The First Lie

It is my first day of Lent in the Holy Land but this forty day phase has been coming my whole life. I would bring you up to date but I think that would be counter-productive. I will have to make allusions as I go and shoot from the hip because...

The First Lie is the need to play catch-up.

Well meaning people have never tired of telling me that every moment is a new opportunity but the fundamental assumptions always remained intact: I believed that I should be achieving more at any given point in time. I was never clear quite how much but it must be more and, in order to get there, I needed to either be playing catch-up or getting ahead. As a child I was superlative at many things and avoided others. As an under-graduate, reality hit: I could not be superlative. This is a theme I have revisited repeatedly.

The truth all along is that God had a special place for me in the universe, just like She does for everyone else. Even knowing this cognitively, though, may not be enough to unravel the intuitive lie. I just read the last two chapters of a book called "The Four Agreements" that posits we are all under the oppression of the dysfunctional lies we tell ourselves. The author successfully places some Toltec teachings into a Christian theological framework -- frankly, he gets around the black-and-white issues and manages to zero-in on the nature of the disease itself: he calls it a bad dream, lies, The Parasite. As unnerving as it was to realize I was infested, it simultaneously has offered me Hope. Stowaways can be dumped over-board. Occupations can be shed ~ 'a shaking off' (Intifada)

...

Well, blog-spot glitched and cut my analysis. It's okay. I won't play catch-up with even that. The short story is that the author describes this demon as having two forms: the victim and the judge. As a victim, I blamed my environment. When that got me no where, I learned to be a harsh time-keeper in my own life. Sometimes I felt as if I had gotten ahead and I could afford to be lazy. Most times, I put myself under the stress of unknown standards.

Halas: Palestine is teaching me the truth. Work on Kairos time. There is not catching-up or getting ahead. There are relationships to build and things to do in the present. There are mistakes to learn from and plans to aim for but neither controls what happens in our bubble. Right here, right now. Granted, I still carry the heaviness of my regrets and wishes. That is why I am taking this Lent to get closer to God.

However, this demon comes with quite a few friends in tow. Stay-tuned...

Mega Man X

Sometime in the last five weeks, I developed self-concept problems. It might have to do with the fact that I am a writer who is writing seemingly little. Even more likely, it is part of my inescapable annual cycle, augmented by the fact that Mediterranean winter is too much like Michiganian November. I am in a time of critical challenge and opportunity. The shock-waves finally reached the surface this week when I found myself crying over Skype.

It is time to embrace a new narrative for myself. I noticed Beit Sahour activist and fellow Michigander, Samantha Young, had embraced Under-dog as her facebook profile picture. It suited her; after speaking to an ‘Educational Opportunities’ group, I mused about who my cartoon super-hero avatar could be. Mega Man seemed to be the answer, by sheer exposure: I used to play Mega Man X on SNES every time I visited my parents during college – for the expressed purpose of blowing-up stuff. The character “X” became my sliver of fictional involvement.

The more I dwelled on “X” the more I saw reasons to embrace his narrative as my own. X wakes from a long-nap in a time-capsule to discover a terrible development: the other robots are driving the humans out of the region and fundamentally altering the landscape. The game begins as X runs, past the last carloads of people leaving, toward a legion of other robots. Playing from the beginning, I ran into that city over a hundred times, through the gauntlet, to challenge a foe in a reinforced metal-suit. The game is designed in such a way that X cannot possibly win without being rescued by an ally, Zero.

This brings us to the first parallel: the self-hating robot. Down on his little, blue knees, X laments that he was not strong enough. X already knows he’s a self-hating robot in another, crucial way: he denied himself the blossoming privilege of robot-supremacy to defend a hated minority. I am sure the other bots had something to say about that. Yet, he has no doubt about his mission, except for the doubts he has about himself. He is inadequate. Zero leans over and says to him... well, I scoured the internet and could not find it but I can paraphrase: “Dude, you have not reached full-power yet. Once you acquire all the tools you need, you can rise to the occasion.”

St. Paul advises in Ephesians 6:13* to “Put on every piece of God’s armor so you will be able to resist the enemy in the time of evil. Then after the battle you will still be standing firm.” I have been reluctant to embrace Mega Man as emblematic of my own purpose for fear it would expose my warrior dichotomy, wanting peace but moved to resistance. I remain committed to nonviolence but my self-deprecation has been an assault on my purpose as much as on my self. I have been unwilling to stand tall and say “I am a prophet,” for fear that I will seem arrogant or combative. I have continued fighting on the outskirts of the city, popping plasma blasts at drones to stay alive rather than tapping into my legacy.

