Jess Peace Pilgrim

Well it’s my last night of my trip before I make the long journey home.

Mural made by kids at Skateistan

It was hard work finding any sense of bearings here in Afghanistan, but now I have, I am feeling sad to leave.

The last couple of days I’ve been having a bit of fun with the kids at the AFCECO orphanages.  I taught a group of about 20 younger kids some English using the “When I’m feeling Happy” book I read with kids at home.  The guy who was acting as translator had to leave half-way through, but we managed with some basic words and some silly games where I integrated some English words.  When the other 20 children came in however, it all got a little chaotic!! Trying to calm a group of 40 kids with no shared language is a little tricky!  Later in the day we got to muck around with some basic acrobatic games and me
generally running around and being silly.

Kabul Museum

I went to the Kabul Museum today.  I’m not usually a museum kinda gal, but I found this trip deeply inspiring.  We were four of about 12 people who visited the museum today, which was once described as the most important in Central Asia.  What used to be a collection of 100,000 items dating back to the Bronze Age has been severely dimished through years of conflict and looting, which in 1994 saw the building completely destroyed.  The surviving items display the amazing range of human history that has inhabited these lands.  There were tablets with Ancient Greek, Chinese and Persian inscriptions.  There were Buddahs; Muslim artifacts; and pillars from ancient ancestor worshipping religions.  There was ornate glasswork; 3,000 year old tools; copper pots; wooden carvings; and photos from the 1970s of now destroyed cities.

Part of what was inspiring about the museum is that it continues to exist. Many of the exhibits were destroyed in fighting, and have been painstakingly put back together. It says something to me about the people of Afghanistan who believe in a better future. Despite some of the worst catastrophes and ongoing

A massive begging bowl from the Buddhist time

wars, they continue to invest in the future.  There are people who are trying to document and make sense of the beautiful as well as terrible aspects of the history of this place. I got to sit and talk with the Director of the museum, a distinguished man, generous of spirit who welcomed us into his office and talked about his work. I shared the room with two of the girls from the orphanage – one Hazara and one Pashtu.  It

The director of Kabul Museum

was a joy to watch them confidently share dialogue with the distinguished man before them.  The director talked about how there is no money for a proper musuem facility, and much of the work isn’t on display because of ongoing concerns about security.  The conversation contained the phrase you hear so much here in Afghanistan, “But what can you do.”

I sat with some young adults today who work as teachers.  They wanted to talk about political theory, and asked whether I thought Capitalism or Socialism was the better system.  My arguments about Anarchism with people being able to take personal responsibility for the society didn’t go over so well – clearly they’ve had enough of violent anarchism here to distrust such a system.  Capitalism of course is associated with the invading US Government, so they asked whether Capitalism said it was OK to invade another person’s country.  Is this really what they think human rights, freedom, and democracy look like?

Later today I met with some young people who are expanding their own sense of what they can do.  An inspiring group who call themselves the Afghan Youth Volunteers For Peace, they have already built a

The amazing crew of the Afghan Youth Peace Volunteers

peace park in Bamiyan and held an 8 day vigil to get a letter presented to Obama.  They contend that normal Afghani voices have been silenced through the last thirty years and they want to find ways to have their voice heard.  Their aim is to promote the idea that there are nonviolent ways to deal
with the crisis in Afghanistan.  Each of them have life circumstances that are tragic – with members of their families being killed through war. A young man who must have been less than 14yrs old said that he realised that revenge wasn’t going to help the world – I told him I wished he was one of George Bush’s advisers ten years ago!  There is a spiritual depth to these young men that I was deeply, deeply impressed by. When I asked them how people in the West could help, they said personal connections are the most important.  They want to feel that they are not alone, and that their voices are heard by real people.  I promised them that there are many people around the world that think of them, pray for them, and act politically to influence our Government’s involvement in Afghanistan.  I promised them I would not forget them, a promise I know will be harder to keep as Afghanistan fades from the headlines in coming years. I’d invite you to join the conversations through Skype or on their website and Facebook group.  They are having a ‘listening to Iraq’ day coming up on Skype; and are thinking about Palestine as well – these young people have a great global perspective.

Aparently there is a saying here, “God created the world, decided to dump all the rubbish of the world in one place, chose here, and called it Afghanistan”. May we work for a time when this is a nonsensical phrase.

On a more positive note, it has been wonderful to sit with many Afghanis as they watch the TV footage of people in Egypt demand a just and accountable government.  They know that they are currently a long way from being in a position to be able to demand this for themselves.  But they have their 10 year, 20 year, 50 year or 100 year plans that one day, insh’allah, they will also have justice and freedom.

Picture in the office where I'm staying

The other night I met a woman who works for Hagar International. They are an organisation that started with the purpose of countering sex-slavery in Cambodia and have spread to other countries.  Here in Afghanistan they have been running a shelter for people who have been trafficked, and at the moment they are looking at needs in Afghanistan to discern where their focus might be in coming months.

Today I was invited to join them on a visit to the Women’s prison (video here and article here). I had heard that many women are jailed for ‘moral crimes’ – running away from abusive situations, being accused of having sex outside of marriage, and the like.  Today I sat with a number of beautiful and gentle women on the floor of their communal cell who served us tea as they shared some of their pain with us.  One woman’s husband who had severe mental illness was killed by his family, because of the shame they felt he brought on them.  The woman was told to marry his brother, and when she wouldn’t, the family blamed her for the murder, and now she is 2 of her 10 years into the jail sentence.  Her ex-husband’s family are now raising her children.  Another woman’s son had arranged to sell his sister-in-law to deal with a problem involving his brother.  This woman challenged her son about selling his sister-in-law, and a fight ensued – in which the gun her son was carrying killed him.  She is also in jail for murder.  I met an 87 year old woman who is in jail, has served her sentence, but because she has nowhere else to go, she remains inside.  I gave the women the humble notes of love and solidarity that were written at last year’s peace march.  So these words, and pictures from the children, remain in this place.  I hope that they

The women at Mabhoba's promise with their beautiful handicrafts

are a small act of solace for these women who suffer greatly.

