It just got personal

names of children killed during Gaza conflict

For months I have been reading the Israeli news with a heavy heart. The ongoing occupation has catalyzed such despair. In response, young people have taken to the streets in a lethal combo of rage and random violence.  In this latest round of protests, many innocent people have lost their lives through no fault of their own. In this most recent cycle of violence, 15 Israelis and 91 Palestinians have had their lives unjustly snuffed out. I don't track their stories as they mostly form a list of disembodied names that are part of the larger story of this ongoing conflict.  

That is until today. 

entrance to Aida Refugee Camp

Mary Ellen and I went to Aida Refugee Camp with Moodie, a friend who recognized me when we were photographing some of his artwork on the Wall. I hadn’t been in the camp for a few years and he offered to show us around. Today the camp was quiet whereas the night before it had been lit up by a show of force by the Israeli Defense Force in response to the weekly Friday protests. Moodie pointed out the key, the symbol for the Palestinian right of return, the wall commemorating the names of children who have lost their lives, and the recently added poster of Abed al-Rhman Shadi Obeidallah, a 13 year old boy who was inexplicably shot and killed right near the camp entrance just a few weeks ago. I vaguely remembered this story from the news and recalled the sense of tragedy I felt reading it. Few details were given because Abed (or Aboud) was one of two Palestinian teens killed that day. His story was largely buried.

So it was enlightening and moving to hear more of the details. On October 5, Abed had finished school, played a pick up game of soccer with his friends and was on his way home. According to witnesses, he had not thrown rocks at the security tower near the wall nor had the friends who were with him. The Israelis claim his death was an accident. They had intended to shoot him in his leg. The confusing thing was that it wasn't clear why the guards felt the need to shoot at all since the boys weren't misbehaving.

But that didn't change the fact that Abed was dead and we were standing now on the spot where he was killed. It was a sobering moment to realize this young boy existed in time and space. One moment he was heading home from school and the next moment he was gone.

We lingered for a bit and then off we went to see other sites in the camp and around Bethlehem. We eventually said goodbye to Moodie and, hungry, we ended up at the Casa Nova Guest House next the Church of the Nativity where we scarfed down some falafels. There, we ran into Hussein, an old friend who often holds court there. Mary Ellen wanted to get to know more of his story and so she began asking about where he lived and he said “Aida Camp.” We told him we had been there earlier and then he asked us if we had seen the photo of his cousin. All of the sudden we realized that Abed was his young relative. In seconds, I was on the internet googling photos and additional facts about this young boy. Hussein showed us photos of the funeral pointing out Abed's parents and friends. 

Abed's parents at his funeral

I teared up. Abed was far more than an unintended political consequence of the Conflict. This was my good friend Hussein’s cousin, only a few degrees of separation from me. This was someone who, by the smallest of margins, was part of my Palestinian network of friends. Abed had parents and siblings who are now in the weighty press of grief. Abed had friends who stood beside him and watched him die. Abed had been a happy, caring, and optimistic kid, one who donated his toys during for a local charity drive for kids less fortunate than him. Like all 13 year olds, Abed had big dreams for his future. Those dreams ended with his unnecessary death at the entrance of a refugee camp, a camp that according to international law should have been dismantled long ago. 

In many ways, I am ashamed to think that it took my one degree of separation to make this violence real. I’m embarrassed by my lack of empathy that allows me to read the news every day without remembering that every victim of violence is known and loved by others. On all sides of this conflict, the violence must stop. The occupation needs to end. Children like Abed deserve so much more. 

Bedouin Hospitality

After an exhausting day of travel, Mary Ellen and I decided a trip to the Judean Wilderness would be a great way to ground our travels.  So off we drove through various Arab villages en route to the ancient cliff dangling monastery of Mar Saba. Today was Friday, the primary worship day for Muslims.  Everywhere we drove, we saw men and boys making their way to the local mosque.  The cries of the muezzin, however, called us to different kind of worship. Ours would be in the sanctuary of the cliffs and rocks and, more surprisingly, in the tent of a simple Bedouin woman.

This vast, hauntingly denuded dessert wilderness evokes a peace that pierces the soul.  The beautiful landscape is rugged and wind-swept, seemingly empty of all life.  But all it takes is a few minutes to tune the eyes and ears to the music of silence which loudly amplifies the bleating of a sheep, the soaring wonder of the hawks, and vibrant flowering of shrubs recently made green by thunderous rains. 

When we arrived at the monastery, Hamoudi, the Bedouin in charge of security welcomed us and bid us to follow him. We weren’t quite sure what this meant as he led away from the monastery down an unstable path. His broken English was difficult to understand and finally it became clear that he wanted to take our picture. So we let him and thanked him, me thinking this exchange was now going to involve money. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Uzahra making bread in her outdoor oven

The next thing we knew, his mother appeared with bread dough and they invited us over to a fire pit ensconced in the rocks. Fueled by animal dung (there is not much wood in the wilderness), she showed us how to bake the bread on the side of the cast iron pot buried in the coals. We then were invited up to the tent for sweet Bedouin tea.

