama and music, and good speaking, that transcend the ugliness that often accompanies human discourse.
After farewell and stuffing suitcases we all left the college and the befuddled Jerusalem with full hearts and confused heads.
Jerusalem the city of tears. Jerusalem seems to have a full measure of beauty and an equal measure of misery—and all over the one God they share and can not share, the God whose desire is always to have mercy.
*******
One night in Tel Aviv in a luxurious hotel facing a beach and the blessed true-blue lightly salted (that is, not loaded like the Dead Sea) Mediterranean. The Mediterranean takes me back to 5th grade geography and ancient world studies. So swimming in the Mediterranean felt like a thrilling dip into time itself.
Tel Aviv today, however, represents modernity if nothing else. It’s as religiously secular as Jerusalem is religiously religious—each having its own rituals.
Tel Aviv caters to the international community. I love hearing all kinds of languages sounding in the lobby and restaurants. The resortish area looks a bit like Miami, high-rise hotels stacked up sideways along the beach area and more tourists than God has critters. Having fun in the sun, which is hot but not punishing thanks to the sea, the sea, the beautiful sea.
The beach sand is silken, so welcoming your foot sinks straights in, cozily wrapped, a safe kind of feeling like a kitty settling into a soft lap for a purr. The sea is salty, bathtub warm, and oddly refreshing, its small waves bouncing you from all side. Delicious.
Littering the sand are many small objects—not shells but cigarette butts. I want to be horrified and righteous—until I remember that there is no such thing as an unmixed blessing.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
2012.06.24 Israel With Love
The Anglican College of St. George’s in E. Jerusalem organized this pilgrimage according to themes from Jesus’ live as recorded in the New Testament and many Old Testament stories related to biblical sites and history as well.
It is hard to separate, if one even should or can, culture from religion.
Because of the pace of things, on the move non-stop every day, and the overwhelming range and amount of input, read stimulation, I have no time even to know what I have seen.
It gives me an idea what it must have been like for Jesus, on the go and in the rush of his important mission to change the hearts and minds of his people. As a radical god-man confronting the establishment he must have imagined he’d have little time before authorities would silence him forever— or not.
There are 18 “pilgrims” on this course, The Palestine of Jesus. We come from USA, UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Most are clergy. The few laypeople, however, are more fervent:) We are men and women about equally. We are on the older side, therefore representative of the progressive Christian church in general. We do have our token male seminarian who is in his 20s and who receives a bit too much mothering I’d say :)
It will be no surprise to most of you that Dick and I are out of step, not quite embracing the same brand of Christianity and theology as others. But we are here!
The course is organized around different biblical themes and places each day: The Holy City; Nativity with special emphasis on holy women; Living Waters (including float in Dead Sea, Jacob’s Well)—water is survival here in the desert and water is power; Qumran and Masada, the last painful gasp of the Jewish rebellion and attempt to hold onto their land and sovereignty; Galilean Ministry of Jesus, including ministry of Israel’s prophets; “Who am I for you?” Jesus asks along the way (some of us may be secretly as clueless as the first followers;) Golan Heights, West Bank, water sources for Jordan River ( not deep and wide); wade and renew our baptismal vows in Jordan; boat ride on Sea of Galilee; Mt. Tabor to be transfigured—does our divinity shine through as Jesus’ did?—dimly on occasion I guess; “Jesus Wept!”—spiritual and political streams in Jesus’ day and no wonder he wept, still weeps; Mt. Zion and Garden of Gethsemane; “ Am I my brother’s guardian!” Visit to Yad Vashem ( holocaust museum) in Jerusalem; visits to Jewish “settlements” in West Bank, Bethlehem of Ephrata; visit to Palestinian refugee camp also outside Bethlehem; Patriarchs & Matriarchs” tombs in Hebron; and we will finish up as Jesus did, more or less, with Church of Resurrection, Holy Sepulchre and walking the way of the cross (stations established in approximate locations) down Mt. of Olives and into the temple area and Calvary where crucifixion took place. I hope that cross doesn't weigh too much!
