The past week has been jarring not because of its events but because of its under-currents. Today’s moment of dislocation took place, of all places, at the point of dislocation in the West Bank: next to the apartheid wall. I had managed to escape the office on the pretext of taking pictures of the massive group of American undergraduates that Usama was leading on a short walk through Aida refugee camp. The short-cut to the refugees camp passes along Apartheid Wall and through a Palestinian graveyard. I still cannot fathom that on the other side of that wall, almost adjacent to where I work every day, is Rachel’s Tomb. Thanks to the giant concrete-gerrymander, I have never seen it.
What I have seen twice is the giant key and ‘key hole’ that leads into Aida; the camp is three generations old. The first generation inhabitants set their tents there in the late forties after being internally displaced decades ago. There were two ideas behind the giant key and key-hole shaped gate: first, Aida residents keep the keys to their homes in “Israel” as a symbol of their eventual return. Second, they were hoping that the Guinness Book of World Records would recognize it as the biggest key in the world (which did not happen). Usama has a friend in the camp who lets him take tour groups onto a high roof-top in order to get the lay of the land: Rachel’s tomb, an olive grove lying fallow, the illegal Israeli settlement and the Wall that makes it all possible.
While half the group was on the roof, I was spending time with the rest of the group. Children from the camp were flocking to us, finding various ways to amuse themselves with the big pack of tourists. Little kids are little kids anywhere in the world. One little boy asked to borrow my camera. I fought my reluctance and let him figure things out on my Canon~ I watched him closely for monkey-business but instead he began to painstakingly frame some graffiti on the Apartheid Wall, working hard to stabilize the shot.
Later, a shop-keeper came and recruited some of the young Americans to buy things from his mini-mart. He came up and introduced himself to me in broken English. I responded in broken Arabic. We were both smiling and shaking hands, trying to understand each other over the buzz of vehicles coming in and out of the camp. Our second-language skills were a match: he was as terrible at English as I was at Arabic. We never got beyond exchanging names and clarifying that I had no money. Yet, it was a warm exchange overall: we had good non-verbal communication.
One of the internationals was a man named Andrew, who looked like he could be five to ten years older than the rest of the group, perhaps a graduate-level resident advisor or something similar. Andrew carried a well-worn, leather-bound Bible under one arm, wore small glasses but looked to be in excellent shape. We started talking about how I came to be working with Wi’am. Then, we came to the point of dislocation, where I found myself dealing not with the issues I think about every day in Palestine but the issues that brought me here: concepts of mission.
“Do you think Wi’am has a good ministry here?” asked Andrew.
“Oh yes,” I said, without hesitation. In my mind, Wi’am has an excellent ministry—they are an office filled with overt Christians doing good work in the name of caring for their community.
“So, do you lead a Bible Study there?” began Andrew, “What kind of work do you do with the Gospel?” “What is your missionary role, here?” I can only assume, in hind sight, that he was trying to unearth a kernel of evidence that matched his ideas of ministry so he could start to build an understanding of what I do. The awkward moment came, as we realized that the kernels he searched for were not there. I do not lead a Bible study—I study a little in the morning but I am not teaching lessons. It came out that I am a word-nerd, proof-reading grant proposals and making newsletters, occasionally taking photographs or ghost-writing an e-mail.
“When I think about it, though, everything I do here relates back to the Gospel,” I said. I getting ready to segue into Mark 12:31. “Love God with all of your heart, mind and soul and love your neighbor as yourself—and if it was me, living here in Palestine all my life, I would want my stories to be heard.” That is a perfectly understandable Gospel connection for the other Young Adult Missionary personnel but I could feel a small disconnect between myself and Andrew.
Pressing onward, I said “...actually, I have seen some of the Gospel here in the radical hospitality. Everyone has made me feel so welcome, in spite of whatever circumstances...”
The conversation continued in this stilted vein:
“...I said that Wi’am has a good mission but it covers the social aspects of mission more than the theological aspects... everyone there is motivated by their beliefs even though...”
“...I am really trying to take-on the receiver role so I can return to the United States and...”
“...I really wanted to connect people where I come from to these struggles so they can have compassion...”
“...well, you know, Christianity has been here a pretty long time, huh?” (epic fail)
Eventually, Usama came down from the roof and called for the next group to ascend. I could tell that my statements about the Gospel had defied Andrew’s expectations and I had to admit to myself that I embraced that purposely in my attempt to reframe my mission. I did not feel like I should have to say “well, I am just doing support work,” when I feel like I am working for the unification of humanity through better relationships. The fact of the matter is that I do occasionally engage in some theological reflection but my message is not for Palestinians. I think Andrew assumed I was preaching the Gospel to Palestine when I want to preach Gospel from Palestine.
Another dislocating feeling was realizing that Andrew was doing something right: he listened to me. He was really listening to me and trying to understand and that gives me hope. There could be hundreds of Disciples like that: people who mean well but are having trouble getting the new wine into the new wine skins, as Jesus might put it. Paradigm shifts. I felt humbled and even a little edified by his ability to listen. I need to ‘catch’ some of that.
I did catch something on my way back through the refugee camp. I noticed how neatly and elegantly constructed the tower next to the camp mosque was, especially as the sun was setting. It seemed beautiful to me, all at once, to understand how much it might mean to some of the Aida’s residents to have a respectable place of worship: the highest point in the whole camp. Later, the call to prayer rang-out across the graveyard and reached Wi’am – and the Wall adjacent.