X finds a capsule left to him by his creator with a hologram message explaining that he had hope X would be allowed to choose a peaceful life but left X a legacy in case the world demanded a new champion. The super-boots in that capsule give the power to slide quickly and make long jumps but they are only the beginning. There is body armor (much like the breast-place of righteousness) that gives X the ability to stand under-fire and spare energy tanks to extend his stamina. A metaphor is in each piece of equipment; the general idea is that X discovers parts of Dr. Light’s vision that were specially designed to make him strong in conflict. It takes some time and sweat but going into conflict situations is the only way for X to fully realize these gifts.

Foremost of those gifts is his own sword-of-truth, a booster that turns his modest plasma cannon into a powerful, versatile weapon. Added to that are the spoils of war: a new gun taken from the corpse of each boss he slays. The weapon enhancer enables X to unlock secret power in each of these, as well. That sword might be double-edged: if I gave myself over to blasting my way through every conflict, I fail the principles of Wi’am. The key to weapon-enhancer is that it must charge to full power – it is a waiting weapon. Speaking to groups on several occasions, I closed my eyes and remembered the sound of Mega Man powering-up that weapon. I used to charge it before I faced a boss, whether I needed it or not, to put myself at ease. “I’ve got this—thanks for the power-up, Spirit.” Discharged at the right time, it is super effective.

Mega Man is emblematic of a new self-concept, for me, because of his dynamic growth and intrinsic goals. There is no princess or treasure waiting for him in Sigma’s fortress. Mega Man is neutral on issues of pride because his unprecedented power and skill is not for the sake of prowess or accolades but to respond to the increasing level of difficulty. It would be easier to fall in-line with the global domination agenda, letting humanity and culture go to the trash-bin. However, it is inconceivable that X would allow such a thing to occur. Indeed, my world has not allowed me to choose another path, either. I feel as if I was in my own cryonic freeze in Creston, recalling the inscription on X’s capsule: “Warning: this robot is free-thinking and may rebel!” X and I share an important component: Mission. Though we are both free-thinking, and capable of denying our gifts, on our root level we cannot escape Purpose forever. We must go into battle. It is not because our programming was fail-safe but because our paths have shaped our potential. Only the blue, self-doubting X from the first stage could have become the imposing X who eventually bests his opponent from earlier in the game. The upgrades were specially made for him by his creator to be used for his Mission. If they become badges later, that is no reason to be ashamed—as long as they are tools first.

I will keep that in mind as I meditate.

*With respect to the limitations of Paul's world-view that are grossly apparent earlier in the chapter, I think I can take that with a grain of salt and continue to explore what he was driving toward with the armor metaphor.

Pink-washed Apartheid

At the end of December, I entertained the idea that I would write some pieces focused on every day life and take time for some creativity. I wanted to give my audience the same appreciation for Palestine that I get from living here but also take a step back toward my brush with creative writing in college.

Yet, today I am thinking about pink-washed apartheid. My work life boundaries are so poor, I find myself browsing for anti-occupation fare at home. This time, it was two articles about Israel’s supposed “pink-washing” of the occupation by recruiting queers to take part in publicity activities. The whole idea slid into my ears easily; this would be just one more on a long-list of apparatuses employed in their games of misdirection. I posted the articles on a private facebook feed, where I thought it would be of interest, and fielded some commentary from someone affiliated with Hillel. The results were predictable, right down to his misconceptions about homophobia in Palestine. It is often characterized by avoidance or negative social pressures, not typically “beatings and torture”. It isn't that it never happens. It happens in Texas: I'm sure it can happen in Nablus but that's not normal and the sweeping generalization is harmful to Palestinians. I respected his assertion that it was insulting to believe that Israel’s apparent tolerance for homosexuals would just be a device to mask racism.

No kidding! I can see how that would hurt! On the other hand, there is a brick-bat with this guy’s name on it in an Orthodox Jewish settlement—and they practice on Palestinians. Intentional, diabolical plot [insert evil laughter] or convenient diversion, it is effective pink-washing. Israel deserves no progressive-points for having their t’s crossed and asses kissed (though they always do a thorough job). When he started to comment on Gaza, I could tell he knew the proverbial less-than-nothing, courtesy of pro-Israel propaganda machinery. So, I offered to him that plenty of conscientious Jewish people exist and will welcome him to their circles if he sees Israel for what it is.

At the same time, I wondered if the pink-washing allegations were like the comparisons to Nazi Germany—too inflammatory and not constructive enough. The comparison is somewhat fair but only vaguely, whereas the outrage it incites is extreme. It touches raw nerves and opens the door for more ridiculous exceptionalism, giving Israelis the chance to compete for victimhood that they no longer deserve. Not worth it. I try to be very sparing about comparisons to Germany...