AND FINALLY THE ROAD TO EMMAUS on which none of us would recognize Jesus with us I bet—unless of course we picked up a whiff or two of his presence in each other.
Having the topography that is approximate to Jesus’ travels is very helpful There is little doubt among scholars that he was an historical figure and that his place of operations was Israel. The general areas where biblical events happened is known. The exact spot of each one is not known. That is enough for me. I don’t need to know X marks the spot, only that X likely happened somewhere in this region.
A few highlights:
-Gethsemane, which means olive press, has olive trees that are 1880 years old—gnarled and bent they still yield fruit. Hope for aging.
-open field near mikvah baths on Mt Zion used by Essenes who bathed twice daily for purification as the Sons of Light (no daughters) and where Pentecost and Lord’s Supper might have taken place. There was no church in this area, hence……... no RC mass going on, no singing charismatic or pentecostal groups, no endlessly wordy Anglican prayers, and no gawking American tourists scantily clad, and no trash.
-Quote on wall at Yad (remember) Vashem (names), holocaust museum: “Now is the time to sanctify life, not the time to sanctify God’s name through death…” Ponder this. I forgot the rest as we could take nothing into the museum, but the sense of it was encouragement to Jews in holocaust to have hope in life and to choose it and not to glorify death, especially such a death as befell them—and many others throughout history. The deadly drumbeat of sin goes on and on. I thought of words of God to the people in Deuteronomy: I have set before you life and death , good and evil...choose life that you may live…”
-Palestinian man , age 24, Hamse, spoke to us in the refugee camp where he was born. Conditions are miserable, yet the will to live lives on. Hamse is studying psychology and social work in a university in the camp but he is afraid to graduate because where can he go? Future thinking is dim but education brings some hope, and prayer. “I’m afraid to die before to do something, to leave a print for me.” God/Allah? “I know Allah when inside myself I choose the good way and pray a lot.”
-a survivor of holocaust spoke of how at age 7 she crawled over dead bodies and got out of the pit (mass grave) she was supposed to be buried in. “They shot. We were supposed to fall into the pit. They missed some of us.”
-The new Dean of St. George's Cathedral here, Hasam Naoum, the first Palestinian Christian to fill this post, told us that, because of all the many and confused identities and fears of loss of identities in this land, it was a time to strive for justice and equality. BUT not to strive so hard for justice that you lose sight of mercy and compassion, two spiritual virtues that are even more necessary just now.
So........ how may people have died for us? Jesus is not alone. Many have died at the hands of others or by their own as martyrs or in despair. They die. They are remembered as signs that we must work to help each other retrieve the spiritual side of our human nature.
Yad vashem. Remember a name.
Every day is “Jesus wept” day.
It is hard to separate, if one even should or can, culture from religion.
Because of the pace of things, on the move non-stop every day, and the overwhelming range and amount of input, read stimulation, I have no time even to know what I have seen.
It gives me an idea what it must have been like for Jesus, on the go and in the rush of his important mission to change the hearts and minds of his people. As a radical god-man confronting the establishment he must have imagined he’d have little time before authorities would silence him forever— or not.
There are 18 “pilgrims” on this course, The Palestine of Jesus. We come from USA, UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Most are clergy. The few laypeople, however, are more fervent:) We are men and women about equally. We are on the older side, therefore representative of the progressive Christian church in general. We do have our token male seminarian who is in his 20s and who receives a bit too much mothering I’d say :)
It will be no surprise to most of you that Dick and I are out of step, not quite embracing the same brand of Christianity and theology as others. But we are here!
