Hoping for Something Better

My child and I are both dealing with overwhelming emotions these days: grief, anger, anxiety, to name a few. When I learned of a nearby health center that offers counseling on a sliding scale, I thought we'd found an outlet and possible source of help. But by the time our registration process was complete, and I was trying to make appointments today, I was told that the soonest opening was over 6 weeks from now. I asked if there were any alternative providers, and when told 'yes,' immediately went to register there in addition. Child and I went through the intake process this afternoon, and again, I was hopeful that now, at least soon, we'll be getting the help we need. Ha ha. By the end of our registration, we were told that 'it might take weeks' to be seen for therapy.

We very well might not have weeks. We're hoping to be moving as soon as we're accepted into a rental near DC. But this is the state of mental health here -- that even when I say my child is crying everyday, and even when I feel like I just can't keep going, we're not offered help for weeks. What are we supposed to do in the meantime?

We keep plugging along, day after miserable day.

Some days are slightly better than others. Some days I manage to get by without being glared at hatefully. Some days it feels like I almost have my child back, the way they used to be before Jerusalem. But I know it's just a temporary reprieve; that the hurt and longing are deep inside this child. I yearn for them to receive the gentle help and advice they need, and for our relationship to begin mending.

Some days I have enough breathing space, and my younger kiddos bring me more joy than frustration. I might even look at them and the world around me in wonder and think, "Yes! This is what it means to be alive." But more often than not, I feel a rising panic, a longing to cover my ears to block out the demands and the whining and the crying, a deep desire to run away perhaps never to return. I wonder on a daily basis why I thought I could do this. Why did I think I could parent five children? Why did I imagine I could meet the needs of the 'bigs' while enjoying the 'littles' and vice versa. It was clearly all an illusion. It feels like all I can possibly hope for now is survival.

And underneath all the current angst is an ever-present river of residual anger from my time in Jerusalem. My 8 months there were some of the very loneliest and most depressing of my life, and instead of just being sad about that, I'm actually quite angry. I don't know what to do with that anger. I feel like I need to vent it somehow, but I don't know where or to whom.

So these are my summer days, trying to balance joy and despair, wondering from hour to hour how much my child hates me and if there will be a time of forgiveness and understanding, wishing we could both get help, wishing I could move past anger and reach something better than survival.

Sounds

Today marks 4 weeks since we walked through the archway of Tantur for the last time. Not a day goes by when I don't think of Jerusalem and miss something about our life there. My most recent longing has been for sounds. We took hundreds of pictures, and are fortunate that photos could capture much of what we saw. We also have video footage that captured some of what we heard. But many sounds were so mundane, so expected, that we failed to record them and now they're lost forever.

Sounds like the voice of Diana at reception greeting Miriam every morning as we walked up the steps to breakfast. Leaning over to be at eye level with our two-year-old, she'd say with the sweetest voice, "Good morning Miriam! How are you habibti?"

Sounds like an Arabic Maronite church service being played on the radio, coming through the dining room's patio window as we breakfasted on Sunday mornings. Since those on kitchen duty on Sunday mornings couldn't get to their Catholic church, a service on the radio was the next best thing.

Sounds like the wind in the tall pine and palm trees, the songs of local birds, the chirping of insects.

Sounds like the taxi drivers calling to us as we passed the checkpoint into Bethlehem. Desperate for business, they'd hopefully cry out, "Taxi? You going to the church?" Before they got to know us and recognize us as locals who almost always walked, if we hesitated, they'd continue, "I can take you to Shepherd's Fields and the Church and wait for you. I give you a good price."

Sounds like honking horns on Hebron Road, the busy street right outside Tantur. Cars honk more in Jerusalem than in the US, just as a way of communicating with other cars, not always in anger. When trucks honked, their horns played a little tune. And sometimes many cars would honk at the same time, in an actual rhythm. I never did figure out what that was about but I wondered if it had to do with a celebration of some kind.

Sounds like the babbling of many foreign languages as groups of tourists made their way through the Old City. I wish I had a list of all the languages Selah was greeted in during her first 8 months of life. Her young ears got to hear German, French, Arabic, Hebrew, Chinese, Amharic, English in Australian, Kiwi, Irish, and British accents, and at least one language of India (likely more).

Sounds like the cheerful voices of Nouha and Manal who would clean Tantur on a daily basis and our apartment's bathroom on a weekly basis. They didn't speak much English, but they loved our babies and always tried to be encouraging and sympathetic to me through their limited words as well as their kind gestures.

Sounds like Juliet in the kitchen asking us if we wanted anything more from the buffet before she started clearing away the food from breakfast. (We were always the last ones to breakfast!!) She loved Miriam's smile and singing, and would greet Miriam especially when she saw us eating in the morning.

Sounds like the traffic light's pedestrian crossing button speaking to us in Hebrew. (I still don't know what it was saying exactly, but I'm guessing something along the lines of, "The light is red. Please wait.") And then making one sound when it wasn't safe to cross and another sound when it was our turn to enter the intersection.

