Paint

A friend told me he had asked for some prayers on my behalf. I appreciated that-- I'm not quite up to long reflections each day. Instead, I want to write just one, quick scene that I cannot let the world miss because it was worth every ounce of the "check-point" post I deleted.

Mr. Zoughbi interrupted our proposal writing session with an afternoon coffee break: “You are tired; come and have some fresh air.” About half a dozen of us went out onto the Wi’am patio, next to the garden and playground, and sipped tiny cups of potent coffee (it’s Arabic) from a serving platter. Usama had a cigarette and we took turns shooing cats away from the door. When I’d finished the coffee and started the herbal tea (I like this country), I took a seat on one of the small retaining walls in the sun.

Zoughbi Zoughbi is my boss, the director of the Wi’am Center for Palestinian Conflict resolution. He reminds me of my grandfather, the way that he seems to know everyone around town and takes care of his family. Like my grandfather, it can be hard for me to wrap my mind around what a significant figure he actually is in this community. Far from being an intimidating presence, he is the kind and humble man who announced that this weekend’s family barbeque was in my honor and insisted I sleep-in Monday. “Take your time, leave ample time to eat in the morning.” That is Zoughbi Zoughbi, briefly.

So Zoughbi asks me, “how are you about the painting?” The truth is, I have done plenty of painting for my grandfather; it gave me a flash-back (“Don’t just slather it on, son; well, use more than that!”).

“Yes, I can paint,” I said making a brushing movement. I wondered what the General Board of Global Ministries would think about a mission intern engaging in menial labor but I can already tell what kind of organizational culture they have at Wi’am: everyone pitches-in. As Zoughbi said, “we are men and women of all trades, masters of some!”

“La la [no no],I meant paint the wall,” he said pointing behind me. I glanced at the piebald stone retaining wall, furrowing my brow and gesturing. “It could be, you know, like the Wi’am newspaper—inspirational.” Then he pointed again. He was not pointing at the stone retaining wall but The Wall behind it. Next to the Wi’am Center is the essence of The Occupation: a concrete divider that is longer and taller than the one that carved Berlin. It severs the Palestinian people from land, family and pilgrimages and divides one ‘City of David’ from the other. Taggers, artists and freedom lovers from all over the world have left their marks of protest there.

They tease me a lot, already. I was expecting a punchline like ‘when we tear it down, of course!’ or ‘and then we’ll throw you over—come back with hubz and humus...’. Instead he said, “how is your hand-writing in English?”

“It is excellent when I go slowly,” I said with a smile, “maybe I can draw something small and we will reproduce it. What are our resources; do we have paint?” No punch-line came. In fact, a small group of Norwegian students came to visit. The coffee platter returned to the patio and I took a seat next to Zoughbi, listening to him talk about Sulha mediation, youth programs and how Wi’am is creating a counter-culture of peace that is ‘assertive but not aggressive’, to reverse the slide into despair and violence. He said to them, “I mention to John Daniel earlier that we should put something, you know, motivational and inspiring up on the wall each month...”

This place is not just a grant magnet to me—I really believe in this ideology. I hope he was not kidding because I want to put a luxurious coat of hope on all that ugly oppression.