Aisha in her home

The tent was a study in simplicity. One large room divided into sleeping and cooking spaces. The roof was cardboard and tarps. Blankets served as walls. The space was immaculate and organized around bare essentials. The beds served as the seats, a stool doubled as a table, and smiles all around helped bridge the language barrier. 

Not only was there tea but our host brought out the food harvested and prepared from the land: olives, zatar, and bread. Our souls were nourished in the warmth of this unexpected welcome. 

food from the land

The Prophet Muhammad says that “whoever believes in God and the day of resurrection must respect his guests.” The Bedouins believe this means that being good to your guest is to honor God. In return, God will honor them for their gracious hospitality







To Hamoudi, Uzhara, Aisha, and Adam, we pray God will bless you a hundred times over for the gift you gave us this morning!

view from their "front porch"

Traveling Companion

Me and Mary Ellen at Mar Saba in the Judean Wilderness

Traveling companions can make a trip. In Frankfurt, my good friend and pastoral colleague, Mary Ellen Azada, joined me and off to Israel we flew. We had our crazy stories to tell of deeply religious people who could not bear to have their items moved in the overhead bins, a spontaneous synagogue formed in the airport waiting area, and men who refused to speak to, have eye contact with, or stand next to women who are not related to them.

That is not to say Mary Ellen and I don't represent our own form of unusual religious devotion.  We too stand out as pastors - girl pastors!  What might seem normal to us as Presbyterians is highly unusual here.  I can't begin to tell you the confusion I encounter here when I tell people I am a minister.  I will never forget the incredulity of this one Catholic priest in Ramallah who was so sure I could not be a pastor much less a Christian that he insisted on telling me all the details of the Christmas story. It is not much of a leap to think that religious Jews and Muslims would have trouble imagining women in pastoral ministry.

But here we are here in the Holy Land forging our own way on our own terms as we vacation in one of the most religiously fraught places on the planet. I'm glad we have each other to process our observations and insights.  Our friendship was formed through many years of ministry together at the Berkeley Church. Now that we have moved on to other ministries, we get to experience the shared joy of relaxation and fun in the Holy Land. We both wonder where the Spirit will lead us!

Going Again!

Navigating international travel is a constellation of boredom and curiosity. The flights are long and the wait between connecting flights only amplifies the biological confusion over time zones. The sun may be at its noon-day high in Frankfurt but my body thinks it is 2 am in Berkeley.

As I wait for the extra special security scrutiny that comes with my connecting flight to Israel, I am sitting across for Germany's version of TSA. The lines are shorter and the staff seem to have a concierge approach to helping people figure out what to do. They smile, engage, and for their 4-5 minute encounter, they truly help each traveler.  I watched them graciously help people unpack their carry on luggage to remove things for the scanners. They do not act at all like our American TSA power mongers who treat our internationals derisively for not understanding the signs.

One of the reasons I love to travel is that it assumes surprise.

At SFO, I discovered I was on the same plane with good friends from the Bay Area.  The Reimers are on sabbatical this year in Germany. I know it is cliche but the world is seems much smaller the older I get.

Travel breaks up the tedious soil of daily rhythms.  Exploring places and people that see the world through a different lens opens the heart to new ways of living and loving. It bids space for grace. The invitation to return and revisit allows the those graces to deepen.

Today as I vacation in a place that has become a rich residence of joy to me, I can't but be excited by the adventure of it all.

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

Leaving

I am leaving my church community of nearly 40 years. I was a part-time visitor during the early years of college, a full-on volunteer for the next big chunk, and an Associate Pastor for 14 years. I have poured my heart into that place and now I am choosing to transplant myself in another faith community as an interim pastor, a season that may only last 2 years.

The send offs from my beloved Berkeley church were moving and wonderful. Rarely does anyone get to hear about their impact on others as these kinds of affirmations are only expressed at funerals. I am truly humbled by all the people who allowed me to walk with them through some of their most tender and painful seasons. Their honest wrestling with God during life’s challenges has shaped the way I understand love and grace. I only wish I could have listened more deeply, walked more closely, and trusted God more fully along the way. I can't begin to count much less process the many, many heartfelt stories and appreciation people expressed to me in these past few weeks. Even now, hundreds of cards still sit unopened because I had no time for reading before leaving to lead another trip to Palestine and Israel. When I get back, I will set aside some time to read and savor each one.

After such an intense month, I needed some time and space to relax and reflect. I had hoped that a few days in Palestine before the pilgrimage group arrived would have provided the opportunity but instead, I found myself scurrying between Ramallah and Bethlehem seeing friends. Finally, on the last morning before heading to the airport to pick up the group, I set aside some time to quiet my soul, to write, and to process this last month. I headed over to Manger Square only to be interrupted by Palestinian friends who kept introducing me to other people who were walking by. When I complained that I wasn't left alone for even one moment, one friend playfully scolded me, “What else did you expect? You are in one of the busiest places in Bethlehem and it was crazy to think you could be anonymous!” How did this happen that I have come to know so many people who know so many people who know so many other people in this city?