After all, its South Africa that is being washed-over. You heard me right: Israel is white-washing the fact that it is just like the South Africa of decades ago or worse. That comparison is apt, easy, and supported by decades of military, economic, and political collaboration between Israel and the apartheid regime in South Africa. South Africa had a Jewish community of its own, some of whom moved to settlements in the West Bank. The Hebrew word for separation policies translates into Afrikaans as “apartheid”. White-wash, pink-wash, whatever-wash ... it is Israel’s lobbying and propaganda machinery in the United States that has preserved occupation. Which leads us full-circle, back to our “friend” from Hillel, who undoubtedly meant well and is progressive in at least one obvious way....

Pink-washing sure does work, huh?

I would rather not end with that, though. After all, I am enjoying a big, whopping playlist of South African Jazz – protest and the blues! I am suckered. It’s a great story, how I came to have this music and be thinking about South Africa again—but in a different way.

They called her “indlovukazi” when she visited. In Zulu, queen mother or the matriarch of an elephant herd....

^^ Zulu!

Anti-Semitism Lite

Last week, I thought about the unbalanced nature of the conflict and how I believe that blame might be on both sides but responsibility falls to Israel because of their greater resources. The power to integrate lies in their hands. Unfortunately, they have had poor role-models.

A friend recently reminded me that her parent’s generation witnessed the Holocaust firsthand, giving part of the impetus behind believing that the Jewish people needed a homeland. This sentiment has never and will never make sense to me. Under this assumption, the visceral reaction of those well-meaning people who encountered Holocaust victims was to send them away. It reminds me of stories I have heard about well-intentioned congregations who welcome a new African American couple to their church by telling them where the nearest black church is and insisting they will be happier there. It is as if to say:

“We are sorry that we segregated you in that nasty way; we are going to segregate you in a nice way, now.”

In my opinion, the end of British Mandate and the creation of the State of Israel are functions of this nuanced anti-Semitism. Israel’s function was similar to the reservation system except that the background conditions were more favorable. Native Americans were attached to their land and knew their heritage well. Unfortunately, Jews in Europe had been made to feel like foreigners for centuries and were susceptible to Zionist mythologies surrounding their origins. It would worked perfectly if the land had been empty.

...wake-up: have you eaten the produce here? Of course there were Palestinians!

Then Al-nakba began and never stopped, as if everyone in the West is saying:

“We are sorry that we were scarce when they faced hate and violence; we are going to be scarce now that they are using hate and violence to get their own way.”

This is not acceptable. If society wanted to protect the Jewish people from being hurt again, it should have welcomed them to have a homeland where they were: to be safe in own countries. They should have welcomed Jews as part of their communities not through assimilation but through cooperation and inter-cultural exchange. They should have risked putting their own nationalist and patriotic principles at risk in order to soften the borders between the Jewish people and themselves-- to become part of one-another. That would have been challenging, yes, but loving and wise.

Instead of making sure that the Holocaust never happened again, the West allows it to be carried-out in light-beer form for decades via Al-nakba. Al-nakba flows continuously from the dysfunction and wounds of the Holocaust: they are two parts of the same process because one generation decided that love meant sending people away.

The most important part of being together is BEING TOGETHER.

Discuss: Jesus as Palestinian

I have been wrangling with complex thoughts about the reality of Palestinians as opposed to deficient ideas about the middle-East in the United States. In the midst of all that, I wanted to share a succinct thought I had Monday. I am just shooting this one from the hip:

It makes more sense to think of Jesus as being Palestinian rather than Jewish. I am not talking about "right & wrong" but about "accuracy". He was born into a Judaic tradition, of course. However, the current Jewish tradition is enriched by roughly two-thousand years of history and culture apart from this land. Modern Jewish people, contrary to popular misconception, are partly/mostly/entirely descended from converts in various parts of the world or long-isolated members of an uncertain diaspora. They have pieces of other cultures in their traditions and habit -- which is fine.

Just the same, Jesus lived here in historic Palestine. He probably dressed in robes and sandals like the old-guys I see walking through the sook, not in a black suit and broad-brimmed hat. There are passages that talk about him reclining when he eats, breaking his bread and dipping it in things, and feeding large crowds; freshly raised from the dead, he asked the disciples for food. Take it from me: that's a Palestinian attitude about food. Skipping other, mundane similarities, I will get right to the point: Jesus was living under occupation. He was not welcome among the ruling elite in Jerusalem. He was way too active on the Sabbath. He was tired of seeing his people starving and manipulated. He was confused with a violent extremist, even ranked below one during his final days ("send us Barabbas!").

They said he was lying about who He was and doubted his importance. He who had so much to offer was sacrificed for the sake of political interests -- the interests of those in power and their foreign collaborators. His accusers engineered all types of allegations, whatever they could cook-up to get their own way. They knew just how to work the system. In the end, though, Jesus was willing to go into death rather than flee. Unlike them, He knew who He was.

That sounds like a Palestinian narrative to me.

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.