I’m writing this in early October of 2024. I’m watching the calendar days tick by. Another day without a ceasefire. Another day of intense violence. Another day of violence and dehumanization. Another day of everyone involved becoming more and more unsafe. Another day of American complicity. Another day of barely anyone in American politics being willing to lead with courage and stand for what’s possible. Another day of the threat of regional war. Another day of lives being lost.
So I’m writing. Which is what I do to reflect and try to understand.
How I came to care about American Foreign Policy, the Middle East, and the fate of the Israelis and Palestinians is a decades long tale that started my Senior year of High School.
September 2001
I wake up like any other Senior in High School who is a few weeks into school being back in session… eager to see my friends, and dreading whatever my Catholic education has in store for me that day. It’s Tuesday. Not even hump day yet.
As I’m getting ready to leave the house, I get a text from my dad, who lives and works in Chicago, but frequently travels to New York for work. He tells me he’s okay and that he’s waiting to hear about my cousin but will keep me posted. I respond with a confused “what?!” He tells me to turn on the news.
Turning on the TV in my mom’s bedroom, I see news footage showing the smoking World Trade Center towers. I see footage of George W. being alerted as he’s sitting with children at an Elementary school. I get in the car and call my dad. “Terrorist attacks,” he tells me. He goes on to explain that my cousin Tyler was working at Morgan Stanley on the 53rd floor of the North tower. The family hasn’t heard from him yet, but my dad will keep me posted.
I get to school and share with my best friend about Tyler. Her eyes go wide as I say we’re waiting to hear from him. She knows how much I love him and how great of a human he is from the many houseboat trips she’s been on with my family. We head to class. On the way there, my ex-boyfriend, who is in the Navy ROTC program and is unabashedly joining the military post graduation, runs through the hall towards me and says, “You ready to sign up!?!?!”
That day unfolds in a blur. I was scared. And sad about all the lives lost. My cousin Tyler made it out and across the Hudson into NJ, but as we know, thousands of others were not so lucky. I remember watching my conservative and military-championing family react with American patriotism and pride. There was a part of me that felt that too. But there were other parts of me voicing something else.
I didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of me tracking the insanity that comes from cycles of violence and bad policy-making that makes everyone less safe. I didn’t know what was so unsettling to me at the time, but I knew something stank. I knew there was more to the story than, “They hate us because we are free.”
There was an elective course being offered that Spring at my High School, about American Foreign Policy and the Middle East. It was going to be taught by one of my favorite history teachers who was also a Vietnam Veteran. I was totally stoked about it, but apparently, I was one of three students who signed up, and the class was canceled. I couldn’t understand this, especially after what we had all experienced just months earlier on 9/11.
The College Years
I started at San Jose State University in January of 2003 as an aviation major. It didn’t take me long to realize I should change my major. Not only did I almost fail calculus and fall asleep in my basic aviation classes, but in my private pilot lessons I realized I have a fear of heights and don’t even enjoy flying. I quit after 20 hours logged and right before I was supposed to solo. No thank you!
But what to study? What would actually help me want to go to class. Despite my dad’s plea’s for finance, I landed on Comparative Religious Studies with a minor in Middle East Studies. I took classes titled Islam, Politics and the West and Bible as History and Literature and answered endless questions from my dad about what I would do with my degree. I started reading Edward Said, Howard Zinn, and Noam Chomsky. I realized there was a greater narrative than I was told by the US government. I started questioning our invasion of Iraq, our involvement in Afghanistan, and why we treated Israel the way we did. I read Tinderbox: U.S. Foreign Policy and the Roots of Terrorism and started sharing the author’s question of “Will our democracy be defined by dominance? Or by the higher values we constantly espouse?” I started feeling that my love of this country was deeply connected to my willingness to critique the ways we weren’t representing our values. I was introduced to Dennis Kucinich and his labors for a Department of Peace.
But there’s one book that changed everything for me.
After visiting my dad in Chicago one weekend, I was walking through O’hare looking for a book to read, when I stumbled upon From Beirut to Jerusalem by Thomas Friedman. The front cover quoted Seymour Hersh, a pulitzer price winning investigative reporter, saying “If you’re only going to read one book on the Middle East, this is it.” I bought it and immediately dove in.
I didn’t put it down. I read it cover to cover in a matter of days. I appreciated the storytelling and the sensory experiences of Beirut and Jerusalem I could feel through the pages. I already wanted to visit these places, but now that longing was awakened in me even more. I wanted to experience the spices in the old city and hear the call to prayer.