Tonight I had a lovely accidental evening in a local resturant.  I’d met someone late afternoon, which was delayed (common theme), and there was a mix up with the interpreter (who never came!), so we stayed and had dinner.  There were lots of young local people there who were enjoying each other’s company, and even a woman who smoked cigarettes!  The manager of the restaurant, and older man, had the best English in the place so we enjoyed a conversation.   We started off by staying on theme of the intended meeting – and I was trying to talk about why activists in the Western world often plant trees as a sign of peace.  Trying to talk about Isaiah and his prophesy when each person will have their own tree, and swords will be turned into ploughshares turned into a hilarious game of pictionary which no one seemed to win!  And then the old man told me his story.  His first wife died 13 years ago from cancer, which left him with 8 children to support.  He married a woman in her late teens as a second wife, but things didn’t work out well, she wasn’t happy, so they agreed to separate.  Then he found himself a third wife, who was second-hand (can you believe the turn of phrase), and they have two young children together.  He talked about how happy he his – he has two daughters in University, and his other younger children at school.  He also shared the story of his son who was being hassled by the Taliban because he worked for a foreign organisation. His son fled Afghanistan for safety, finally ending up in Europe.  After 32 months in a ‘camp’ he has just been released and called his father last week saying he has a job and will be sending money home soon.  This old man was very content – his wages and those of his university studying daughters who work part time teaching English is ‘enough’.  He had some beautiful turns of phrases – in describing the desire of more Afghani people for lots of money, he was saying we used to have small pockets, now people have big pockets they want to fill.  It was much more colorful with his body language.  He sees no hope for the future of Afghanistan.  He says that there is too much hate generated by the Taliban.  We had a conversation about Gandhi and his desire to turn the hardest hearts, but I’m not sure the older man was convinced.  Perhaps he has seen too many hard hearts.

Kids at Mahbouba's promise having snowball fights amongst the fruit trees.

Hi friends.

Apologies for the more sparse contact since I’ve been in Afghanistan (or perhaps the reduced mail has been a relief!).  When I was in Palestine I was desperate to get to the computer to share my experiences.  Here I’ve been much more tentative.  Part of the reason for this is that I’m not sure what information I have permission to make public, but the other half is that I’m not sure what to write.  I’m not sure if the intensity of this place is more taxing than I consciously realise, but I guess I won’t have an understanding about that until I’m home.  I do know that the constant self-checking is pretty tiring – my personality doesn’t fit easily with the expectations of how women should behave, and there are so many cultural ‘unknowns’ that I need to always be assessing the situation, and whether I’m offending someone.  It is also tricky to have both internet access AND electricity connected at the same time!

While I’ve been here I’ve been hosted by a generous and beautiful group of people of the Afghan Child Education and Care Organization (AFCECO). The woman who dreamed of and founded this organisation

The view from where I'm staying

is one of the fortunate women who were offered a quality and progressive education through the war years, and have come through with a deep passion and commitment to use their skills and knowledge to contribute to the rebuilding of the country.  I have heard that the local warlords are very concerned about progressive education in the orphanages.  As they can’t bomb the orphanages directly, they have been running a campaign of intimidating staff and getting coverage on TV talk shows about how dangerous
these orphanages are – they allow girls to be taught how to use computers, do ballet, as well as read and write – outrageous! The presence of westerners in the orphanage is a particular red rag to these bulls, so that’s why they established the office down the road, where westerners stay. So I have had a beautiful room with a warm wood fire heater, lovely staff who look after me, and have enjoyed the company of the family who oversee the organisation.  Tonight I played some of the usual games you would with their four year old son, which worked just as well even without one word of shared language.

So far I’ve spent one inspiring afternoon at their orphanage for young women.  I watched them undergo their Karate lesson, and heard them speak proudly about their football team.  Although its school holidays, they are all eagerly taking winter courses, and hold dreams for themselves and their country.  One girl is working towards becoming a doctor, and they talk about education as a path away from fighting.  They are also teenagers, and I watched one young woman change her outfit several times before going out – such a normal part of teenage life that she’s able to enjoy.  I sat and chatted to them as they practiced their English, and I shared with them the messages of peace that people in Melbourne had written at the Peace
Rally last October.  I’m looking forward to spending more time with the children in their orphanages before I go.

I’ve also been spending a lot of time supporting the work of the amazing organisation of ‘Skateistan‘. This is

Some of the amazing crew at Skateistan

a creative initiative inspired and begun by an Australian skater, blending skateboarding with education to build a foundation for peace. The local team is made up of about 15 locals and half as many international
volunteers – from Germany and the US as well as Australia.  A full length documentary about the place has just premiered in Europe – and hopefully there will be some screeings in Australia soon!  Skateistan have about 300 students (6-18 years old), most of whom are ‘street kids’ – that is, children and young people who try to support their families by peddling things on the street – chewing gum, phone cards etc.  The young people have skating classes as well as a whole range of complimentary education programmes.  The skatepark sits in the grounds of the main Kabul stadium.  For those that have read

At Skateistan some of the kids take photos then overlay their picture of their ideal Kabul

some of Afghani history, this is the same stadium where in the Taliban days they used to kill dissidents for half-time entertainment.  The energy at Skatiestan can’t be more different than this controlling environment.  Staff laugh and interact freely with one another.  One of the staff members is the only Afghani woman I have come accross who drives a car.  Many of the staff at Skateistan started as students, and now combine their ongoing learning (and skating!) with paid work.  On Sunday Skateistan held an art exhibition, showcasing some of the amazing work the children have done over the semester- as well as some great skating and rock climbing demonstrations.  The energy was truly inspiring, as young people’s dreams of the future for their country were proudly on display amongst their peers, parents, and UN

A puppet play by kids at Skateistan with the gun arguing with the pen about who can move Afghanistan forward...guess who won!?!

workers.  There was a fantastic puppet play where a gun and a pen argued over what each had to bring to Afghanistan.  The pen was able to be triumphant in the end – reflecting so much of what I’ve heard from Afghanis every day – that education will be the key to lasting peace here. The exhibition also displayed photos that the young people had taken.  The photos were laminated, and over the top of ruined buildings and scenes of
suffering they drew their ‘ideal Kabul’ – spectacular!

