On Hospitality

The Palestinian culture is a culture of hospitality. It catches me off guard. It's hard for me to shake out of my self-contained, hyper-independent existence. We stayed the night in a village in the West Bank. We arrived soaking wet and cold from the rain. The women of the house spent the night finding us clothes and serving us endless cups of tea. In the morning, the oldest woman of the house, who must have been in her 70's came into our room early in the morning. She sat down at the end of my bed and tucked the end of my blankets around her, grinned at me, and patted my hand. I stared at her awkwardly, trying desperately to piece together some coherent Arabic words to say to her and coming up short.

"This is a very high honor," my colleague explained. "The oldest member of the household is the most respected, and so the most respected member of the household is coming to check on us as the first thing she does today."

I felt honored, but continued to stare inanely trying to figure out to express my thanks. I'm not really sure how to repay the hospitality I'm receiving here.

Scenes from Easter in Jerusalem

I'm sorry to take such a long break from posting. I've been out hiking in the desert the last few weekends, and I've gotten a little behind on everything. To make up for it, here are pictures from the Easter madness in Jerusalem. My fiancee, B.'s and my plan was to go to the Old City and find the chaos, which we did. Here are a few of the thousands of worshipers waiting to enter the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, where Jesus' tomb is believed to be. The different Christian denominations have historically not been able to share the space, so almost 1,000 years ago, the Ottomans handed the keys to the church over to two prominent Muslim families, who, to this day, are in charge of opening the church every morning and locking it at night. (Really!) So, on the Saturday before Easter, thousands of people come to wait for the church to be unlocked. Once it is, there is a huge ceremony. This picture was taken while we were pinned to the wall covering our ears waiting for hundreds of bagpipes to parade through.

After everyone is let in, they take candles and light them inside the church, and then bring them out into the world to symbolize the resurrection. Most of the pilgrims wandering around yesterday looked a little bewildered by the whole thing. And the shopkeepers looked like they couldn't wait for the day to be over. After a few hours of fighting the crowds, B. and I collapsed onto the bus with our backpacks stuffed full of herbs, frankincense, fruit and a new blender. It was a strange and lovely spectacle in this city that seems stranger and more beautiful by the day.

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.