But mostly I was moved by Friedman’s own reckoning with his identity and positionality, as a Jewish man reporting from Beirut, and then from Jerusalem in one of their most intense periods of conflict. At one point in the book, in the aftermath of the horrific Sabra and Shatila refugee camp massacre in 1982, he shares about getting the only interview with the Israeli forces following the massacre. (An important side note - While it was Lebanese Phalangist forces who carried out the killings, an later investigation found that Ariel Sharon, then defense minister, bore “personal responsibility” for the massacre of the Palestinian refugees. He was removed as defense minister in the aftermath, but that wouldn’t stop him from returning to power and serving as Prime Minister in the future. It was under his leadership that Israel withdrew from the Gaza Strip in 2005).
As Friedman furiously asked the Israeli officials at the time how they could have let this happen, he got no answers. He then poured his heart into his reporting and published a four page article in the New York Times that eventually won him the Pulitzer. To do so, he had to “bury every illusion [he] ever held about the Jewish state.”
It was the first time I would hear that story from an American Jew, but it would not be the last. I didn’t know it at the time, but decades later I would be co-guiding The Compassionate Listening Project’s annual delegation to Israel and Palestine, and I would witness first hand the heartbreak at facing the occupation, by Westerners of all backgrounds, religious and Atheists alike.
But my first visit to Israel would come on a more personal note, when my dear friends Reuven and Tzvia invited me to nanny for them on a three week trip to visit family in and around Tel Aviv.
First Visit to the Middle East
My first visit to Israel was in March 2006, on the eve of the Israeli elections that would elect Olmert of the newly formed Kadima party, and two months after Hamas’ electoral victory in Gaza. Most of my time this trip was spent watching over adorable little children so their parents could have some connective time with family. There were a few moments that sparkled and remain vivid in my memory to this day.
I was enchanted at a wedding in Jaffa, the oldest part of Tel Aviv and where the prophet Jonah embarked for his journey with the whale. I remember walking those streets and eating a heavenly croissant from one of the oldest Arab bakeries in the area.
I spent passover in Jerusalem experiencing my first Seder dinner, a longing that Jews around the world feel every year when they say “next year in Jerusalem” at the end of the meal. I didn’t make it in the walls of the Old City that trip, but Reuven drove me around the outside, and as I glimpsed the Damascus Gate, I heard a voice telling me not to worry or feel sad, because I would definitely be back.
But the moment that stayed with me the most on that first trip was when we arrived at the Tel Aviv airport. I was trying to wrangle kids and luggage with Tzvia when I looked over and saw Rueven helping a woman wearing a hijab to pick up something she had dropped. She had two young children with her. After she walked away, and the family and I were making our way down the walkway, I noticed tears in Reuven’s eyes. He noticed me noticing and quietly said, “Once we get out of the airport, I won’t have that kind of interaction again.” About an hour later, I would hear Reuven’s voice crack with emotion again as we drove past Independence Hall and he told me the story of the David Ben Gurion’s declaration and the birth of the State of Israel. It was a story I couldn’t fully understand, but sensed the intense emotional underpinnings of. Reuven’s pride in his country was palpable, and I was grateful to be introduced to it through his eyes. I was grateful to witness the many generations of his family, and get glimpses of their lives. I was grateful to come to know more about what the State of Israel represented for so many.
What I didn’t go deep with on that first trip was the “other side” of the dual narrative that is always present when it comes to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The War of Independence was also the Nakba. The joy and safety experienced by many Israelis had another narrative as well, especially post 1967, which we never talked about on my first trip to Israel. It wasn’t until I came back, in 2015, that I would see the devastating impacts of the occupation first hand, and become present to the cycles of violence and trauma that make a sustainable solution so challenging.
Second Visit to the Middle East
My second visit to the Middle East would come in 2010 through a program called The Beirut Exchange with Mideast Wire. The organization, founded by American Nicholas Noe, is committed to getting news sources from the Arab world to the English speaking world. Their exchange brought a group of students and professionals to Beirut every January for immersion into the political landscape. I knew about the program from my time in college when I was connected to the Soliya Program and was paired with a Lebanese man for my final project.