I have also spent some time at “Organization of Promoting Afghan Women’s Capabilities” (OPAWC) – which is supported by Australians.  This organisation was started 8 years ago by another feisty educated woman and they have just graduated 100 women from a literacy and handicrafts program.  The enthusiasm of this woman to find a way out of the pattern of male dominance of women and create a better society was intoxicating.  She is currently trying to get funding for some micro-grants for the women that they’ve trained so they can use their skills to start their own businesses.  So in the back streets of Kabul, stepping through the mud and frozen puddles, dozens of women, young and old, come to learn.  It is school holidays, but the classes keep going – everyone is so hungry to learn.  Attending

Outside the Organisation of Promoting Afghan Women's Capabilities (OPAWC)

education is a powerful and controversial step for many of these women to take, as many around them want them to stay and keep house.  For many of these women, staying at home to look after their husbands and families isn’t an option – so many of them have had their husbands killed in the fighting.

Writing, long division, tailoring, embroidery, all are being taught to women who are gathered in small rooms heated with a single wood stove.  They warmly greet me as I share that there are many people in Australia thinking of them, are praying for their courage and urging our Government to work for peace, not military domination.

Last night I attended a ‘small group’ of NGO workers who share some of their faith journey together.  Many of them are long term workers in relatively low-paid or low-status positions, and have learned the language, so their experiences are different to those of the short-term high paid workers. They invited me to share about my journey in nonviolence.  I shared some of the theology of nonviolence (Walter Wink et al), and my understanding of Jesus who asks us to confront injustice when we see it.  I showed the video of the Bonhoeffer 4‘s action in Shoalwater Bay.  What transpired was an amazing conversation about what it means to be amidst violence – and how privileged people can be part of both the problem and solution.  The people there shared about the tensions and difficulties in their work.  They also were grateful for the challenge of being peacemakers, and thanked me for my courage – which seemed strange as they’ve all made the decision to come and work here.

So I have met some amazing people, doing wonderful things here in Afghanistan.  Although I hear of bombings and shootings that are happening in Kabul, they seem peripheral to so many people here in their efforts to re-create a new society.

Clearly the war and the economy that it feeds is not peripheral.  Clearly for those without basic infrastructure this is not peripheral.  But there is clearly a growing movement of people who are not letting either the warlords or the international military dictate how they live their lives.

As always, some of the interesting food for thought happens ‘along the road’.  One man asked me about my visit to Afghanistan before telling me that he’d been to Australia.  “For a visit,” I asked?  No, he said, he spent a week in Australia on Ashmore Reef.  He said that asylumn seekers were whipped by Australian officials, before his asylum claims were rejected and he was sent back to Indonesia.  It was a difficult conversation, as my sharing of the outrage of the Australian people about how asylum seekers were treated seemed a mere placation of the horror of his experiences.

Another man along the road told me about a funeral this week of his friend who was shot by border police trying to get into Iran.  Such a tragedy I said. “Afghanistan is a tragedy,” he replied.

Another articulate person shared with me that “terrorism is a recent import” into Afghanistan. He said that there is 15,000 years of history here, 1,500 years of Islamic history – which contained much liberal Islam.  It wasn’t until the US backed Al Qaeda 30 years ago to expel the Russians, that militant Islam became a significant force in the society.  So 30 years ago our Governments supported fundamentalists to fight the communists.  Now we have become an uninvited guest in the country again, fighting the very fundmentalists that we supported.  It was a different picture of Afghanistan.  For many they feel as much victims of Al Qaeda as any of the people affected by the 9-11 attacks.  Their view about the way forward however

A mural made by the kids at Skateistan

is difficult – as they feel caught between the violence and domination of the west, and the domination of the fundamentalists (of any colours).  The complexity of who holds the balance of military domination is difficult here, and there are varying views about how this is best managed.

There are many daily things that make me smile. I watch military police handle their prayer beads as they walk around; notice the many old public toilet blocks that are funded by India; and notice the many Soviet built housing blocks that look a little like our own 1950′s public housing.

An old Afghan proverb that I’ve heard seems particularly apt here “There is a path to the top of even the highest mountain.”

Looking out one side of Kabul

It was 2am in Dubai airport just under a week ago when I was trying to find the transit desk, somewhere between gates 130 and 150.  I was barely awake when I told the agent that I was going to Afghanistan.  He looked at my passport and laughed “a tourist visa to Afghanistan?  Are the hotels good?”.

As I sat down in the departure lounge, surrounded by Americans talking about ‘touch downs’ I wondered if I should be laughing at myself too.  ‘What am I thinking?’ I asked myself.  I had found some relative comfort in the Middle East, I was beginning to understand a tiny fraction of the language and culture, and was a bit nervous about starting the whole culture jump into the deep end.

But tuning out to those voices in the lounge, and my rising anger at the American blasé confidence that exuded from the military people, I looked for other fellow travellers.  I met a young Hazara man returning to Afghanistan after 25 years away, and an Australian woman whose parents had worked for an NGO growing up, and she was also returning to work for an NGO.  Maybe I’m not going to be a complete square peg in a round hole I thought.

Welcome to Kabul city!

Touching down in Kabul airport the phone I had with Emily’s old sim card started to beep with messages.  The first one told me about a protest at the Iranian embassy. I was pretty stoked to be invited to protests already – feeling like I was in the ‘activist loop’.  But as I read the next message, I realised that it was a warning – protest in the area, stay away!  I also had 4 missed calls from Emily’s friend who was picking me up, so I knew I wasn’t going to be stranded.

Emily’s German-Afghani friend and his driver picked me up from the airport, and cooked me some breakfast at his house.  Loaded up with food, we headed out to my first stop.  Just driving down the main street of Kabul gives a glimpse of the diversity of cultures that make up Afghanistan.  Features range from Middle Eastern through to Asian, and many in between.  I even spotted a local red-head! There are people in turbans and traditional dress, through to those in modern western clothing.  While there are many women wearing the blue chadoris (face covering burqua), there are also many women with loose head scarves and jeans. A main roundabout full of traffic

The U.S. military driving through town

was suddenly jammed as a convoy of US tanks rolled down the street.  A man atop a turret was throwing his fist in the air, screaming ‘stop’.   The streets are barely sealed, and so there is dust flying everywhere.  There are also constant plumes of smoke rising from fires – fires for keeping warm, for roadside food and coffee stalls, and for rubbish disposal.  So my lungs felt like they were working hard to find enough oxygen through it all!

The Government is received by many with skepticism. The Government has been fighting for ten days now about who will be the speaker of the Parliament. Great news, someone said to  me.  The longer they argue about who will be speaker, the less time they’ll have to make bad laws for us.  He said that the Parliament is great for the people.  It keeps many of the warlords preoccupied so they can’t cause problems for the people.

