Credo

"More and more, the desire grows in me simply to walk around, greet people, enter their homes, sit on their doorsteps, play ball, throw water, and be known as someone who wants to live with them. It is a privilege to have the time to practice this simple ministry of presence. Still, it is not as simple as it seems. My own desire to be useful, to do something significant, or to be part of some impressive project is so strong that soon my time is taken up by meetings, conferences, study groups, and workshops that prevent me from walking the streets. It is difficult not to have plans, not to organize people around an urgent cause, and not to feel that you are working directly for social progress. But I wonder more and more if the first thing shouldn't be to know people by name, to eat and drink with them, to listen to their stories and tell your own, and to let them know with words, handshakes, and hugs that you do not simply like them, but truly love them.
"
- Henri Nouwen, Catholic Priest

The Ministry

The Israeli Ministry of the Interior has been heavily featured in the news this past week. This is my own small experience with it.

I'm in the process of applying for a visa for a year-long stay in Jerusalem. There are many steps involved, but one of the most important is making an appointment at the ministry. It took me a while to find it because the address they give online is not even close to the place you actually need to go to get a visa. With help from a kind taxi driver, I found the ministry, which looks less like a ministry than a nondescript door wedged between two shops on a busy commercial street. I asked the driver three times if he was sure if this was the right place.

When I walked up, there was a fight already going on between a girl speaking heavily-accented English and the security guard, who was snapping at her from behind an almost-closed door. After a few minutes, I learned that the girl was trying to get her visa extended for a week. The guard kept telling her that she needed to call the number on the door, and the girl kept insisting that she had called the number many times and nobody ever answered. Soon, a woman and her children pushed in front of the girl and started their own fight with the guard, who continued to peer out at us from the crack in the door. Not wanting to be left out, I jumped into the fray and started to yell at the guard with everyone else. After a while of this, another guard appeared and told us that our only window of opportunity to get what we wanted was to come back at 7:45 the next morning. This seemed like progress.

I woke up early the next morning, but my bus was stuck in miserable rush-hour traffic, and I didn't get there until 8:15. On my way in, I ran into the girl from the day before.

"Did you get your visa? Am I too late?" I asked her.

"I have my visa and you're very lucky," she answered. Apparently everyone who had come at the appointed time had been told, once again, to call the number on the door. The woman in charge claimed that this was a special new number, but really it was the same useless number we had all been calling to no avail. But not knowing what else to do, the crowd wrote down the number and left. Infuriated, my new friend complained to the security guard on her way out. He realized something was wrong and took her back upstairs where it turned out that the visa officer had simply been late to work, and the woman had been trying to cover for him. The visa officer himself was a very kind man.

"Go to room 204!" The girl called as I raced up the dilapidated stairs to try to catch this miraculous visa officer. When I arrived at room 204, I walked past it three times. There was a sign that said 204, but no room there. The closest room was down a cramped hallway. I got in line, hoping I was in the right place. Around me were piles of papers that appeared to be people's files stacked haphazardly on top of each other. In front of me was a couple speaking French. (Details have been changed to protect their identity.) I asked them if this was the line to get visas.

"No, you don't get visas here. You get appointments to be considered for a visa."

"Right! That's what I want," I said pleased I hadn't been standing in the wrong line for the past 30 minutes. We talked, and the couple started to vent about the Israeli bureaucracy in French. They had been living in the country for some time, and even had a son in the army.

"They're just ill-mannered!" The man was getting heated. "It's a country for the ultra-religious and no one else." I looked around to see if anyone could understand our conversation, as the couple became louder and louder with their criticism of the Israeli government.

Finally, it was my turn. The kind visa officer gave me an appointment date and sent me on my way. I said goodbye to the couple on the way out. We had the same day, so we will be meeting again. After my experience, I began to wonder what percentage of the ministry's behavior is discrimination, and how much is complete disorganization.

Boiling over

"Jerusalem is boiling," a friend said today. Riots and protests in the Old City have been escalating for days. It was strange to walk by the Old City today and see the usually bustling streets closed off and guarded by soldiers in riot gear. It doesn't help that there has been a strange gray haze settled over the city for the last few days. (Note to my mom and others concerned: This is not dangerous for me. The outbreaks of violence are far away from where I'm living and I'm monitoring the situation carefully.) "Good. It needs to boil," my co-worker replied angrily. Jerusalem has been considered a cold conflict. The only comparison I can think of is a married couple who are tired of fighting with each other and exist in a state of tense silence. So compared to that, maybe bringing the conflict to the surface is better. But, I've heard a few people say that the events of the last few days have an ominous feel.

