Narratives

I had intended to write more blogable entries while schlepping about these holy plots of land. I have been plodding through my experiences with the discipline of daily journal writing, doing my best to set one word next to another in an attempt to find some sense of cohesion and meaning in the situation on the ground in Palestine/Israel. But – and this is really no surprise – my entries have taken shape as rambles and disjointed thoughts, pulling from a hundred moments a day and as many emotions, sifting through layer after layer of narrative only to arrive at the end of an entry (and the end of each day) exhausted, frustrated, resigned, and all too ready to slap my head down on a flat pillow and stretch my legs to the edge of the narrow bed that cradles me.

In broad strokes we have gone from historic Jerusalem, through the sacred spots of the three monotheistic traditions, into a Bethlehem that is diced up by the ominous presence of a twenty foot wall, and for days now we have been hopping from one living room or lounge to the next hearing from residents and grass-roots leaders, lawyers and clergy and students and activists, farmers and veterans about the their pieces of this complex tapestry. They have shared their space, their values and perspectives, their initiatives, and when at all possible they have extended what little hope for peace and coexistence there is in their hearts.

I have learned a lot about Judaism. A lot about the state of Israel. And a lot about the conflicting claims placed on plots of land, not to mention a bit about the dilemma that those claims pose to the land itself. Yesterday, for instance, we learned about the politics of water in the Golan Heights, which for a boy who grew up flipping faucets on and off without a second thought as to its source of origin, was an illuminating discussion. We began today with a clip from Life of Brian that ironically and comically shed significant light on the complexity of any situation (which to date has been every situation, at least in this place) where there is an imbalance of power. One would think it would be quite simple to diagnose the goods from the evils. But one would be wrong. One would only need to sit in the living room of a Palestinian family on one side of the wall, feeding their gold fish and talking about the latest Pixar movie one day, and then sit down in a dining room on the other side of the wall to share Shabbat dinner with a young family of five the next to know that they are wrong about the ease of diagnosing any situation of conflicting interests.

One needs to encounter the other, to hear their narrative, their angle, to be afforded the opportunity to ask questions and push into their story to understand that claiming a monopoly on truth or a monopoly on what makes sense or claiming to know what solution is the right solution is rooted in immaturity and ignorance.

From what I’ve seen and heard it strikes me that those who are most honest about life in the midst of conflict (and what life isn’t in one conflict or another?) accept, even embrace, the need to release the simplistic notion that an ideal is possible. Ideals clash. Absolutes collide. It takes courage and grace and a ridiculous amount of hope, but it seems necessary to consider the other’s presence as essential to one’s own wholeness. Love your neighbor. Love your enemy. Love your next-door enemy. It is not the proximity of conflicting narratives to one another that causes violent conflict; it is the fear of the other and hyper-insecurity about oneself that escalates our natural differences into occasions of hostility and brutality – whether verbal or physical. It’s not okay anymore, if it ever was, to shun diversity. The fear of multiplicity arises from a craven heart or an ignorant one. It is not okay to pretend like human homogeneity is an option. It is okay to be yourself, embodying your narrative, while accepting the other and honoring a plurality of voices.

Coexistence is possible. I’ve seen it. Peace is more elusive – both in reality and in any definable form. Perhaps the elusive nature of peace is a practical trait. If peace was static and could be enshrined in one place or fixed into some society, it would be missing elsewhere – another human community or the ecological neighborhood we are a part of. Our actions, habits, happiness, and security impact the lives and presence of others. Perhaps the best peace is an elusive peace, one that is always being hoped toward but never quite reached. For if I am at peace then my neighbor may be suffering, and that is not just. But if we both attempt harmony, while not neglecting the reality of our differences, perhaps we may transcend inert coexistence and participate, as broad conduits, in the dynamic and enduring flow of peace.