As most places I am staying or visiting have armed guards, I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be protected by violence.  In Australia the security situation is much better, and unlike all the places I have visited, there are not security on every other corner with large shotguns or machine guns.  However the police in Australia still carry guns, and they are, as we know, willing to use them.  What does it mean for us to have the threat of violence so present?  What does it mean for those of us who call ourselves pacifists to be have state violence stand behind us?  What would a society look like that didn’t use the threat of state violence to maintain order?  Could we have an alternative?

People doing day to day things...including selling things and begging

Apart from the guards, it seems very easy to forget that I’m in the midst of a war.  Most people are getting on with their lives, going to work, doing their shopping, learning new things.  Life is clearly very hard for people, even in Kabul.  There are always people sifting through rubbish.  Young children are begging on the street.  Electricity connections come in and out.  As I go  to sleep with a wood heater in my room, I’m aware that many people are on the streets literally freezing.

I find myself quite tired, and am sleeping more than I ever do (perhaps a good thing!). I’m getting back to where I’m staying by about 6pm, and in bed reading by early evening.  I wonder if my desire to sleep is part of the effect of the stress of the environment on me.  I’m having to make sure I moderate my normal personality significantly, being quiet and demure.  There is a lot of tension in the air.  I think many people don’t know who to trust, and that includes me.  People are not sure if I’m part of the military force, the international NGO force or someone else.  And everyone has different ideas about whether the military and NGO’s are helping or making things worse.  There is also a hyper-awareness amongst the international community – they don’t know who in the general public to trust either.  Walking the streets (always done with people I’m with and know) becomes a calculated risk.

Friday 4 February

The bookseller of Kabul

I met the bookseller of Kabul today.  Many of you may have read the book about him, written by a Norwegian journalist.  He and his articulate sons warmly greeted me in their bookshop made famous by this book.  He was horrified at what she wrote, saying that so much of what she wrote was lies.  I’ve just finished reading his response to her book – a poetic prose seeking to set the record straight. He has just won a court case in Norway defending himself regarding her book.

Along with an ex-colleague of Emily’s, today we went on the Kabul tourist trail – of some sort.  It is more of the terror trail really, such is the scale and longevity of the suffering in this city.  I started with going to an ATM, it was inside the “Finest” supermarket, whose sister store was hit by a suicide attacker last Friday.  Emily’s friend wished the cashier a safe day as we left.

The second stop was the Bibi Maru hill – a look out with spectacular views across Kabul and the beautiful

Bibi Maru hill - the empty swimming pool

snowcapped mountains all around.  At the top of the lookout is an Olympic size swimming pool that the Russians built, but was never filled because they couldn’t pump water to the top.  The Taliban used to bring people up to the hill and push them off the top of the 10metre diving board.  The young men who posed for photos at the top of the board seemed unpeturbed by this past.

We then went and looked around the ancient fort that has been used for thousands of years as a defensive post in Kabul.  The fort still functions as a military base, so we couldn’t go in to it, but we were able to drive around it.  The ancient stones were hemmed in by the sheep market and wood sales yards that sit at its base.  We then went into the Ghazi stadium – Ghazi meaning ‘judge’.  Apparently this name was given to it far before the Taliban used to kill people here at half-time in soccer matches.

We also visited the shell of the old Palace, home to Kings and Queens of Afghanistan before being destroyed in fighting.  The top is fenced off because of unexploded ordinance, but below the palace there

A young thing that stole my heart, playing near the old Palace. He wanted his photo taken...

were several soccer and cricket matches underway, as well as lots of children eager to have their photos taken. The dear children broke my heart.  Their faces looked to be straight out of a Charles Dickens novel.  One girl had a small plastic toy broken, and was crying her little eyes out, I was so intent on giving her some comfort by rubbing her back, I hadn’t realised that a dozen or so bemuzed older children were watching what was all going on.

The final stop on the tourist trail was ‘Flower Hill cafe’.  After being frisked for weapons I walked in the doors into another world. The room was full of western furniture, and western people.  As people laughed openly and sat at their laptops I had a sense of culture-shock.  This is the world of the wealthy foreign worker.  The cafe could have been anywhere in the world, except the lunchtable conversation surrounded security.

I then went to visit a friend of a friend (thanks E&C) who works for a women’s organisation.  She talked about how risky this work is for her, and how she makes sure she walks with someone even up to the bus stop and back.  Her father, a lovely Hazara man, was so keen to offer me traditional Afghan hospitality – and for me to stay at their house. ‘Mushkilli’ he said, no problems; even though having a western woman stay at their house would certainly cause him problems.  His daughter smiled apologetically, she had made the difficult decision that she felt they couldn’t offer us to stay at their house.  Such is the Afghan hospitality.

I’ve met some amazing people doing amazing things in organisations.  I hope to tell you about them, but need to check with them what I write publically – as the effect of information can be significant.  So hopefully more about that later.

For now, what I can say is that the suffering is great here.  Each day the faces of the children on the street seem to penetrate further into my heart.  I now know the people sitting in the cold muddy streets are people begging.  The knowledge of the fundamentalists who repress people; and the overbearing might of the foreign militaries is deep in my consciousness.

My hope is the tenacity of so many ordinary Afghanis. Amongst the many threats and risks around them, they refuse to be victims.  They continue to vision the society that they want, and take whatever steps they can towards creating it. People continue to live their lives based on their convictions, regardless of the consequences.  They are learning, teaching one another, and creating organisations and initiatives for people to work together. Their actions seem to be creating foundations for peace.  That when the politics allow it, there will many strong, articulate, and progressive Afghanis ready to lead this country out of the suffering that it currently endures.

Some boys who wanted their picture taken at the Royal Palace

Having a crack at walking on the water...

I had made a conscious decision to spend most of my time in the ‘Holy Land’ in Palestine.  I boycott Israeli products at home because I don’t want to support all the breaches of international law that Israel perpetrates. I wanted, as much as possible, for my travel time and money to honor this decision.  Being able to see Israeli settlements encroach on more and more land of the Palestinians, and listening to more and more evidence of so many human rights breaches of the Palestinians has strengthened these convictions.

There also seems an important rational and spiritual principle of spending time listening to both sides of a story.

