Writing

Sinuous Path to Peace

With their tortured but inseparable histories and their respective futures inextricably intertwined, the Israeli and Palestinian people – to their dismay – experience on a daily basis the fact that virtually every issue, from water access to education to employment to health care, is made more burdensome due to their struggle: the struggle of one people against another.

On Sept. 1, 2008, I embarked on a journey through the lands of Israel- Palestine, the home of sites held sacred by all three Abrahamitic religions – Judaism, Christianity and Islam – as well as by the Druze and the Bahá'í.

I was privileged to travel with the Olive Tree Initiative (OTI), a group known for standing up for human rights, for searching for truth, and for refusing to blink away harsh realities. Together, as OTI participants, we discussed and debated the best way to reach a genuine and lasting peace.

Together, each of us went through our own journey.

As a transfer student to UC Irvine in the fall of 2007, I was keen on searching out new and interesting campus organizations. I tried many, only a few stuck. My rst week, I met OTI student Katherine Keith, a senior international studies major. Katherine spoke of the Olive Tree Initiative – an ambitious group that had decided to witness rsthand the faces and voices of the Israeli-Palestinian con ict. Her enthusiasm met my equal quantum of skepticism. Nonetheless, I attended the rst OTI meeting. I knew that a few of the OTI participants would be there.

My motivation to join did not turn on any possible – at that time remote – trip to the territories. Rather, what motivated me was the desire to learn about the Israeli-Palestinian con ict from my fellow students. I wanted to meet these students, so representative were they of various student organizations and so diverse were they religiously and ethnically. They had all agreed to discuss the problems before us and were willing to do so in a mutually respectful manner. I joined to listen and learn.

Of course each one of us brought to the table our own a priori assumptions and biases concerning the modern history of the Middle East con ict in general, and the various opposed parties that had contributed to the formation of the state of Israel and the Palestinian opposition in particular. The status of this conflict was in the forefront of our minds. We each had our sense – yet to be formulated – of who deserved blame or deserved praise. This made our coalition something of an unusual one. By agreeing to disagree and working toward a fair and balanced itinerary while constructing the logistics of our trip, our friendships developed.

In Jerusalem, we were met by Guido Baltes, an astute resident German who – from start to nish – guided us. Guido answered, as best he could, the questions we put to him throughout our sojourn through the territories. From Jerusalem to Bethlehem, from Ramallah to Haifa, Tel Aviv and Jaffa, we witnessed circumstances beyond our imagination. How is it to be a Palestinian living under Israeli occupation? In Bethlehem, the employment rate is of cially numbered at 60 percent. How is it to be an Israeli citizen hurrying for cover during Red Alert? That some of the residents testi ed to their circumstances inarticulately only attests to how dif cult such circumstances are to articulate. Living in those circumstances is, in its own right, an education – an education of the heart, an education in politics, an education in pain.

We lent our ear to the harsh daily realities. The military checkpoints with their pass/not-pass system was to me reminiscent of South Africa’s apartheid regulations in force before the establishment of the African National Congress. The controversial settlement enterprise, another prickly issue, appeared to us as a regular community or village, indistinguishable by the untrained eye from others in Israel proper. Ron Nachman, the mayor of Ariel, believes the surrounding land is land granted to Israelis by God and that the residents of Ariel live on “Greater Israel.” Yet to those committed to a two-state solution and who are devoted to Palestinian independent statehood, these very same settlements are anathema, antithetical to the prospect of peace. A minority of Palestinians, we came to realize, still cling to the dream of a “Greater Palestine.” That is the of cial view of many in the leadership circles of Hamas, for example.

I could discuss our beautiful lunch at Maxim’s restaurant. This restaurant is a joint Arab-Israeli venture. There we met with Maxim’s owner who discussed the suicide bombing that occurred in October 2003 which killed 21 persons, Arabs and Jews alike.

I could discuss meeting the bereaved fathers of 17-year-olds Tal Kehrmann and Asaf Zur, both victims of suicide bombings that occurred in Haifa, a city otherwise proud of the level and quality of the co-existence that it has attained.

In Jerusalem, we met Yitzhak Frankenthal, a prominent businessman, who told us of losing his son who was serving in the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) and who was captured and killed by Hamas. In response, Mr. Frankenthal founded the Parents Circle, an organization for bereaved Israeli and Palestinian parents who have lost a loved one in the con ict.

In Bethlehem, we met with Yussef. Yussef’s son had worked as a deacon at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and was murdered by an IDF sniper just before entering his church – a random act of violence. Subsequently, Yussef had his Israeli work permit revoked and lost his job. This revocation was motivated by the fear that Yussef would slip into Israel and take retaliatory action avenging his loss. We met with several others who shared similar stories of pain. We came to know the Parents Circle as a critically important forum for Israelis and Palestinians to come together.

