He Wept

These are challenging times in my life. At first, I merely mismanaged the stress in my work environment. That, in turn, exposed some identity questions. Just as soon as I pulled back to uproot those exigencies, a fissure opened in my psycho-spiritual foundation. To put it simply, I am dealing with some fundamental issues of Faith itself, not just the practice of my faith, but especially making the jump from being focused on process to being truly oriented to processes in my life. In the midst of that, I began to unearth ‘the lies’ but my mind has been elsewhere the past few days. Let me take you all back to Tuesday...

...at that moment, I turned away from my Arabic in disgust, again feeling the impetus draining from me. I peppered a chuckle into my sighs to disperse the taste of frustration. The irony, I realized, is that my cravings for promises and permanence provide only temporary relief. What a gas! Not about to explode, I opened the door to my balcony and stepped into the sun light. Chin-ups can be a good way to work off angst but I was already in my work slacks. Instead, I paced to the railing and gazed over our corner of Bethlehem. I intentionally did not look at the split hill next to al-Walaje and the Wall trickling through the cleavage.

A ‘why me?’ moment seized on me like a gust of win. Why, God, would I be chosen to come here and learn the meaning of kairos time and being process-oriented? It seemed as if it would be too late for me, raised in a culture of stimulus and outcomes. Somewhere along the way, I developed a taste for resolution. To stay engaged with ambiguities in my work and relationships has felt, at times, like torture and a mistake. I knew I was progressing but that did not explain why someone else was not in my place. “I want to learn – but my heart is aching so terribly.” In the day since, I have oozed back and forth between two poles: one that insists there are things worth wanting and working toward and the other that joy can only be found in practice and the products are just blessings extra.

As I paced the limestone, I muttered to myself, “maybe I just want to settle and be at peace,” but an unexpected voice from within said, “yes, you want peace – for everyone, but not without justice.”

I bit into that thought and chewed. Turning toward Jerusalem I asked again: “why would You choose someone who wants to see resolution... for an issue like THIS!?” Again, the unexpected voice:

“...because you will keep going, as long as this is unfinished...”

I started weeping profusely. I went on bawling for half-an-hour as I retreated inside and paced between my bedroom and living room making connections. All along, I had been a peace activist at my core but all of the other pieces of me were always in the foreground. The cause of the ‘ambient stress levels’ could not be pin-pointed became clear: the Holy Spirit grieves directly inside that deep part of me. Among many other uncanny ties was the way that Wi’am, just as I arrived, was in the midst of a shift in philosophy from “conflict resolution” to “conflict transformation”. After sixteen years, Zoughbi tired of fixing the same problems with the age-old procedures. Rather than throwing Sulha away for new, less tested methods, Wi’am embraced the practice of transformation within the traditional ways. The word Wi’am means “cordial relations”, not ‘instant solutions’. Here I am: making the transition to transformation, myself.

Israel, as much as Palestine, was showing me things about myself. Israel is grabbing and possessing the land and erecting all kinds of structures to guarantee their wishes, only to ruin the land that might have had them willingly. Promises promises – I wondered if God ever intended promises the way the Old Testament understands them. I appreciated my own blindness just a little bit better: there is no measure I can take to assure this long process will mean success. Seeing myself in the Wall, I found some sadness in my heart for our ‘cousins’. That hit hard:

But as He came closer to Jerusalem and saw the city ahead, he began to weep. “How I wish today that you and all people would understand the way of peace. But now it is too late, and peace is hidden from your eyes.”

~Jesus in Luke 19: 41 – 42 NLT

There was even more than this, though it’s difficult to recall in under a thousand words. Later in the day, I paced around the Wi’am grounds. Every time I began to have a happy-thought about the future I smothered it quickly. My heart wanted this so I could be empty for a few hours, not carrying my wishes. I saw flowers, smelled herbs, felt the sun but let my insides remain in a dark state of nirvana. No turning point was coming, I reminded myself. Playing songs on the deck of a Royal Caribbean Liner or of the Titanic, it did not matter: the score would have to be the same for a while.

But it is starting to sink in. Rather than looking for alternatives, things to believe in, I am starting to leave myself a little more empty. I tried to stop asking myself what I had accomplished and started wondering “what am I doing? Where is this going?”