In the last week that we were in Palestine and Israel India and I took two trips into the north of this contested land – one up through Palestinian towns; and the other along the West Bank of the Jordan – now dominated by Israeli Settlements.  Both routes are acknowledged by international law as part of the Palestinian territory. However Israel has claimed the area surrounding the West Bank of the Jordan as its own.  Our original plan was to make a round trip – taking both routes.  However our Palestinian hosts were grateful for the opportunity to travel north in a reliable car, and since they were unable to travel the ‘Israeli’ road, we decided to make two trips.

So on Sunday morning (could it have been just over a week ago?),  Hanna and Iptisan joined India and I in a rental car (Israeli plates) out of Bethlehem.  Hanna is clearly a better driver on these roads, but Hanna thought it best that I drive when there was checkpoints – which was often.   For our first checkpoint, the Israeli soldier was immersed in his book, so we got underway on our journey quite quickly.  However the road that we travelled felt like a camel track – thin, not well maintained, and unnecessarily having to go up and down many hills. There is a much better road, but our Palestinian friends weren’t able to travel it.

The tree Zaccheus is purported to have climbed to see Jesus

As we drove into the dry desert, our first stop was Jericho.  The ancient city that Israeli’s marched around to conquer is currently being excavated out of its old grave.  There are many other significant places in Jericho.  We hung out near the tree they believe that Zaccheus climbed to get a view of Jesus.  Then we trekked up to the Mount of Temptation. It is easy to see how easily one could become consumed with the heat up here.  At the top of the mountain there are Orthodox Monks who live a contemplative life.  I couldn’t help but wonder about the separation of the ‘contemplative’ and the ‘action/service’.  It appears to me that the contemplation is good as a basis for service or action.  Clearly my balance is heavily skewed towards the ‘action’ and could do with some more contemplation – but contemplation without

Mount of Temptation

action…..doesn’t make so much sense to me.

We then drove out to the Dead Sea.  The Dead Sea has all been claimed by Israel.  Not only does this mean the Dead Sea itself, but all the access to the underground water tables that run close by.  It is easy to see where Israel sees the borders of ‘its’ land – the Palestinian side is dry and brown, and the Israeli side is teeming with agriculture.  Interestingly enough there are many international donors (Australia included) who are now donating money to support agriculture in the West Bank of Palestine, and Hanna pointed out a random piece of green growth as having come from Australian money!  Between

The receding waters of the Dead Sea

the town of Jericho and the Dead Sea we passed several Israeli jeeps – always clear markers of the boundary.  Israelis are currently letting Palestinians visit the Dead Sea, but this permission can be revoked at any time.  We paid an Israeli company for access to the Dead Sea…rubbing salt into the wound (if you

pardon the pun!!!).  For those that don’t know, the Dead Sea’s salinity is many times the ocean – meaning that you are extra buoyant – making it hard to swim because your legs struggle to get low enough in the water for propulsion!  The mineral composition is also said to have healing qualities, so many come to bathe in the water and coat themselves in mud.  We had a great time floating and mud-bathing it up.  You can see how quickly the water level of the Sea is dropping – the shore has moved at least 500mtrs in recent history. Frightening.  You can also see the big

Mud baths in the Dead Sea

factories of the Dead Sea cosmetic companies, continuing to farm the water and mud out – Israeli companies, farming out the water from Palestinian land.

We were going to visit the site of Jesus’ baptism, but unfortunately the Israeli military guards the site as it’s close to the Jordan border….

So we drove up north.  We took the West Bank (of the river) road up for about 50kms along the smooth road for Israelis (Palestinians are allowed on this section).  There were many Settlers who were hitchiking.  I suggested to Hanna that we could offer a ride to a hitchhiker, to open an opportunity for dialogue.  He sadly shook his head – its illegal for Israelis to travel in a car with Palestinians.  Really?  How on earth can a society move forward if its citizens are forbidden to even travel the road together?  Clearly not happy with accepting this as a final outcome, I continued to think about ways around this.  Perhaps we could stop, I suggested, offer a Settler a lift, and then the Settlers would be forced to think about the system that is being set up.  Hanna again shook his head.  ‘They would kill them’ he said.  ‘Kill them?’ Surely I’d heard wrong.  But he was serious, he said that if Israeli soldiers found an Israeli in a car with them, they’d quite possibly pressure them to say that we’d kidnapped them. If they refused, then they’d be killed, and we’d be framed for their murder.  My activist brain was stumped.  It was clear we couldn’t pick up a hitchiker on this trip.

After a while we headed inland onto the rough Palestinian roads. Just after dark I took over driving as there was news of an Israeli checkpoint ahead.  I was surprised about this, as we were clearly far within Palestinian territory, but Hanna just shrugged his shoulders ‘what can you do’ he said.  My activist mind had given up on thinking just then.  As we approached the checkpoint,  I took my directions from Hanna who was sitting in the passenger seat beside me.  We waited about 100mtrs back from the soldiers until Hanna told me that we were getting the handsignal to come forward.  The next thing there was a bright light in our faces and Hanna yelled “stop, stop, stop”.  So I stopped.  Perhaps we’d misunderstood the handsignals of the Israeli guard.  I certainly had no idea what any of them meant.  Eventually when the handsignals changed, we moved slowly forward.  The guard only spoke Hebrew, and our car passengers spoke only Arabic and English.  He didn’t seem happy with us.  And he didn’t seem so happy that there were two internationals and two Palestinians in a car together.  The next guard that came to ask questions spoke Arabic – he is a Druze – a group of people who are culturally Palestinian but mostly live in Israel. Hanna was able to chat openly with this soldier, who let us go on our way.  I asked what the light was that had been pointed at us.  Hanna said that it was the warning light from the soldier’s gun.  If we hadn’t have stopped, he would have shot at us.  I was horrified, as I suddenly realised how easily we could have been shot!  A few days later I showed Hanna the newspaper I’d bought on my birthday to ask about a photo of dead boy on the front page.  Hanna told me that this young man hadn’t stopped at the right place at the checkpoint – and was shot and killed.

So with some shivering in our boots, we continued along the way.  There are ‘roving’ checkpoints through there, and so I drove even though I wasn’t sure of the roads and it meant that Hanna was relegated to navigator.

