Brace for re-entry

Once upon a time in a jet airplane, I decided where I would draw the line. I was going through a list of names I could use if security asked me who I was meeting at the Ambassador Hotel. The name “Neil Bullocks” buoyed from the nether regions of my brain. Neil, this virtuous and promising young African-American of sixteen, could not possibly mind being potentially black-listed. I realized he would be twenty-three by now. That jarred me from my espionage-tinted reverie. I could not make my dead friend the centerpiece of a lie.

I do not know of anyone being black-listed in that way. If so, I apologize to all the Joseph Allens trying to enter Israel right now. I was stopped at random by a security guard just off of the plane. This should have been enough to make me nervous but my immunity was bolstered by then. This is why doctors tell you to finish your anti-biotics and rest well: pathogens like me. Before I got on the plane in Turkey, I was delayed while security deliberated over my uncertain return date. I said Mommy and Daddy were waiting to see if they could get a better price on a return ticket. After that, a random guard asked to see my passport and gave it a cursory glance; I could have flashed Morgan Freeman’s passport. The Tel Aviv guard gave-up when I told him I wanted to study theology someday and, hence, I stayed in the Holy Land for three months at a time. He must see dozens of oblivious graduate students on any given day.

Then came the hard part: the passport booth. In order to maximize my odds, I picked a male security guard who was in a good mood (my liaison told me the men were softer). He never stopped laughing and joking in Hebrew. I got a three month visa just for saying “hello” and smiling.

I waited over an hour in the Israeli bus and rode another hour to the Ambassador Hotel. I was meeting myself there. I ambled toward the door until the bus disappeared, then turned on my heels and started walking. My real destination was over a mile away, past Sheikh Jarrah and the East Jerusalem storefront, to the Damascus Gate bus station. This was early in the morning on Wednesday, since I was delayed in Geneva.

I like to pretend that I ran across the airport and made my flight. I pretend that it was actually about 10 PM in East Jerusalem and the cab-drivers were trying to convince me to hire them for 140, "no listen!", 80 shekels to ride to the check-point but I told them I had only 40. I imagine I would have sat down on a bench next to the bus stop and resolved to wait until morning, maybe do some blogging, only to discover my computer battery was not charged. Maybe a bus driver would show-up at 11:30 and offer to let me sleep in the bus until morning. “Bookra” he might say, as I try to pay him. In the middle of the night, I would be shivering and taking clothes out of my suitcase to pile on top of myself, swearing never to tell anyone because I don’t want pity. Around 4 AM another bus-driver could find me sleeping and ask me if I was going to Bethlehem. When I climb off the bus he refuses my money and gives me a cup of chai marimeeyah; all of the day-laborers at the check-point are laughing with me as I shrug it off and drink my tea—in my imagination, of course. I’m crazy like that.

*laughter*

They say when a car crash occurs, there are three impacts. All of these events were just like a car hitting a cement wall. Next, your body hits the car and then your innards hit the inside of your body. Wednesday, I was a zombie who stayed home. Thursday and Friday I was an addict, soaking-up Arab coffee and reflecting on Geneva. I learned at the end of the day that my German colleague has decided to leave. Co-workers said “burn-out”. What was she doing? It begged the question of whether I was doing enough. The Western part of my brain reasoned that I was being lazy if I did not feel closer to burn-out. The Eastern side of my brain intervened: I did leave Bethlehem tired, shouldering similar questions (do I deserve to be tired?). The second impact came at the close of that day, wedged between feelings of great happiness, seeing my host community again, and a sense that my work was incomplete.

What will I do, now that I am back?

I rediscovered a passion for immigration rights at the conference in Geneva. Ironically, I did not question my desire to go on living here but my ability to keep being an advocate in Washington D.C., apart from this culture I defend. I can digest my anger with Occupation because I partake in a Palestinian life-style that defiantly celebrates living. I worry that in Washington D.C. I would just be another angry lobbyist—and that the falafel would suck! I started speaking Spanish and dreaming of California. I imagined flying check-points in the Southwest and walls by Tijuana—I saw myself standing in solidarity with a new group of people. Selfishly, I also wondered what it would be like to finally visit my cousin in San Francisco, swim in the Pacific, and see the Northwest States I day-dreamed about over a year ago when I decided to leave Michigan.

As was the case in many areas in my life, I wanted to be the superlative advocate for Palestine two months ago: go to D.C. and kick some tail-feathers. I could not have gone on as I had, obsessed with becoming the harbinger of pure justice for Palestine. I have shifted slightly, from a justice orientation to a love-with-justice orientation. It is a topic that promises to feature prominently in my future writings but for now it is enough for me to say that I am letting go of being the best and grappling with the idea of being better. Someone even suggested to me that eighteen months in D.C. was not too much to ask when it could make me a better leader.

“Leader?” I said, “We’ll have to dig into that another time...”

Sometimes I believe that particular person’s vision for me is miscalibrated; I think instead of seeing me they are seeing the Holy Spirit’s reaction to Occupation THROUGH me and mistaking that for my essence. I want to have a garden. I want to go swimming. I want to snuggle someone I love while drinking fragrant tea. I want to go for a walk in the woods and think about lessons I might teach. I want to be an artist.

Each person should pursue their heart's fulfillment and I am willing to push against systems that prevent that. I am reluctant to call it leadership because as soon as I call myself a leader I feel like a jinx will wrap its tentacles around whatever I am doing. Leadership is less of a post, for me, than discrete acts of initiative. It is not something I want to hold on to but a tool I find in my hands when I want to get a job done. As I run out of space on the page, I feel like I want to leave this blog entry open... if I go much further, I might try to predict my trajectory. This time, I want to put to death the vision of myself as superlative. Somehow, I need to reflect the qualities that are essential to me so I can put recognition aside to shed its lingering poison—since first grade. I could love myself for being me, not for doing anything great. Maybe my innards will finally crash and I can go on with the rest of my life.