In lieu of what I would have written a few days ago, I have the image of an olive grove. The reason for having an olive grove would appear to be for olives. Of course, one must care for the trees. I had seen being process-focused as caring for the trees and enjoying their other qualities but, metaphorically speaking, I have remained worried about olives. The point of the olive trees is to have olives but NOT the 2012 olives. Not the 2011 or 2013 olives either. These particular olives matter less than the lives of the trees and their ability to keep making olives, as well as shade and wood. All our lives we worry for particular olive crops when it is the trees that deserve our concern – the trees that carry out the process. I am a steward not of olives but of olive trees ~ that’s what I need to get into my mind.

It also finally sank in that I, as a person, am more important to Wi’am than the work I do. That has made a huge difference to me. I am a tree.

Olive Picking: Thicker than Water

The counter at the Zoughbi house is littered with used liquor bottles. Of course, the bottles are full of olive oil, made from Zoughbi family olive trees. Luca and Rafik say that having a shot of the thick liquid is good for your muscles but I prefer to take mine on bread with zata, thanks. Sunday morning, Zoughbi Zoughbi, the boys and I went to the grove in Beit Jala to join some hired men as they picked the olives. The trees on the Mt. of Olives are actually only forty years old but the Zoughbi trees vary from sixty to... more than five-hundred years old. The younger olive trees are surprisingly springy and strong: I would rather be climbing than trusting to a ladder for security. If I am mostly surrounded by foliage I feel differently because I feel secure when I have my feet on the step of the ladder and my hands firmly grasping the limbs of the tree. Luckily, we never trifled with baskets. We just popped them off and let them fall on the tarp. The olives we eat on pizzas and in tacos grow in Spain and Italy, where they get more water. Palestinian olives are practically flammable and far from edible right off the tree.

A ladder slipped on a fella. I wish I could have seen it happen... only because I FELT it happen. He fell on my arm. Later, he said something to me in Arabic, which Luca translated as “why didn’t you catch me?” Too which I responded. “Saria! It happened fast!” He joked that I ran away fast and I laughed. I didn’t want to be under him when he fell, no matter how much I love Palestinians.

He was the friendliest guy in the crew. Every once and a while, I would here him say “! جون“ (that’s my name...) and then something in Arabic. Zoughbi would laugh and say “he is teasing you again!” no one ever precisely said what the teasing meant. Sometimes I would hear the guys call out to me “John Cena! John Cena! (sp.)!” which annoyed me slightly. The kids at the Boys & Girls Club in Grand Rapids did that, briefly, and explained to me that he is a professional wrestler. Judging by the posters I saw in Jerusalem, his marketing team has the middle-East covered. While we sat down for lunch, I developed the rudiments of a conversation with the funny guy, as he carefully avoided getting homus on the bandage covering his fresh scrape.

“Where you from?”

“Min Ameerca, fee Michigan.” Then, I intentionally lapsed into my familiar routine. I got out my hand and readied to explain. Making a waving gesture with my left hand, I cast a sort of non-verbal spell over the palm of my right hand, as if I were conjuring tiny maple trees and bottles of Vernors Ginger-ale to sprout out of it. “Meeshigonn...”. Then I did this little trick:

“bu-hhyra ... bu-hhyra... BEIT” I said, pointing to each side of my hand to indicate a massive lake and then at ‘Cassopolis’, which is home (beit). He laughed and, casting a similar spell over his hand, said:
“Bethlehem... BEIT” and stuck his finger right in the middle of his palm.

“That’s funny!” said Zoughbi, “he does live close to the center of Bethlehem...”

The day was going wonderfully and I was slowly beginning to sense that the other guys basically liked me, though the language barrier was in our way. Just before a mid-afternoon break, two of the guys were up in the tree by the sidewalk, gesturing me to come over. I couldn’t understand their Arabic but I assumed they wanted my help getting out of the tree. I put up my hands and they each took one. ...they were not coming down. With a tremendous yank, they lifted my ass off the ground. Realizing that I was going up... I was totally in! I scrambled into the tree. About that time, Valentina (Lorette’s house-guest {Zoughbi’s sister-in-law who is the finest cook I can think of}) showed-up with a camera. Funny guy wrapped an arm around my neck and I wrapped an arm around each of them. I had not hugged anyone for well over a month, I realized. The moment just does not usually happen but, well, here it was: solidarity through manual labor.

