Occupied Energy

Some have said that New York City is the city that never sleeps. Anyone who has spent time there knows that the pacing and pulse draws you in until every sense is heightened. In a short time, you are overloaded, energized and drained at the same time. For me, a brief respite is all it takes before being pulled back into the chaos to feed my stimulation addition.  

Traffic in Ramalah

So take that New York vitality, add the chaos of occupation, and you have Ramallah. NYC cabbies look timid compared to white-knuckle experience of driving here. You dart, defend, honk, stop, go – all amid people dashing between cars, their arms full of children and groceries, calling out greetings to someone they see across the way. There are times when the car behind you rides you until you are pushed to race-car speeds only to slam on the brakes to avoid an unmarked speed bump. And when there is traffic, which there always seems to be, it can take you 20 minutes to drive 3 blocks. I can't tell you how many times I have regretted not grabbing a rare parking space even when it means walking 30-40 minutes to my destination!

Al-Manara Square 

Yesterday, I got turned around in Ramallah, and kept taking the wrong spoke at Al-Manara Square, the landmark traffic circle in the center of town. I was frustrated by the lack of street signs, my inability to read Arabic, and the snail pace of traffic. So the third time around the square, having made yet another wrong turn, I gave up. I returned to my hotel, parked the car and ventured out on foot. 

Now I was contributing to the hustle and bustle of this vibrant city. I cut across the street and yelled and gestured just like a Palestinian. I took in the vivid colors and creative styles of the hijab as the women strutted their stuff. Across the square, protesters were dumping a load of Israeli yogurt onto the street as part of the Palestinian boycott movement. The men were everywhere – sitting, walking, cajoling, greeting, talking. Rarely alone, they huddled and herded each other from one side of the street to the next.

The Chaos of Qalandia

While the city center of Ramallah is congested, chaotic, and somehow charming all at the same time, the checkpoint several miles away at Qalandia is another story. It too has energy, a far more strained and wound up one at best. You feel the tension long before you get there. When heading into the West bank, hundreds of cars line up to thread the needle of a single, narrow lane that dumps you into a world of barriers, dust, street venders, and potholes. There is hectic despair in the air. Everyone is trying to get in or out through this chokehold security point. It is the only way out for Palestinians who have permission to enter Israel. I usually plan at least 60 minutes to get through but on any given day at any given hour, the checkpoint can close and you can wait there for hours. Last Sunday, I went through this checkpoint four times – two times into Ramallah and two times out. Being on vacation helps because I’m not generally in a hurry but I can't imagine what it would be like to cross this checkpoint every day.

While waiting my turn to cross, I couldn't help speculate about the kind of checkpoints we erect in our culture. They may be more subtle and less visible but ask anyone from a different class or race and they can easily name the socio-economic-racial enclaves we protect. 

Walking to Qalandia

Jesus knew well this tendency to define people by nationality, religion, morality, and power. A righteous religious leader got into a conversation with him about what matters most. While affirming that the greatest commandment included loving one’s neighbor as oneself, this same man demanded clarity about the definition of "neighbor." Jesus responded with the story of the Good Samaritan. This must have appalled this ancient biblical scholar. How could a God-respecting, pure and faithful Jew have associated with or extended hospitality to such an unclean person? Jesus enlarges the social and religious boundaries, brokering no excuses when it comes to the indifferent or ill-treatment of others. No one is ever “less than.” Each one is created in the God’s wonderful image. Each one is given purpose and meaning. Each one is God's beloved. 

I live in a “border” neighborhood in Oakland. It was cheaper to buy a house here because of the “mixed” nature of the community. It is racially variegated, economically diverse, and, truth be told, everyone seems to live behind their closed doors. When I reflect on where I choose to socialize and work, I realize I have erected a checkpoint of sorts around my own life. How do I really reach out and love those who live around me, who are less educated, less financially secure, less white, less Christian? How can I be so sensitive to the oppressive systems here in the West Bank and blithely ignore my own part in supporting the status quo in my own country? And now that I am commuting to the South Bay to my new position in Sunnyvale, I wonder, what is God’s invitation to me here and now? 

I think I have some praying to do. And that takes energy, focused energy. May the traffic in my soul stop long enough so that I can get out of my protected enclave and really love.

On the wall leading to the Qalandia Checkpoint