Reflections on the Road: Rebuilding a Palestinian's Home (Part 2)

Part 2 of 2; to begin at Part 1, click HERE)

But this occasion was unique because Salim had decided to lease the land to ICAHD and, instead of a home, build the Beit Arabiya Peace Center.  Dedicated to the memory of two women who had been killed during home demolitions earlier in the year -- Rachel Corrie, an American run over by a bulldozer, and Nuha Sweidan, a pregnant Palestinian killed when a wall fell on her -- people from all walks of life had come to take part in its construction.  One couple hailed from Sante Fe, New Mexico.  "My husband and I are retired from the CIA," the woman said, "and when we heard about this project, we knew we wanted to be here."  Another volunteer was a Muslim, a twenty-six-year-old Briton of Pakistani descent who had taken two weeks off work in London.  Several other foreigners would be here later in the week, and all of us shared the conviction that travel, at its best, is not a self-indulgent foray into foreign lands; it is to help our global neighbors in the modest ways we can.

Elizabeth was the youngest member of the group.  An 18-year-old Palestinian with flowing dark hair and braces, she had met Jeff the day a bulldozer came to demolish her neighbor's home in Beit Hanina, a Palestinian district of Jerusalem.  "My family is originally from Ikrit, a Christian village near the Lebanese border," she said.  "Do you know the story?"

I had read about this village before; it was one of more than 400 Palestinian communities that Israel leveled in the years following its independence in 1948.  While the destruction of Ikrit occurred years before Elizabeth was born, it was part of her story, and this contributed to the beauty of what was happening now in Anata.  As we worked, she conversed about the history of the region and its political dynamics with a maturity beyond her years.

The sun climbed higher and I joined two young Israeli men in moving garbage and heavy stones -- mostly rubble from the last demolition -- away from the building site.  One of the men, 24-year-old Michael, had recently finished four years of active military duty.  We talked about his years as an Israeli officer in Lebanon and the West Bank.  We also talked about my impressions as an outsider who had friends on both sides of the political divide.  When I mentioned that for three months I had lived in a village adjacent to the West Bank town of Jenin, he told me his unit had fought in Jenin and that some of his men were killed there.  "I wasn't actually in Jenin," Michael said as he held open a bag so I could toss in some faded plastic Coke bottles.  "A few days before the invasion we were in Nablus, and I was hit in the head by a rock.  I was in the hospital while my men went to Jenin."  He paused a moment and then said, "But maybe being hit by that rock was one of the best things to happen to me in the West Bank.  I should have been with my men, but Jenin would have been a moral nightmare."

Michael was referring to the 2002 Israeli invasion of Jenin that left at least fifty-two Palestinians dead and many more injured.

As we heaved the last few stones downhill and wiped the sweat from our eyes, bad news came.  In the last hour, Palestinian suicide bombers had struck two locations, one outside a Jewish settlement in the West Bank, the other within Israel itself.  This vicious storm of violence had taken its latest turn, slamming against another set of lives and taking them away.

Not only were lives lost, but tomorrow's news headline had been made.  Media consumers around the world would read their papers and watch CNN, and many would shake their heads at the hatred here.  But this is precisely why the evening news is sometimes a culprit in conflict:  it trawls the world for tragedy and then beams this half-story into our living rooms, leaving the other half abandoned among the olive trees.  But when we are robbed of hearing good news-no matter how small that news may seem-our imagination withers, and we become too content to view the world from a distance.  With sickly imaginations we fortify our walls, even though there are gaps where people are already coming together -- and where we could too, if we wanted.

The hour's bombings did not interrupt our work.  As Michael handed up some tools to a Palestinian laboring on the roof, the Palestinian serenaded Michael with a Hebrew song he had learned in an Israeli jail.  Another Israeli, who like Michael had also recently completed his army service, shared a bottle of water with a thirsty Palestinian who was shoveling gravel.  And at midday, when a group of Canadian Christians arrived for a short visit and sang "Amazing Grace," all of us -- Jew, Muslim, and Christian-stopped our work and listened.

At 2:30 p.m. we set our work aside and, under a canopy held up by pieces of the demolished home, dug into lunch: chicken schnitzel, hot dogs, and veggie burgers.  Our appetites were ravenous.

After eating, I lay down to rest by an olive tree, where rugs had been spread across a shaded portion of ground.  With my head propped up, I watched several Palestinian boys sitting with Michael, playing.  After a while one of the boys, Salim's son, pointed to the yarmulke worn by Michael, an observant Jew.  Michael removed it from his head and gave it to the boy, who promptly put it atop his own head.  Here was a Palestinian boy -- a boy whose home had been destroyed four time by a Jewish government, whose father had been beaten by Jewish soldiers -- wearing atop his head the religious head covering of a Jew.  And here also was a Jewish man -- a man whose friends were killed in combat with Palestinians, who had served as an officer and would still be called up for reserve duty once a year -- sitting with his head uncovered before God because he was sharing his yarmulke with an inquisitive Palestinian child.

The Israelis and Palestinians meeting today did not have to travel far to reach Anata, but the words of Maya Angelou were as true for them as they were for the rest of us: "Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends."

Relaxed by hard work and good food, and with the heat reaching its afternoon peak, I grew sleepy.  As I drifted from wakefulness, happy for the beautiful coat of dust and dirt that covered me, I dreamed I was in a land full of good news, where enemies ate veggie burgers and played together.  Some would call this a hippie's vision, a fantastic dream that doesn't mesh with reality.  But as for me, I only wished that the New York Times, the Jerusalem Post or anyone else with an audience-had been here in Anata, even if only to write one line:  If you want to behold an incredible gathering of individuals, the West Bank may be just the place to be.

		Joel Carillet, Gather Travel Correspondent
	Joel's column, "Reflections on the Road," is published every other Thursday to Gather Essentials: Travel. His articles, based on extensive travels in Asia and the Middle East, seek to shed light on humanity, both our own and that of others.   They aim not merely to entertain and inform but also to develop a sense of connection between the reader and the world. Joel's writing and photography have appeared in several magazines and newspapers, including the Kansas City Star and Christian Science Monitor.  Currently he is seeking an agent for a book manuscript entitled Sixty-One Weeks: A Journey across Asia. When not on the road, he happily calls Tennessee home. Keep up with Joel's article series by joining his network, or subscribing to his content.