Unfortunately, the day was not over. The olive harvest stretched into the evening. Zoughbi lit a grassfire to clear some brush, then had to haggle with the police about it. Fool that I am, I saw a truck with flashing lights on it and walked over, only to witness my boss arguing with the cops at a close distance. Some conversations need no translation. Arabic is not just a language of words but of gestures. [The neighbors called] [I’m glad you came (such a Zoughbi Zoughbi trick...) these same neighbors are always leaving trash out] [You can’t light a fire, you have neighbors][Yes I can, it’s not hurting anything][No][Yes] {times infinity}[The neighbors leave their trash out][Can you put this fire out?][It will go out by itself—it hurts nothing][You cannot have it][Yes, it’s fine—come have some coffee...][We already had coffee][Look, the fire it already going-out...]

Around that same time, I was crossing a pile of stones at the base of the wall by the sidewalk. A stone shifted beneath my right ankle, which has been prone to injury since I badly sprained it two years ago. I took a tumble into some thistles and was obviously in pain.

“Are you okay?” said Luca.

“La... mish mubsoot...” (my fucking ankle! It hurts! –well, not really but I knew I would start bitching in English so I just answered in broken Arabic: “no... not okay”)

So, I went over with Valentina and Rachelle (a Canadian National, works for MCC, rents from the Zoughbi family...) and started doing “women’s work”: sorting olives on the tarp. After a while, though, I wanted to make a showing. Just a day prior, I had been feeling good in my skin: climbing in the tops of trees and feeling fit. Let’s cut to the chase: I didn’t want the day-laborers to think I was totally soft. I limped across the street.

“جون? “

*smile and shrug*

...then something beautiful happened. Those two guys tucked their cigarettes into the corners of their mouths and each grabbed one side of me. They carried me across the rocks, across the grove and stood me up next to a tree. Without missing a beat, I started picking olives. I glanced back and everyone gave a little nod, took a new puff, and went back to their business. Later, we all took another photograph together.

“BEIT”.

Olive Picking: the preview

I had a genuinely surreal moment. I was sitting atop the Mt. of Olives, looking out over Jerusalem. The layer of dust clinging to the skyline brought twilight upon us early, so that two dozen internationals were leaning against pine trees drinking Taybeh beer (Ramallah area brewery—accept no less). It felt like having a dream inside of a dream, where I had fallen asleep in Grand Rapids and disappeared to places like New York, Chicago and Bethlehem. Then, I sank another layer deeper, going through the check-point with Jan and Tina in order to catch the bus. It was Shabat, so that West Jerusalem felt like a ghost town—an alien metropolis with signs in strange, boxy characters.

Between buses, I caught a short glimpse of East Jerusalem... or, sorry: AL-KUDS! القدس

It was the first day of the week in East Jerusalem and the area all around Damascus gate was swarming with the familiar of commerce: handmade good, clothes... and remote controllers were among some of the wares for sale yet to my right was the wall. Not the Apartheid Wall that Netanyahu and the other Likud skuz-bags are building but the one that Nehemiah came back from Persia to re-build. The Jerusalem Wall, a symbol of resilience and a sense of identity. I did not pass through the gate, though, or begin to contemplate what makes this wall so much different to me. We took another bus to the top of the mount and joined the other internationals. “Dang, this is a lot of white people. I haven’t seen this many white people together since I left the States.”

Jan and Tina suggested that we might get tea in the Old City. I bid them farewell: most of the people there were close to my own age. I was at ease and getting a higher quality of exercise, climbing into trees and popping off the hundreds of tiny olives. Olive picking is so much different, in that respect: they are all ‘good’ no matter their maturity but none of these olives are edible right from the tree. At the same time, I was experiencing my own body. Not in a sexual way but in the purely physical way of realizing the things it was made to do. My slightly wiry build allowed me to squeeze into places and assume positions that I had no idea could be so comfortable. It cast a new light on the John Daniel in the mirror. I know that looks do not matter most but occasionally I have wondered “what would it be like to be a genuinely good person AND a handsome beast? Some recent conversations, combined with my previously unknown comfort in trees, has led me to believe that all I need is some space to express what is already blossoming in myself. I do not mean just the physical things but in this case I appreciated being in the body I have and even saw it as something already beautiful rather than another area for remediation.

Sometime after lunch and before we found a dead-hedgehog I exchanged names with some of this new gang and made promises to visit them again. The next morning, I descended the stairs and joined Zoughbi Zoughbi for breakfast. We all got up early so we could go olive picking.

Palestinian olive picking would turn out to be a different and even more enriching experience... although the bag of frozen peas on my ankle is a good indication of its lowest point. Just the same, I need to show my body some respect and go to bed early tonight.