I hadn’t imagined – I hadn’t expected – to hear such a nuanced and diverse set of views in such a small body of land. Still, factionalism is an accurate way to describe the situation. The prickly issues we witnessed, whether by observation or by the testimony of others, included the check-points, the separation barrier, the settlement enterprise, acts of individual terrorism and acts of state terrorism – all symptomatic of the political deadlock that has only the name “false peace” to its credit.

It would be a mistake to view these stories as stories told simply and only as exemplifying personal tragedy. These are public tragedies of the rst order. Only in a privatized sense – so characteristic of a certain kind of American individualism – are these stories reducible to “personal tragedies,” stripped of public import. Rather, these tragedies are symptoms of an established disorder.

True, the situation lends itself to a profound sense of dread. Nonetheless, traveling with the Olive Tree group and seeing the openness and perseverance of those directly affected by the con ict – seeing also the strength displayed by those who honored us by engaging in dialogue with us – conveyed a certain hope, a hope that one day the Holy Land won’t be synonymous with war but with true peace.

Originally published in Expressions/Impressions journal, 2008

A young woman notes down her childhood memories in a diary entry as a love letter to herself. The script is a voice-over narration accompanied by POV visual poetry. The message is one of hope and perseverance in the face of adversity. This concept originated as a promotional short for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.

When I remember back to my childhood it always starts with the storm. There was a huge storm in my hometown. I was alone in the trailer with my dad - I was so scared because it was the first and the last time I saw a sky like this. It was frightening with orange and black but it was day, not at night. I watched from my kitchen and began to cry because of the noise. My father came and took me in his arms, kissed me, reassured me that everything was okay and I fell asleep in his arms.

I was six years old when my little brother came to life. And before me there were my two big sisters so he was the first male of my family and I remember I was fascinated by this baby who had something very different from what I have between my legs. So I asked my mother why he had such a thing and she explained to me the difference between girls and boys and so that’s the day I understood.

The first time I kissed a boy I was eight; I had a boyfriend named Kevin and it happened after a school trip. We were coming back on the bus and after two hours of travel I gave him a discreet kiss and after that I was so ashamed of what I had done that I did not speak to him for another week.

Our family went to the same place every summer, up north on a big farm owned by family friends where we would camp. Every morning I went to get milk from the farmer which was still hot. We also went often to the amusement park. When I was 18 I traveled alone to Wichita, Kansas to visit one of my friends who was studying philosophy.

My first sexual experience was when I was thirteen years old with my first “real” boyfriend. His name was Michael and he was seventeen years old and we had different experience levels. He was not a virgin anymore but I was and before him I did not have any sexual experience. But after three months together he started to have expectations of me that I was ready to meet. He was nice and he was not pushing me at all so I accepted to open myself to him but did not have sex at first. I wanted to first be sure of what I was doing, and with whom I was doing it. I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t making a mistake because losing your virginity when you are still a child is not easy. It happened six months later in his parents home. I stayed with this guy almost five years. Of course my best sex was not my first, because the first time it hurt me so much and I just wanted to stop. My best sex was this past winter with Jose. I’ve never had so much pleasure before, it was amazing. I had maybe ten orgasms - I did not even know that was possible. I’ve never felt as happy as I am with Jose in my life.

I’m not good with my hands. The only thing I was able to do with them is play percussions and I did that for five years but I had a problems with the principal of my school and so I stopped. But I regret this decision because I loved to play percussions and I miss it. I befriended someone who will give me lessons and I’m very grateful for this. And this year, Jose gifted me a little notebook in which I started to write everything which passes through my head. Sometimes I feel that I need to write and so I’m doing it.

With Jose we will probably get married and then he will be able to come to California, and after four or so years he will hopefully be able to get citizenship and we will be able to travel the world together. We have a plan to open a coffee shop where there will be live music and everything but we still don’t know where we’ll do it. I have had a dream for a long time; I want to buy a Harley Davidson and when I met Jose I learned that he also wanted to buy a Harley. So one day I or we will buy one and travel in tandem.

I went to Sunday school from age eight to twelve. First it was nice because we got candies but after three years I was bored of this even if it was just two hours in a week. When you are a child you want to do things other than hear the bible and sing songs. So in my last year a friend and I went to the park next to the church instead of going to school. After those four years, I made my first communion and then I stopped going. It was not fair that my little brothers didn’t have to go to Catholic school. They always had more liberty than us girls. Until I was seventeen I could not go out after midnight if I was not with my boyfriend. I could not stay in my friends’ home if my mother hadn't spoken with my friends parents first. But you know when you are a teenager you always find ways to go out, to get drunk, to do whatever you want. I was not like this, I did not cross the line because my big brother was using heroin and my father was an alcoholic and I saw the consequences of drug abuse up close. That’s why I always was conscientious and careful. Of course I got drunk more than once and smoked marijuana sometimes.