But I don't really think the issue here is one of serendipitous circumstance or the relational nature of the culture. The issue is far deeper. To be honest, I didn't want to be left alone. I wanted to be found. Frenetic had been working for me. It was a way to avoid the question that has been wrapping my heart in a shroud of pain. How am I supposed to “leave” people I so deeply love especially when those relationships have been forged in the fire of tragedy and the crucible of crisis?

Tonight I stood by the Sea of Galilee, alone, apart, and finally still. I peered over the lake and listened to the waves gently lapping on the shore. It was then that I finally felt the rising tide of grief in my soul.

On this pilgrimage, I need to journey in this valley of grief and goodbye. I'm hesitant to enter, much less to linger there, but I know I must. My heart is at risk if I don’t. Without the vulnerability to face and feel this sadness, I won't risk being open to love another community again. But right now I'm not eager to walk down that painful path. I may stumble my way through but I'm trusting I won't be traveling there alone.

The Shraideh Family

Since 2010, I’ve had a variety of experiences in the West Bank. My first forays were as a tourist, parachuting into one or two holy sites before decamping to Jerusalem. During my 2012 sabbatical, I was a short-term resident where I muddled through life in Bethlehem in an attempt to experience and understand Palestinian culture with the obvious constraint of being a non-Arabic speaking American. My current plans for visiting my beloved Palestine include leading periodic pilgrimages which affords me the opportunity to extend my time there for a week or two. Although my residential status seems to often change, one thing remains consistent: the generous hospitality of the Palestinian people.

Suliman and Hilda Shraideh

This past March, I was in the Holy Land for a full month, attending a conference, leading a pilgrimage, and lingering for a week's vacation. During my time off, I ventured to the northern part of the West Bank where the Shraideh family warmly welcomed me. On a couple of occasions, I had briefly met Hilda and Sulieman when passing through Nablus with a pilgrimage group. Their home is situated on an unusually beautiful piece of property in the heart of this thriving city. Olive and fruit trees dot the property along with beehives, herb gardens, and a handful of cats. How could I decline the invitation to relax amid such beauty and eat from the produce of their land? With assurances that I wasn’t imposing on them, I headed off to Nablus to soak in a bit of love from this Palestinian family.

fresh bread right out of the oven

bread baking in the oven

The next few days were filled with all sorts of fun and family. A trip to the age-old souq introduced me to the wonders of freshly baked pita bread. No surprise that the bread sells out as fast as it is baked. What fascinated me was watching Hilda check the quality of the bread as it came out of the oven. If it was not the perfect texture, it went back in to bake for a few more moments. This was artisan baking AND buying at its best!

It was wonderful to see Nablus through the eyes of locals. Ihab, Hilda and Sulieman’s oldest son, gave me wonderful tour of the city. Starting with the older section of the Christian neighborhood of Rafidiya, I saw the remains of the Shraideh's former family home on property that has been theirs for hundreds of years. How typical that their house was next to both the church and the village olive press. We then wandered through the ancient alleyways of Nablus, walking under its antique arches as we explored its abandoned gardens and gates. Transported to another time and place, the "modern" spice markets and Turkish baths were a contiguous link to these remnants of the past.

Old City Nablus

Cooking and eating are a big part of Palestinian hospitality. What I love about Palestine is that all the food is local and seasonal. At the Shraideh home, it also means the herbs and produce are harvested moments before being prepared and cooked! Hilda is an extraordinary chef who, as far as I’m concerned, should have her own cooking show on TV. And while she taught me how to cook a few Palestinian favorites, the tradition I’ve brought home with me is stopping for tea in the afternoon. The Palestinian innovation is adding a bit of sage (along with a touch of sugar) to Lipton tea. You should try it sometime. It is wonderful.

Sahar and Ihab Shraideh with their children 
Noor, Sulieman,  and baby Jad
on Easter Sunday

While I loved seeing the sites and enjoyed the great food, the memories I will cherish most involve the children. Like many Palestinian families, the Shraideh home includes many generations. Ihab’s young son and daughter were my treasured playmates. I enjoyed their kisses and hugs before bedtime and loved seeing them in the morning. It seems that kids find ways to communicate even when a common language isn’t shared. At first, Sulieman and Noor were shy around me but they soon forgot to be self-conscious and began to play. My I-Phone camera became a fun way for us to share experiences. It is astonishing how fast they master the technology. And I so enjoyed being with their mother and the new baby, Jad. Sahar is wise woman who I am eager to get to know better on future trips.



Hilda and Sulieman represent the heart and soul of Palestine to me. They opened their home and welcomed me like family. I'm sure many of you who follow my blog have realized that they are also the parents of my good friend and treasured tour guide, Iyad. Like father, like son. I am so grateful to and for the entire Shraideh family for their kindness and friendship. 

Before leaving the country, I found myself back in Bethlehem for a day of meetings. At one, a prominent Palestinian church leader asked me where I had been on vacation.  When I told him that I had been in Nablus, he looked at me incredulously and then burst out laughing. He told me he had never heard of an American vacationing there. What a tragedy! Let me go on the record and encourage all my American friends - go to Nablus! It is amazing! And if you can, visit the Shraideh family of Rafidiya. You could not ask for more generous and wonderful people! When you are there, give them a hug and tell them Debbie says hi!