This program would be the first time I had to sign a waiver acknowledging that we would be sitting with and listening to members of Hamas and Hezbollah, both known terrorist organizations by the United States. This didn’t make my mom feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but I did my research, and assured her it was safe enough. I also had to get a secondary passport so that I could get into the country, as my other passport had an Israeli stamp in it. The state department makes this possible as they recognize the difficulty for foreigns who want to visit both nations, who officially have no relationship other than tension and violence.
Those three weeks in Lebanon were intense for me. I felt out of my comfort zone. We had a “go bag” of essentials ready at all times in case something went down. It was my first experience of living in a constant state of nervous system activation. To top it off, I was the least educated person there, with only a Bachelor’s degree, and felt entirely out of my league regarding the kinds of political policy we were discussing. My inner-critic had a lot to say about my lack of education, but I was committed to listening and learning. And that I did.
We visited members from the many varying political factions in Lebanon. We saw sites I had read about in Thomas Friedman’s book and visited the Bekka Valley. We talked about the Palestinian refugees and the impacts of Israel and Lebanon’s tense relationship.
But beyond all the intensity, what I remember most is the people, the food, and the hospitality. Under all the political and religious currents I didn’t fully understand, there were people. People who wanted to live a life of safety, belonging, and dignity. This would become a theme in my future travels to the region.
Compassionate Listening
In April of 2015 I quit my corporate job and decided I was going to give myself some space to explore. I wasn’t sure where that would lead, but I knew one thing... I was joining the Compassionate Listening delegation to Israel and Palestine that fall. A colleague at my job had told me about the project, and I was an immediate “Hell yes.”
I flew through JFK on my way to Tel Aviv in November of 2015, where I would meet up with a sweet man named Will, who would become one of my dearest friends. We had pizza together and talked about our hopes and fears about the upcoming trip. It was in that conversation that I realized I was nervous. All of my biases, from being a White-Christian-American who grew up with Fox news in the background, were rising to the surface. Luckily, Will was a skilled conversationalist and compassionate human, and he granted me a lot of grace in that conversation.
Breathing deeper, we boarded our plane for Tel Aviv. Once we arrived in Tel Aviv, we had to get through the security line. We were told not to say we were visiting the Palestinian territories. We were told to say we were with an international group who planned to visit historical sites in and around Jerusalem. We were not allowed to print our itineraries listing what speakers or groups we would be listening to. We were going places the Israeli government and military told us we shouldn’t go.
Once in Jerusalem we walked from the taxi drop off to the Ecce Homo Pilgrim House in the Old City, on the famous Via Dolorosa (the processional route representing the path that Jesus took on his way to the crucifixion). I barely slept that first night. I think I was just falling asleep as I heard the first call to prayer in the wee hours of the morning. It brought tears to my eyes.
The two weeks I was there went on in a blur. I met with the most amazing people. People from all across the political spectrum. Young people. Old people. Palestinian Christians. Palestinian Muslims. Arab Israelis. Jewish Israelis. Those committed to peace. Those committed to security. Those with hope. Those with despair. A former Israeli ambassador we met with said, “The US is a huge disappointment and won’t take the moral lead.” Obama still had one year left in office at the time of that comment. I wonder what the Israeli ambassador would say about the failure of the US today?
I returned with Compassionate Listening on that trip twice more. Each time I confronted beauty and terror. Each time I left heart-broken and inspired. Each time I asked myself, “What am I doing this for and why do I even care?” I talked to myself about the separation barriers in my own backyard, as the chaos of the Trump presidency, and the Covid pandemic, and the Biden presidency, and racial unrest, and transphobia continued on. Back in my own country, I frequently thought of Gene Knudsen Hoffman (the Grandmother of Compassionate Listening) and her wise words - “An enemy is someone whose story you haven’t heard.” I still think of this any time I annihilate my enemy in my mind with insults aimed at their apparent stupidity, and it helps me slow down, be curious, and to remember they are human with a unique experience that I need to do better to try to understand.
And I frequently think about the people we’d met and the friends I’d made with The Compassionate Listening Project. People like Sami Awad, the founder of the Holy Land Trust in Bethlehem who is a student of Jesus, and therefore teaches his students to love their enemy. I think of his story of visiting Auchswitz and recognizing the trauma and horror that led to his own families trauma and horror when they were displaced from Jerusalem in 1948. I think about Combatants for Peace and the wisdom of working together. I think about Rabbis for Human Rights and the volunteers who protect folks during the Olive harvest. I think about Hope Flowers School and the trauma-sensitive education they are providing children. And many many others who are doing good work but we never seem to hear about on Western news channels.