The house in Tubas

As we drove we got to hear about Iptisam’s story of resistance. During the second Intifada, Iptisam’s brother, who had a wood carving business, refused to pay tax to the Israeli Government who were invading their lands.  The soldiers came to take him to jail.  Iptisam and her mother formed a human shield between her unarmed brother and the heavily armed guards.  They alternated between weeping and throwing stones.  Eventually they took her brother away, where he was held, with many others, for six months.  While he was gone, they also seized all his wood carving equipment in lieu of the tax. They somehow managed to live without the breadwinner of the family for the time of his imprisonment.  Hanna also shared more of his story. Hanna’s family had lived in the West Bank town of Tubas for many  hundreds of years, focused around the family’ olive grove.  In the early 1900′s his father moved to Haifa on the Northern Mediterranean coast for new work opportunities, and his siblings stayed and tended the olive trees.  In 1948, when the Israeli’s gained their ‘independence’, they cleared all the Palestinians out of the villages.  Hanna was born in a refugee camp in Nablus.  Hanna and his family then made their way back to Tubas with the rest of the family.

One of the family olive trees

Not long after, we drove to the family home in Tubas.  The back yard has the ruins of the old house, which was build around a cave.  Hanna’s brother and his wife and adult child now live in the ‘new house’ – a 1950′s cement place, currently filled with Christmas decorations where the many Santas adorn a nativity scene.  The seven of us slept across two rooms.  In the morning I was treated to seeing the family’s olive trees.  Some of them stand thick and strong – bearing witness to over 400 years of family history in the area.  There are only two Christian families in Tubas, and the family has dedicated a section of the olive grove as a cemetery.  Watching Hanna stop to honor the graves of his mother and father made me think about the people’s connection to land.  Hanna’s family planted the olive trees many years before they were to bear fruit – they made a commitment to invest in the future in this place.  So when Hanna’s father died, and the Israeli’s chopped down a whole lot of their olive trees, they weren’t just clearing land.  They were making an attempt to sever a whole lot of history from this place.

As we left Tubas, we heard that this town was once renowned for being the wheat and corn belt of the area.  However now that the water supply has been diverted to Israeli settlements, the crops are now completely rain dependent.  The people, like the olive trees, live a more tenuous life.

We went to Nablus – the home of Jacob’s well.  There is a modern day ‘Samaritan’ community living on a nearby hill – the place where they believe Adam and Eve came into being.  The Samaritans claim they are both Jewish and Palestinian, and so remain living as an isolated people.  I understand they live quite peacefully alongside local Palestinians. We stopped at the church that surrounds Jacob’s well, guarded by a quietly determined Priest.  His predecessor was killed after Settlers stormed the church.  He’s been convinced by his parishioners to carry a gun, which in fact he reluctantly used to shoot the legs of further Settlers who came to kill him.  This quiet priest is European and after feeling a call to live in this place has secured funds from all over the world to renovate the old church that stands above the well.  We went down to the lower chapel of the church where we were able to drink from the well.  And we continued along, past the refugee camps that seem to be a feature of all the Palestinian towns.

Our final stop of the day was Ramallah.  This is the centre of the West Bank Government and where Arafat was buried.  It took us an hour to drive through the city, so we got quite a sense of the area without getting out of the car!  We went to visit Hanna’s brother and his wife.  I thought the big bucket of water in the shower showed that they are as fanatical about water conservation as I am!  However the bucket was there because the whole town’s water supply had been cut by the Israeli authorities.  Apparently this happens regularly.  Cutting water from the whole town!  When the Israeli’s seized control of the bank of the Jordan river they made a very significant strategic gain.  We got back into the car and crawled towards our last checkpoint of the day.  The guard was a Christian Nazarene, who talked with Hanna and happily let us through. The slow roads got us home late at night.

The next morning we woke up and crossed to the other side.  We were heading up to the Galilee.

In the stories of Jesus, he often ‘crosses to the other side’ – from the side of the Galilee that held power, to those on the other side who held very little.  My aim for this new day was to live deeply and openly on the

A quiet moment by the Galilee

‘other side’.

The Israeli freeways got us underway very quickly.  And it wasn’t long before we had our first opportunity to pick up a hitchhiker.  He was a young, longhaired guy with a backpack.  We soon found out he was an Israeli who lived in the settlement that is gradually cutting off the north of the West Bank from the South. His English was very good, so we talked about many things. He was heading off to volunteer on a farm, so we talked about what it means to live connected to the earth.  He noticed that we were running low on fuel, and that we were about to pass the last petrol station in a while – so I dubbed him our angel! After a while he commented on the Palestinian flag bracelet that I was wearing “you call yourself a peace activist, but you only wear one flag, why is this?”.  This opened a whole conversation about local politics.  His theory was that of survival of the fittest.  He suggested that Israel had to control the Palestinians, or the Palestinians would rise up against them.  We talked about what effect that this occupation might have on successive generations of young Palestinians.  He had done his obligatory time in the military, including in Gaza.  He talked about the need to protect people from the rocket attacks from Gaza.  I said that I understood that in recent years, something like only 2 Israelis had been killed from these rocket attacks, but that 999 Palestinians had been killed from the retaliatory attacks.  He didn’t suggest that this figure was incorrect but went back to the sense of fear that Israelis live under.  He dared me to drive us all into a Palestinian town and he’d speak Hebrew – and he was sure he’d be attacked.  If only he hadn’t let me know he was carrying a big knife for protection, I might have accepted the dare.  From the Palestinians that I’d met, I didn’t think there were many that would want to attack him, and I would have liked to stand beside him against any attacks he faced.  Before that conversation got any further however, we got stopped at our first checkpoint. The soldiers decided to give India and I the full treatment – searching our bags and even put the car over the pits to check for under-car bombs.  The Israeli showed his ID which indicated he’d been in the military, and so he watched the whole ordeal, surprised at the level of scrutiny that India and I found ourselves under.

Not long after India and I dropped off our hitchiker and found ourselves by the shores of the Galilee -  in the very places where Jesus has sailed between the ‘sides’ of the sea.  I imagined him in a fishing boat, crossing between peoples who oppress, and those that are oppressed, and the common fear that bound them all.  What a great thing it is not to live with fear, and the desire to control or hurt others that fear engenders.

Between dodging the busloads of tourists and self navigating along the roads, India and I had a nice time beside the Galilee.