In season

One of my favorite things about living here is that it's very easy to tell what fruits and vegetables are in season. Unlike the U.S. where you can buy any kind of fruit at any time, here the vendors' stock is always different. Last week, all the fruit sellers in the old city had piles of a green, fuzzy little fruit-like things. At first, I avoided them, but then decided since everyone was carrying them, they must be worth something. When I got home, I asked my neighbor what to do with the strange little fruits. She laughed and told me it was an almond fruit and that I should eat it with salt. I did, and at first it was odd. It's not at all sweet and very crisp. But then they were strangely addictive with tiny green baby almonds inside. I'm looking forward to seeing what's on sale next week.

This too shall pass

I know about culture shock. My stepmom has lived abroad and taken many students abroad and she explained exactly what it would be like.

The first stage is the excitement of going to a foreign country. Then, comes the honeymoon period that lasts for the first few weeks. Everything is cast in a romantic glow--the food, the pace of life, the language, the architecture. But, then the new culture starts to grate. The pace of life is painfully slow, people are rude, even basic tasks take an extreme amount of energy. I've only lived outside of the U.S. for a few months at a time, and so I've never gone past this stage. But the rumor is that after culture shock, you adjust. This can take anywhere from 6-12 months.

Despite being familiar with the symptoms of culture shock, it took me by surprise. The confusing part is I'm still enamored with almost everything about living here. Little things like the jasmine just starting to bloom on our front gate make me deeply happy.

But simultaneously, a lot of other symptoms were starting to crop up. Wikipedia says culture shock is "often marked by mood swings caused by minor issues or without apparent reason." Check. I've been irresistibly drawn to McDonald's and Starbuck's because I can walk in, order exactly what I want, and get the food that I expected for the price I expected. And there are other things. I stopped communicating with people back home because it just took too long to explain the context of what was happening to me, and any story I told was completely inadequate in conveying my experience.

So, now that the problem is identified, where does it leave me? Wikipedia says that 60% of expats find it impossible to accept the foreign culture and isolate themselves until they can return home. Ten percent lose their identity and completely disappear inside the new culture. And 30% manage to keep some of their identity and make some adjustments to the new culture. Of course, I'm aiming for that golden 30%, but we will see how everything shakes out. Today, as I was getting dressed, I was wondering what would the best deodorant for a stifling hot day when I have to drive through impossibly narrow streets, negotiate hostile security guards, bypass crowds of angry protesters, and convince my new boss that I'm competent to do my job. I could imagine the commercial for my life. "If the security guards don't let you through the checkpoint; if you get lost in the middle of Jerusalem with no map; Secret will keep you calm and dry." But the truth is, there is no deodorant made for this strange situation I've put myself in. I'm just going to have to sweat my way through it.

Testing my luck

I drove in Jerusalem for the first time yesterday, and it went very well. My mistake was trying it again today.

When my roommate first mentioned buying a car, the idea of driving here terrified me. This is a city of impossibly narrow streets, aggressive drivers, and often hostile police. But no one else seemed to share my worry.

"Driving here is no problem. Just ignore the honking, and when in doubt, just go. Otherwise you'll never get anywhere," my neighbor told me. But, as it turned out, my roommate's car arrived when she was out of town and I was the only one available to pick it up. My heart was pounding when I sat down in the driver's seat, and there was an awkward moment when I couldn't get the stick shift to go in reverse. But, then I was moving! I didn't have to rely on taxi drivers who charged too much or endure the glares of people on the bus. I could go anywhere! Of course, the first place I went was the wrong way down the highway, but a quick u-turn and I was headed home. Yes, the traffic laws were strange, and the cars around me didn't seem to understand what lanes were, but I seemed to be able to adapt to it intuitively. I made it to the store and bought a lot of bulky items I never could have taken on the bus, and returned home in triumph.


It went so well, that I decided to try again today, forgetting that on Friday mornings the roads are packed with people preparing for Shabbat. Driving today was surreal. I regularly saw scenes like the one above, shot by Melissa Yeo. An older man driving some kind of golf cart at 2 miles an hour decided to take up an entire lane of a very busy street. I couldn't get around him, so I just had to follow him. I saw a giant two-section bus suddenly do a k-turn in the middle of a residential street. I parked the car, and then realized that the street was so narrow that to back out, I would have to block both lanes of traffic. I couldn't wait until the street was clear because the street was never clear. I watched the woman next to me back out calmly into oncoming traffic. Everyone just moved out of her way. I took a deep breath, and then did the same thing. Miraculously, it worked. I made it home with both the car and I undamaged. But, it will be a while before I get back behind the wheel. Buses and taxis are looking much friendlier now.