And I think about the people who “know better.” The people who know that there’s a reality to the situation that these peace groups just don’t understand. That peace has become a dirty word; a word associated with a past movement that no longer has any momentum. Just let the separation barrier do its job and let the Palestinians and Israelis live separate lives, they say. Except, I have seen first hand what those separate lives look like. I have read Jimmy Carter’s book Palestine: Peace not Apartheid before that word was being widely used to describe the situation. And I, like many others, know it is not sustainable
This is one of the conversations my colleagues and I started having as we considered putting together our first post-pandemic trip to Israel and Palestine. And after months of planning and hard work, we were finally set to return in late October 2023, when I awoke on October 7th to text messages from our founder and my co-guide. Something horrific had happened.
October 7th
We all know what unfolded that day. Horror. Terror. And we all know what unfolded in response to that horror and terror. More Horror. More Terror. Immediately after October 7th the lines were drawn, as they always are. You’re either with us, or against us. All balanced and nuanced conversation was criticized as naive or ignorant. Everyone started talking facts. Too few people started talking trauma. But some did. Some recognized that the Jewish psyche worldwide had its core wound ripped open. Some recognized the ongoing trauma of living as a Palestinian in Gaza and acknowledged the untenable nature of the status quo.
Speaking to our friends on the ground in Israel and Palestine in the coming days was heartbreaking. Fear. Despair. Anger. Rage. Grief. We wanted to check in before canceling the trip, but soon enough, it was clear we would not be able to take a group of International Compassionate Listeners to Israel and Palestine any time soon.
The year unfolded and we witnessed more dehumanization. More righteousness. More violence. The rise of Islamophobia. The rise of antisemitism. And the cheapening of the real threat of antisemitism by leveraging that accusation for political gain. And on and on. And in the face of a contentious American election year, a tragedy and serious conflict in need of leadership and courage, became a politicized issue for American’s to become more polarized over. The corrupt and broken nature of the Israeli/American relationship became more and more obvious to anyone paying attention. And nuanced questions about sustainable solutions were again marked as ignorant day dreams not rooted in reality.
I am no expert on the Middle East. I am not a regional political strategist who can tell you the next best move regarding the rising tensions between Iran and Israel. I don’t have answers for how to deal with our corrupt politicians who are bought by political interests and make representation of the people feel impossible.
I do know that the answers to these problems must be solved and addressed with the dignity of all in mind, because that dignity is inherent. Sustainable solutions are not otherwise possible. And as I’ve been saying from the beginning, I choose the voice of co-liberation.
Where I stand currently
In my mind, you can’t be pro Palestinian and not be pro Israeli. You can’t be pro Israeli and not be pro Palestinian. You can try. But you’ll get more of the same.
It’s co-liberation or nothing.
And most people want that. Even if they aren’t present to it. Even if the grip of fear is too tight to see the humanity of their enemy. There’s a lot of trauma and pain to feel to get there. As Prentis Hemphill reminds us, “We are incentivized not to feel.”
But it is essential to feel. It is a prerequisite to healing. And nothing short of healing will bring a sustainable solution to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. Nothing short of healing will support Americans in creating an upgraded experiment from the original revolutionaries of early America to actually represent the beautiful diversity of this country.
Healing is a return to wholeness. And wholeness includes our innate dignity.
Donna Hicks speaks about dignity and its essential role in resolving conflict in her book by that name. She defines dignity as “an internal state of peace that comes with the recognition and acceptance of the value and vulnerability of all living things.” This is not conducive to the military industrial complex and corrupt politics of our time. The powers in charge can’t continue to be in charge if enough of us do that.
As Desmond Tutu has said, “God gave each of us inherent worth and value, accept it in yourself, discover and encourage it in others, and peace may just be possible.” This is my prayer. That each of us remembers this truth throughout the upcoming election season. That each of us stands for what we believe in and speaks truth to power while honoring the inherent worth of those we disagree with. That we continue to speak the truth that the best way for Israelis to be safe is for Palestinians to be safe. That we demand our American politicians abandon their current framework for American policy in the Middle East in service of integrity. That we demand better of American politicians for the ailments facing those within our borders. That we remember our actions have impact, both within and outside our borders.
We are not separate. May we heed the advice given to us by Archbishop Tutu, and may he smile down on us from above as we courageously pave a new way forward.
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