On our way home we got lost coming out of Tiberius and almost ended up in Jordan, before we picked up our second lot of hitchhikers.  They were two young women who were heading back to Jerusalem after travelling north for a few days.  They asked me how I was enjoying my time in the area.  I told them that I have loved many places, but that the suffering in the lands had made me very sad.  I shared with them the wonderful times I’d had in the West Bank.  One of the women was very concerned that I’d travelled there – suggesting it was dangerous.  I shared about the warmth of the people that I’d met.  I was keen to understand more how life looked like from their eyes, so I asked about their lives.  One of the woman talked about living in a Settlement that came under rocket attacks during the last Intifada.  I said that this sounded scary, but she suggested that as “they were down there”, it was OK. As night fell, we passed through a number of Israeli settlements that were well lit by streetlights.  Then we passed through a Palestinian town that had no street lights. Trying on Jesus’ approach of asking questions rather than making statements, I asked why this was.  The young woman from the settlement suggested that the Palestinians don’t need street lights as they don’t travel at night.  And that the village is illegal.  The village seemed like it had been there a long time before the Israeli settlements, and I suggested that it might have been there well before Israel moved the border here.  “Well they should all go, God gave the land to us” she said. I took some deep breaths before replying.  “The families that have been here for many hundreds of years, you think they should go”, I asked.  “Yes”, she said, “they’re all terrorists, like Bin Laden, they all want to kill us”.  I told her that I’d met many hundreds of Palestinians and not one who wanted to kill Israeli’s, in fact those who I met seemed very happy to share the land.  But she was adamant – the Palestinians have many other places to go – after prompting I realise she meant any other ‘Arab’ country, clearly not understanding that none of the other countries were lining up to give citizenship to Palestinians.  I couldn’t believe how neat the solutions were for this young woman, and how little thought she’d given to the lives of the Palestinians.

As I crossed back into Bethlehem after dropping the two girls two their doors, I sighed a sense of relief.  It was so nice to be back on ‘this side’.  But I’m glad I’d ventured out.  And I hoped I’d had some honest conversations where my ears as well as my mouth were open.

Two days later on our one night in Sinai we ran into some Israeli people also staying in the same camp as us.   I was determined to stay open to them, whatever their perspectives might be.  It turned out they were activists, having a weekend away from home in Jerusalem. “You don’t realise the pressure you live under” he said, noting the stress of Jerusalem.  It was great to have our last contact with Israeli people where the ‘crossing over’ wasn’t so challenging.

Entering the 'garden' tomb'

warning for those not so into God: this post is mostly about ‘jesus stuff’!

There has been much talk of the Holy Land and ‘holy places’ in the last few weeks. Usually they are places where great prophets have walked, and for me being in places where Jesus lived. As I prepare to finish the ‘Middle East’ part of my trip and go to Afghanistan, I’ve been thinking lots about what makes a place holy, or sacred. I have stood in queues in two different places in Jerusalem to see the place where Jesus may have been buried. Like the crowds before and after me I had my photo taken and spent less than five minutes in each site. But unlike others I didn’t kiss the ground, anoint a stone with oil or place items on it – I didn’t have a sense of ‘awe’ in these places.

I treked up Mount Sinai in the middle of a freezing cold night, exhausted with a head cold and tripping over myself because my headtorch batteries were wearing out. As the sun rose over the mountains I read the stories about Moses’ time on this mountain. The view from the top was spectacular, the blend of Jewish singing to Yaweh; African Christians praising Jesus and Arabs chanting to Allah was heart-warming, but didn’t give me a sense of the ‘divine’.

Alongside bus loads of tourists I visited the Church of the Beatitudes, where Jesus is said to have given his sermon on the mount. The Italian Catholic church did little for me, and I yearned to be out ‘in a quiet place’ to pray. (There was an Israeli warjet that flew past however…but perhaps that was just so I could tell the story!).

India and I took a flying visit to the Dead Sea Scrolls in the Israeli museum on our last day in Jerusalem. We were there less than half an hour, but India really wanted to see them. As I looked into the old, parched documents, I pressed ‘play’ on my audioguide. The voice read to me from Isaiah “they shall turn their swords into ploughshares, and they shall study war no more”. This was a sacred moment. I felt like the prophet’s voice from the past was calling to me, asking me to retain my vision for a time when we shall all lay down our weapons.

I walked up on the Mount of Temptation and was tired and sweaty by a mild winter sun. I could imagine the intensity of the summer sun, and Jesus walking around contemplating his life. I resonated with the temptations he faced to ally with the powerful or seek honor. I prayed at this mountain that I would have also be able to resist these things. This was a sacred moment.

sitting by the Sea of Gailee

I withdrew to a quiet place to pray, on the Sea of Galilee in Capernanum. I remembered my Granny talking about visiting this place with my Grandfather. After a day of feeling tired and a little grumpy, sitting in this quiet place with my feet in the ocean I was able to be close to my centre, and prayed. I felt a call to walk humbly and gently with people (which came in handy when we picked up Israeli settler hitchhikers later in the day). We went to the ruins of the village of Capernanum, and I was touched by the thoughts of Jesus and his early life with the first disciples – a time of living simply by the sea and being caught by the vision of a new way of life together. This time was sacred.

We went to the church that is built around Jacob’s well. The place where Jesus scandalously approached a scorned woman at a well and asked her for some water to drink. Taking a drink from the water from the well was nice, but not profound. However when we went back to Bethlehem the older children of the family we’ve been staying with came up to hear about our day. I asked the eldest child read to read the story about Jesus at the well the from the Bible in Arabic. After we finished we talked about the story. For the first time I linked the story to land. Jesus was talking about ‘some say you need to worship God on this mountain or that mountain’ but he talked about being able to worship anywhere. Suddenly, in this place the story seemed so deeply powerful. This young man was growing up where he couldn’t pray in the ‘holy places’, because of the politics around him. And Jesus says to drink of something new. As the children talked about Jesus offer to the woman of ‘living water’ we discussed what this might mean. We drank some of the water from Jacob’s well together and we pondered the call to love everyone around us, even when this is most hard.

For me, holy places are often not ‘consecrated’ ones. They certainly don’t seem to be church buildings.  I understand that for some people they are.  I learnt on this trip that in the middle ages they found a wooden cross they believed Jesus was nailed to.  The cross was displayed in the Church of the Holy Seplucure in Jerusalem.  But it is no longer there. why?  Because as people bent to kiss the cross, many took a bite out of it, until nothing was left.  I’m not surprised by this – as for many people having a physical thing to touch that a hero/prophet/God has is a more direct link to them somehow.  I don’t have this feeling.

