A bad habit among bloggers is the “cathartic disclosure”, where the author throws every switch and loosens every valve, spewing a stream of raw emotion. On the other hand, there is a point where it is time to abandon the reflective tone and other contrivances and “keep it real”. I am trying to create a piece of the second kind but I welcome readers to hold me accountable if this entry starts leaning toward the former.

I reached that point two days ago. Whenever I am ill, I display a counter-intuitive surge in stubborn behavior. Some latent daemon in me takes the opportunity to start acting feisty; this time, I went ramrod over the UNESCO fiasco, which coincided with the pointless (and erroneous, in my opinion) re-affirmation of “In God We Trust” by congress. Like a genius (add sarcasm to taste) I made statements on Facebook:

“Hey US: keep your UNESCO funding because YOU ARE STILL IN DEBT FROM ALL YOUR WARS”

“Hey US: putting ‘In God We Trust’ on buildings and then perpetuating injustice makes you MORE evil, not less. Just fyi...”

Those were disclosures of the first kind. Later that evening, a church secretary from Michigan warned me to ‘beware of radicalization tactics’ and accused me of experiencing Stockholm syndrome. Luckily, I didn’t know what Stockholm syndrome was and continued ranting to Kara Crawford:

“America’s God is made of guns and money... they’re accomplices to oppression... “IDF”, psh: Illegal, Destructive FACISM ... if writing something repeatedly makes it true, I’m going to go to bed with a sharpie and write “I’M SEXY” all over my body instead of doing chin-ups...” etc.

Hauntingly, the words “Stockholm Syndrome” kept percolating into my thoughts. I worried that the nails were already in my activists' coffin, that I was a classic case of the mystery syndrome, doomed to be edified and shut-up about Palestine. Being responsible for my personal growth, I decided to face-the-music on Wikipedia:

In psychology, Stockholm Syndrome is a term used to describe a real paradoxical psychological phenomenon wherein hostages express empathy and have positive feelings towards their captors, sometimes to the point of defending them. These feelings are generally considered irrational in light of...

*nails popping from coffin*...son of a bitch: I’m here in solidarity with the hostages –and we have to TRY REALLY HARD to have positive feelings about the captors. Perhaps its the severe lack of a lack of abuse—savvy? Of course, what am I going to say to an old church secretary who either does not understand what Stockholm Syndrome is or is not educated enough to distinguish between the captors and the hostages in the West Bank? It did raise some funny (HAHAHA!) questions about the implications of explaining Occupation to someone whose paradigm is precisely backward. After being lectured to like a child, it was both tempting AND totally appropriate to return-fire with a similar lecture. Still, I was fatigued and decided that reaming-out a church secretary from a poor Grand Rapids neighborhood is not ending The Occupation. Posting this entry is not either but, frankly, I don’t care.

The real ‘Stockholm’ Syndrome is the reverse of what my mistaken friend supposed. Entire groups of Swedish sympathizers visit Wi’am on a regular basis. A couple weeks ago, Liam and I saw a Swedish choir sing at the Bethlehem Peace Center. The director was fond of making jokes about the US between sets and every single zinger hit home. I laughed heartily. The Palestinians on either side of me extended their hands to me:

من اميركا؟

ايوة، في ميشيجان.

اهلن و سهلن.

شكرن.

Note: I know my Arabic is remedial-level but I still enjoy confusing you with it.

So to review: Swedes support Palestinians and make-fun-of the US—how’s that for a Stockholm Syndrome?

The next day, I returned to the Wi’am office at Dar Sansour – which was restored thanks to funds from a cultural heritage organization in Sweden. I drank Arabic coffee with a made-in-Palestine scarf wrapped snugly around my neck and listened to Zoughbi Zoughbi talk to some Floridians. With stress and the changing weather, his talk took on a different timbre than usual. He still said things like

“I would never think of hurting an Israeli -- we are all part of the human family,” but he also used rhetoric like

“Israel is really stepping on our neck and choking us to death...”

Rays of hope: “Only the power of the oppressed can save them and their oppressors: we are trying to save Israel’s soul from itself...” but also shadow:

“The Israeli media is brewing troubles for us...” <--Naturally.

I commented to Imad, later, that I was angry with the US. He shrugged it off: “Don’t be angry, جون, it is garbage for your health. If you are angry at the USA you will find infinite anger. It’s no good...”

Palestinian scarves, tattoos, and whatever other symbols of solidarity aside, I am not held captive by Israel or the US. My captivity is a gift from whatever just colonized my respiratory system. I spend long periods laying in bed in semi-somnambulence, getting-up to drink mint-tea and cough things up. I’m fighting not against flesh and blood (or Zionism) but microbial forces of wickedness. There was a bright moment in the midst of sickness – an encounter that went well. That was it. Two days later, I am back into my bed and still many hours of patience and disciplined-understanding away from what my heart desires. That is normally fine with me: I would rather take months than rush and fail to build as I should. Still, I felt the full weight of separation this morning.

Earlier this week, at the height of a crabby morning, I told my mother that there was no way I was going to write her e-mail four to five times a week and that she should adjust. Subsequently, she unfriended me on Facebook. Thank God, she self-selected. My Father, I dropped myself and was glad to do so, not because I want to be estranged permanently from my parents but because I want to hear from them intermittently and in a positive way—social media highlights the problems that have been present for three decades. There is an entire book to be written about the dysfunctions of my nuclear family yet only one thing needs said: it’s gone. Hallelujah, that family is dead. I have my sister but that oppressive unit is gone forever. Better still, the YAM-family has embraced me. It is the other missionaries that I miss every day, longing for a time when I can fall into their arms again. Family is independent of blood-lines.

Yet, I cannot help feeling pain for the Zoughbi family. Tarek Zoughbi now has several bolts in his arm from an orthopedic surgery--check-points will forever be his bane. In spite of his US citizenship, Israel is using his Palestinian ID Card as an excuse to bar him from flying into Tel Aviv. The trip through Jordan is too expensive. Zoughbi will not see his oldest son at Christmas and probably not his daughter either. “She should stay with her brother so he is not alone...” said Abu-Tarek.

This morning it rained. Luca and Rafiq rounded-up some extra sweaters for me and I came back to the room and started drinking tea and thinking about all of these things and more. At risk of giving everyone an incomplete picture of this illness, I think I am going to end on that note: It rained. I was so cold I needed multiple sweaters. Everyone at Wi’am insisted that I get rested. Joy Prim issued a special prayer. I read the prayer, on Skype, and appreciated the thoughtful words she had spared for my low-point. Then it dawned on me that I am always boasting about the potency of Joy Prim prayers and now one has been laid upon me. Does that mean I have to believe things will rebound miraculously? If they do, doesn’t that mean I have other things I want Joy and the other YAMs praying for? *winks*

So, I’ll spare you all any more eye-strain. If you meet any Swedes in your travels, say hello to Stockholm for me. Ciao.