My best friend is Michelle who I met in school when I was fourteen. We are still very close friends even though now we are far from each other.

My saddest moment was when I was sixteen years old, my mother tried to kill herself in our family home with all my family there including my little brothers. She tried to kill herself with rum and pills. I was so angry with her. How could she do that with five kids including two little children she was responsible for? I remember that day well; it was the 4th of July, Independence Day. So when my mother was at the hospital with doctors trying to save her I was watching the fireworks. I can never forgive her for this.

My happiest moments were when my parents were still together and with them and my two sisters we were going all together to holidays in Napa. We camped on our friends’ farm. I had many friends there; all day long we were hiking and picnicking. My father was taking shots or he was fishing and when the evening was coming he was cooking, which was delicious! And in mornings I went to the farm to get milk that was still hot from the cow. Another happy moment was when I got my diploma with honors in high school. And the earlier this year I went to Mexico to see Jose and we finally moved in together three weeks ago.

Aubrey, you were once eleven years old and you do not know this yet but you will live many hard times after this year, your parents are getting divorced now and I know it’s hard for you and you won’t get by so easily but don’t make the mistake to hurt yourself because you’ll regret it, and even if Michelle is a hand-full sometimes you can always rely on her, she will listen to you, help you whenever you want and support you in all the big decisions. But all those hard things will make you strong to face the storms life brings and keep moving forward. You’ll mature fast, which is a good thing. You will be a good student in school even though you are a lazy-ass. Just be careful of your friends. People will tell you who you are and what you are and will try to answer that for you. Just be a good person and believe in people, trust them, but stay strong and always face your problems that life will bring you. There will always be storms but don’t forget to enjoy life because we never know if there will be another tomorrow.

15-year-old Eric Stevenson sits at the dinner table of his suburban home, eating spaghetti with his parents under candlelight. His father, a businessman, wears a blue tie, a trim white dress shirt and suit pants from work. His mother, who works as a secretary in a dental office, wears a nice comfortable red dress, her hair back in a bun, and a thin pair of glasses rests on her nose. They eat in silence, with an air of familiarity as they have eaten at the same table each night at around the same time ever since Eric was old enough to sit on the booster seat. But lately, there have been changes in Eric's personality--changes which bewilder them. Of course, they know he is going through the typical pubescent changes which are natural and probably his personality changes are also normal and, they trust, are phases which will pass too. Soon, they hope, their son will stop wearing all black, will go back to listening to and sharing in their classical music taste instead of listening to low droning or loud raucous "noise" as his parents say of his "incendiary" musical taste, and they further hope he will pick up a sport--like baseball or soccer--at school. Maybe they were too complaisant, and figured since he appeared to be happy that there would be no real reason for him to change. His parents seem to have lost touch with much of the familiarity of their son, whose personality seems to have gradually changed in subtle yet obscure ways. They don't like to show him off to friends anymore as their cheeky little son, as they used to. It's hard for them to do that now because his appearance seems to be getting more and more frightening. His eyes always appear with bags under them and his skin is so pale it resembles a ghost. With that and his dark clothes, he more and more looks out of place in his surroundings.

A month before this evening's dinner, Eric's mother had gotten a phone call from Eric's science teacher and principal on three-way to report that he had apparently built three exit-free mazes at school, had enclosed mice inside each one, and showed off the frustrated mice to students during lunch all the while towering over the mazes laughing. It was only until a freshman student and president of the school's save-the-manatee club saw this spectacle, decided it wasn't right and went directly to the principal's office to tell on him. Eric steadfastly denied that the mazes were his until the school's woodshop teacher happened to come into the principal's office, got word of the situation, and revealed what he knew. He uncomfortably provided that he had supplied the materials for which the mazes were built--he had thought that that the mazes were for some other trustworthy purpose not involving mice and so had let Eric come after class to build them. Further, the science teacher spoke of how Eric had repeatedly urged to allow him to do an extra-credit science project involving mice. The science teacher maintained that using mice for the proposed experiment was a bit extreme. "It's wasn't necessary" turning to Eric accusingly "you could achieve better, more accurate results by using a computer for such an experiment," turning back to the principal and science teacher with stern confusion then back to Eric. "It's just not practical and you know it Eric" he said firmly, perplexed by his best students' interest in using mice in such scientific experiments. Eric felt the sting of his teacher's last words but kept his cool. When questioned as to why he would create such a maze for mice Eric responded: "No one likes mice least of all me, all they do is chew on everything, defecate all over, and poke their filthy twitching faces into piles of garbage. And they're hideous little savages too, with their beady little eyes, their repulsive tails, and the annoying little squeaking sounds they make."