The course is organized around different biblical themes and places each day: The Holy City; Nativity with special emphasis on holy women; Living Waters (including float in Dead Sea, Jacob’s Well)—water is survival here in the desert and water is power; Qumran and Masada, the last painful gasp of the Jewish rebellion and attempt to hold onto their land and sovereignty; Galilean Ministry of Jesus, including ministry of Israel’s prophets; “Who am I for you?” Jesus asks along the way (some of us may be secretly as clueless as the first followers;) Golan Heights, West Bank, water sources for Jordan River ( not deep and wide); wade and renew our baptismal vows in Jordan; boat ride on Sea of Galilee; Mt. Tabor to be transfigured—does our divinity shine through as Jesus’ did?—dimly on occasion I guess; “Jesus Wept!”—spiritual and political streams in Jesus’ day and no wonder he wept, still weeps; Mt. Zion and Garden of Gethsemane; “ Am I my brother’s guardian!” Visit to Yad Vashem ( holocaust museum) in Jerusalem; visits to Jewish “settlements” in West Bank, Bethlehem of Ephrata; visit to Palestinian refugee camp also outside Bethlehem; Patriarchs & Matriarchs” tombs in Hebron; and we will finish up as Jesus did, more or less, with Church of Resurrection, Holy Sepulchre and walking the way of the cross (stations established in approximate locations) down Mt. of Olives and into the temple area and Calvary where crucifixion took place. I hope that cross doesn't weigh too much!
AND FINALLY THE ROAD TO EMMAUS on which none of us would recognize Jesus with us I bet—unless of course we picked up a whiff or two of his presence in each other.
Having the topography that is approximate to Jesus’ travels is very helpful There is little doubt among scholars that he was an historical figure and that his place of operations was Israel. The general areas where biblical events happened is known. The exact spot of each one is not known. That is enough for me. I don’t need to know X marks the spot, only that X likely happened somewhere in this region.
A few highlights:
-Gethsemane, which means olive press, has olive trees that are 1880 years old—gnarled and bent they still yield fruit. Hope for aging.
-open field near mikvah baths on Mt Zion used by Essenes who bathed twice daily for purification as the Sons of Light (no daughters) and where Pentecost and Lord’s Supper might have taken place. There was no church in this area, hence……... no RC mass going on, no singing charismatic or pentecostal groups, no endlessly wordy Anglican prayers, and no gawking American tourists scantily clad, and no trash.
-Quote on wall at Yad (remember) Vashem (names), holocaust museum: “Now is the time to sanctify life, not the time to sanctify God’s name through death…” Ponder this. I forgot the rest as we could take nothing into the museum, but the sense of it was encouragement to Jews in holocaust to have hope in life and to choose it and not to glorify death, especially such a death as befell them—and many others throughout history. The deadly drumbeat of sin goes on and on. I thought of words of God to the people in Deuteronomy: I have set before you life and death , good and evil...choose life that you may live…”
-Palestinian man , age 24, Hamse, spoke to us in the refugee camp where he was born. Conditions are miserable, yet the will to live lives on. Hamse is studying psychology and social work in a university in the camp but he is afraid to graduate because where can he go? Future thinking is dim but education brings some hope, and prayer. “I’m afraid to die before to do something, to leave a print for me.” God/Allah? “I know Allah when inside myself I choose the good way and pray a lot.”
-a survivor of holocaust spoke of how at age 7 she crawled over dead bodies and got out of the pit (mass grave) she was supposed to be buried in. “They shot. We were supposed to fall into the pit. They missed some of us.”
-The new Dean of St. George's Cathedral here, Hasam Naoum, the first Palestinian Christian to fill this post, told us that, because of all the many and confused identities and fears of loss of identities in this land, it was a time to strive for justice and equality. BUT not to strive so hard for justice that you lose sight of mercy and compassion, two spiritual virtues that are even more necessary just now.
So........ how may people have died for us? Jesus is not alone. Many have died at the hands of others or by their own as martyrs or in despair. They die. They are remembered as signs that we must work to help each other retrieve the spiritual side of our human nature.
Yad vashem. Remember a name.
Every day is “Jesus wept” day.
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