For me I find that the sacred places are often ‘open’ places, near the water usually.  Or they are in emotionally open spaces – where people explore deep ideas together. Anyplace where people can interrupt the daily busy-ness, individually or communally, to ponder that which is most important, most sacred to our lives.

Yesterday India and I dragged ourselves away from the beautiful food and hospitality at the home we are staying, to head into Jerusalem.  The plan was to spend two days visiting some key sites around Old Jerusalem….little did we know!

Our first step towards this was crossing a checkpoint to get from Bethlehem into Jerusalem.  So India and I decided we’d walk along  the wall for a bit to give some context to our crossing over.  We traversed along about a kilometre section of this big, ugly, separation wall.  I wrote on the wall with a marker that I’d bought for this purpose – it was a not particularly inspiring contribution, next to the many other pieces of art and poetry – but it felt good to add my voice to the throng. We came across a house that is surrounded on three sides by the wall – three sides with a 6 metre impenetrable fence!  Valiantly they keep their shop open – even though now out of the way of any customers – and they use the wall for advertising!

We then came to the checkpoint that I’d walked in with CPT, with its many layers of security and demands for acquiescence.   As we approached I saw that the whole outer walkway (which is usually empty) was full with people queuing to get through. It looked like it would take at least a couple of hours to pass the next 500 metres.  The people were leaning against the metal cage of the walkway looking so trapped.  It was too much to bear to see all these people standing there.  We had an option to go through the ‘tourist’ entry, which had no queue.  But I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t be part of making these people wait any longer to get through.  It was Friday, and they were all going to the Jerusalem Mosques to pray.  It seemed ridiculous.  Clearly the Israelis would know how busy each Friday morning would be, and therefore roster staff accordingly.  To not have many staff on during Friday seems to be another deliberate attempt to frustrate the daily lives of Palestinians.  So with tears streaming down my face, we left for another checkpoint on the other side of town.  The next checkpoint was much quieter (being the middle of nowhere and all!), and we were through the queue within half an hour.  The men and women were  separated for this checkpoint – I’m not sure why.  It made traveling in family groups a struggle though, as the men’s line was much longer (or slower perhaps) than the women’s.   I watched a woman try to get through the single person turnstile and metal detector with her four young children.  The toddler wouldn’t let go of her as she tried to work out why the metal detector was going off.  Sad.  I got another grilling by the Israelis about my lack of a stamp, but after holding us up (and therefore the rest of the queue) for ten minutes, they let us be on our way.

So we finally got to the Old City of Jerusalem by lunchtime!

We thought we’d start our travels by going to the place where India most wanted to go – the Pool of Shiloach (Siloam) – where Jesus is believed to have rubbed mud on the blind man’s eyes and healed him.  We walked through the Jewish sponsored City of David and were following signs towards the pool.  We got a little lost and an Israeli tour guide showed us the direction but told us not to go down there because there was “trouble with the Arabs”.   You can imagine that this sparked my interest.  So we headed down to see what was happening.

We found ourselves just by the Pool of Shiloach, but with a line of riot police blocking the road.  There was a group of Palestinians and Israeli solidarity activists standing by.  They told us that below is Silawan, a Palestinian neighbourhood where Palestinians are being evicted and settlers moving in.  They said that young people often throw stones – onto the road rather than at people – as an act of defiance.  They said that Israelis were using tear gas.  I found out much later that they also used rubber bullets and stun grenades, the soldiers broke a camera of the media, and that a 10yr old boy had been taken to prison.

(More details here and here and read this for context).

We then travelled  to Sheik Jarrah, another East Jerusalem neighbourhood where Palestinians are being evicted and replaced by Settlers.  A historic Shepherds Inn has been demolished in recent weeks by Israeli authorities with much controversy.  It’s important to note that in both of these East Jerusalem areas, all the international agreements indicate these two neighbourhoods are part of Palestine.  However Israel has annexed it, without granting the Palestinian residents citizenship.  So as we arrived at the protest, there were already 150 people there, an hour before the scheduled start of the march.  There were internationals, Israelis and Palestinian – the first time  I’ve seen members of these three groups standing together in unity.  The signs and chants were in a mix of English, Arabic and Hebrew.  It was a wonderful people power moment.

Some of the chants were.
“Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies”
“You don’t build democracy on theft and evictions”
“Nothing holy in an occupied city”
“They say apartheid, we say fight back”
“1, 2, 3, 4, Occupation no more; 5, 6, 7, 8 stop the settlers, stop the hate”

After a while we walked through the neighbourhood where homes are being demolished.  We had some residents of the houses come out and talk to us about their desire to stay in their homes.  We had abuse hurled from a window of the ‘Olive Tree Hotel’ – charming! The protest then turned the corner and faced an unexpected and unauthorised police blockade.  Israeli activists tried to negotiate with Police, and then was some pushing and shoving across the barricade.   This was made worse by the newly arrived Settlers standing on the other side laughing.  After a while the protest returned to the starting point, had a few more chants and moved off.    It was a wonderful experience to have been part of.

Today we went back to the Pool of Shiloach, the site of the healing of the blind man.  We walked through the beautiful City of David complex with its sculpted garden.  Across the road is Silwan.  On the Silwan side we spotted a small spring coming out of ancient rocks, with a stone bowl shape on top – perhaps a ritual cleansing bowl. The stream of water was crystal clear, but the site was unmarked, uncared for, and full of rubbish.  And in that moment, the rubbish in the mud seemed to be a perfect site of pilgrimage.  To me Jesus’ revelations often came in the dirty places, the unrecognised places, the difficult places. India asked “if Jesus could heal the blind man, why can’t he heal this?”  It was a deep question that led to a conversation about what miracles might mean.  I told her that I thought yesterday’s protest was a miracle – groups of people brought up to hate each other walked together in unity and solidarity.  I looked again at the water and pondered blindness.  Surely so much of the world’s support of Israel is built on blindness to the Palestinian cause.  I washed my face in the stream.  And asked for my eyes to be opened to any blind spots I may have.

Our pilgrimage to the pool had a hilarious ending.  As India and I came were pondering the answers to life, the universe and everything, some Palestinians came by and dipped their buckets in the water. “Beautiful water” I said to the man.  I’m not sure he understood what I was saying, as he lifted the bucket of water from the stream and began cleaning his car with it!

More photos on Facebook in the Protest at Sheik Jarrah and Oh Jerusalem albums.