While eating their dinner in silence aside from the din of utensils clinking dishes, Eric stares down at his plate and slowly eats his food. His parents periodically look at him quizzically and exchange furtive glances with each other. Finally, after many minutes, Eric brakes the silence by coughing, causing his parents to look up. Once he has their attention he asks a surprising request of his parents. "Mom, dad" he says calmly "I know that the mouse-maze incident upset you a great deal and I've been grounded for a month now and have been good." His parents are deeply engaged in their son, trying to understand him and eager to see what he's getting at. "What is it Eric?" his mother responds. "OK. Well, I've been doing a lot of thinking and I would like to move to the downstairs room" he says. "What downstairs room?" questions his father "you mean the basement?" His mother interjects "The basement! Why would you want to move down to the basement?" "Well" says Eric "I wish that you'd respect my privacy on this one, I assure you my motives are honest." "Come on" his parents object. "You'll just have to trust me" counters Eric. "Well, the answer is a definite NO Eric" says his mother. "Yeah, we can't let you do that" confirms the father. And with that the dinner table quietens and falls back to a more pensive silence.

After Eric excuses himself the parents remain at the table. "Why in the world would he or anyone for that matter want to live down there?" Eric's mother says. The father replies "I don't know, I just don't know anymore with him." "Well, I mean do you think we should let him?" "Again, I don't know. I don't like the idea, but there've been so many ideas I don't like. Let's just wait and see if he tries to bother us again with this business. Heck, maybe he'll abandon the idea on his own." "I guess so" says the mother "all I can say is that he'd better understand that there's not going to be any funny business. Our house has rules--no matter the floor."

As Eric's parents are holding this conversation, Eric is in his own room having his own conversation about the matter with his guitar-playing high-pitched sounding friend on the phone. On the other line Eric can hear his friend strumming his electric guitar, people chatting, and police and occasionally police or ambulance sirens. "Yeah, I told them…they're probably laughing and mocking me right now" Eric says earnestly. "Like 'ha ha…our son has to do as we say because we are the authority" he says feigning a tone of evil authority. "Do you think so?" his friend says dubiously. "You know, dude, I am having a little bit of trouble understanding why you want to move down there too. I mean, you're room is so nice and clean. It's spacious and you even have a bathroom right next door. I can't tell you how much I would love to just roll out of bed walk a few feet and pee. Oh, it would be righteous. Instead I have to walk all the way to the other side of the house." "No man, you don't understand, I thought you would but you're right you don't" Eric says agitatedly. "I live in a strictly regimented household--it's so boring here. There's nothing to do, I get restless all the time and just end up roaming the rooms of my house, frustrated and bored, walking in circles. And in my neighborhood, there's nothing to do at all, there are not many kids and all of them are younger than I am anyway. But you, you've got plenty of people to hang out with in your neighborhood that are your age. You've got a gas station down the street from you that's open 24/7. Where you live is so exciting." "Dude, whatever, you've got a nice pad, nice folks. This morning I went to take a shower and when I was in the middle of shaving the water ran cold. Then when I went to make toast for breakfast the toaster didn't work. At least you got some reliability." "Well, life will be better downstairs" Eric says, eyes gleaming.

For the next few weeks, Eric would spend his time downstairs in the basement cleaning, reading, doodling, and doing whatever. He would come upstairs to sleep, of course, and to eat. His parents noticed his time down there and also that the basement was looking cleaner than it had since they could remember. They had also noticed the pleading looks in Eric's eyes when he would watch his mother doing her crossword puzzle in the morning, or see spy on his dad doing the laundry and the way he appeared wistfully vacant during meals. Privately his parents had conversed with each other and consented that he could make the move downstairs to live. It was completely beyond them but he had been good and had done a nice job of cleaning that they gave in. Once Eric heard the news, he thanked them, rejoiced internally and set to work packing his meager possessions into a backpack and a duffel bag and gleefully brought them down to the basement along with his mattress.

On the first night in his new room, Eric lay under the covers of his bed with a smile on his face, happy to have gotten what he wanted. Suddenly he heard a squeal and looked to see a mouse run by then stop to stare at him, its face sniffing in his direction. Seemingly involuntarily Eric let out a great shriek of terror.