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”.

Authentically Sublime

One place I have not truly been is the Church of the Nativity, though I walk by it daily. Odd as it is, I have not visited the epicenter of Bethlehem Pilgrimages. The throngs kill my mood; maybe I have become a spirituality snob. I want my Nativity Church visit to take on a sublime and deeply authentic quality, to be alone in prayer with the place. The giant queue of muttering tourists deters me. Technically, I was in the building, once, but I don’t count that. Rafík, Zoughbi’s thirteen year-old son, wanted to light a prayer candle on our way to السوك to buy fruit one Saturday. Rafík went up to the priest, in athletic shorts and cleats, whispered in his unimposing way, and the priests nodded their assent and lifted the rope for him. I held his soccer ball and enjoyed the looks of indignation on the faces of all the visitors. It was a moment of authentic spirituality for my young friend, though.

Most Sundays, the Zoughbis bring me with them to an Arabic speaking Orthodox Church not far from the Star Street. I’ve learned to cross myself and to say the Lord’s Prayer in my own language when I notice the congregation reciting it in Arabic. I am still just learning. I like this Orthodox church because they must know that I am an interloping Protestant but they still give me communion. Just before the feast of Saint Francis Assisi, however, Zoughbi and the boys decided they wanted to attend at Santa Catalina’s, the Roman Catholic appendage to the Church of the Nativity complex (not “The Church” proper—they connect through a courtyard). We ended-up at the back behind a pillar. Once again, I crossed myself and spaced-out until the Lord’s Prayer.

The following Tuesday, I joined Liam for an evening vigil at St. Cat’s. Liam is another international volunteer; he just received a graduate degree in physics and looks as Irish as his name sounds. I rely upon my Catholic friends to interpret events like these and I’m rarely disappointed: I picked-up a few tid-bits about St. Francis and the way to distinguish between some Roman Catholic orders.

Liam was not any help deciphering the content of the liturgy, however. The service was conducted neither in English nor in Arabic but in Italian.

“I think I have a fighting chance in Italian,” I joked, “I know some Spanish... they’re related...”

To some extent, I was right. Thanks to a Latin alphabet I was able to sing almost all the words to the songs written in the bulletin and had a vague idea what I was saying (less than half but more than a quarter...). It was refreshing to be singing again but I still felt disconnected from the experience. Occasionally, there would be a reading: first Italian, then Arabic, English and French.

I discretely clicked a few photographs of the inside of the church at this point. The ornate ceiling and the artwork along the walls were beautiful but my attention was drawn to the supporting pillars: the place had obviously been partly destroyed at some point and then restored. The thickest of the pillars were made of more roughly hewn stone but the second-wave of architects had ingeniously managed to join the new parts of the structure smoothly with these relics, creating a network of supports that gave the space a hybrid character and a hint of antiquity. The monks handed us each a long, thin candle. The flame passed from wick to wick. The electric lights dimmed to nothing and I began to wonder if this was where I would feel a moment of heaviness or the movement of the Spirit. Like anyone, I meander closer and further from the Divine.

My hair stood on end when a long moan sliced through the thickening air of the church. From across Manger Square, for the fifth time that day as every day, the mosque loud speakers trumpeted the evening prayer. It was other-worldly, to hear that from inside the church. Barely a minute later, the sounds of the pipe organ and people singing in Italian rose into the air and juxtaposed against the modal changes of the prayers. The resonance of that moment was surreal; we were that close, Christians and Muslims, worshipping the One God with deepest reverence in two historic traditions.

That night, my worship took on a sublime and deeply authentic quality.

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.