Sounds like the happy voices of our neighbor children playing in the communal courtyard in between all our apartments. One-year-old Duffy saying "tractor" and "Mummy" and sometimes crying. Three-year-olds Carmel and Agnes, with two-year-olds Amanda and Miriam and five-year-old Lucy, squealing or singing or bossing, and yes often someone crying. Six-year-old Bertie asking if Ethan could come play with him. Eight-year-old Sebastian and eleven-year-old Joseph bouncing their basketballs as they came to see if my kids would play "knockout" with them.

Sounds like the country western music floating down from the second-story apartment windows of the Notre Dame undergrad guys. Or even better, the beautiful guitar-playing and harmonizing voices around the bonfire or on the library rooftop as we sang worship songs with our favorite Notre Dame students (despite the fact that we were double their age).

Sounds like the voice of Pastor Carrie as she preached at Redeemer Lutheran, often bringing me to tears because she not only spoke words of love and justice for the downtrodden, but she also seemed to speak directly to me. The funny stories she'd share and the way she'd make everyone laugh each week as she'd segue into offering time by saying that the church could accept money from any country but just couldn't cash checks. The blessing she'd give my babies during Communion and the encouraging words she'd give me after church, "I'm so amazed that you've made it to today even with all your kids and your new baby."

Sounds like the Muslim call to prayer five times a day. And the weekly Friday afternoon Hebrew song marking the coming of Shabbat.  Like the baaaing of sheep as their shepherd let them graze on the grass of Hebron Road between Mar Elias Monastery and Kathisma, a 5th Century church. And the sound of their bells as they hurried back across Hebron Road during a brief red light that stopped the busy traffic. Like the greeting of a young shopkeeper on David Road in the Old City, who dearly loved seeing Selah every time we walked by. And the kind voice of Majdi, my favorite shopkeeper in Bethlehem who always asked about Steve and how his studies were coming along. And that of the owner of Blessings Souvenir Shop near Manger Square, who always offered me a spot to nurse or change Selah (as he watched her grow from newborn to 8 months old) and also would spend his own money to get us a taxi back to the checkpoint.

The days are slipping by and the memories hover but fade. I grasp what I can and linger with them in my mind, hoping that they will not completely disappear.

What Do You Say With Only Five Minutes?

My family was traveling across Jerusalem by light rail last week. The train was crowded and we were tired from a long day out. I was separated from the rest of the family and held Selah in my arms, trying to keep her from fussing. Selah was interested in the animated conversation of a young woman who was speaking to a friend by cell phone near us. I'm pretty sure Selah thought this teen was speaking to her!

When the girl hung up, she finally noticed Selah smiling at her and cheerfully mentioned what a cute baby I had. This broke the ice and we started chatting a little. She asked why I was in Israel and if I "liked living here."

"Yes and no," I replied. "Some things are really hard about living here."

"Yeah, I get you. What's been hard?"

Hmm. I didn't know this person at all. I only had a few minutes before we'd reach my stop. But I'd already made up my mind to stop tailoring my answers to this common question -- "Do you like living here?" -- based on who was asking. Why should I say something completely different to a Palestinian in East Jerusalem than to a Westerner on the Israeli light rail? I decided to be honest but slightly nebulous.

"The different people groups here and how some of them feel treated."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for example I know some Palestinians here and it's hard hearing their side of the story," I answered.

Still smiling and engaged, and seemingly genuinely interested, this young woman responded, "Oh? What is their side of the story? I've never heard it."

I've never heard it. Did she mean she'd never spoken with a Palestinian? Or never heard them share how the Occupation affects them? Has she really only heard rhetoric from the other side? Has she only interacted with Jews? Has she never crossed a checkpoint? Never seen the Wall? I had no idea what the answer was to any of these questions, but I did know that I had her attention and I only had a couple minutes.

Without any forethought, I said the first thing that came to mind. "The checkpoints -- they're really difficult for Palestinians to get through. Some people wait for three hours every morning to get from Bethlehem to their jobs in Jerusalem. The lack of freedom of movement is a big deal to them."

"Wow! Really?" she responded. This teenager hadn't had a clue that checkpoints were hard on her Palestinian neighbors. Now she does.

We briefly talked about what I do like about living in Israel, and I also made sure I asked her what she's doing here. Before I knew it, the train was pulling up at Yaffo Center stop, and we both were pushing through throngs to get off and go on our separate ways. I relayed the conversation to my kids, and we wondered together what I might have said differently if I'd had more time to think.

But I also was struck with a new thought: it's possible that there are hundreds or thousands or hundreds of thousands of people living in Israel who don't have a clue. If they live and study in circles of secular or religious Jews, if they only read certain news sites, if they have Israeli passports and thus aren't allowed across the Wall, if they don't have Palestinian friends or neighbors, if they read Israeli history textbooks and listen to Israeli politicians ... maybe, just maybe, they really don't know. If so, I'm even more thankful than I already was for organizations whose goal is to reach out and inform, Ir Amim, Zochrot, Breaking the Silence, and The Parents Circle being a few examples.

I only have two weeks left in this country, but maybe I should think ahead of time as to how to better answer the next time someone asks, "How have you liked living in Israel?" May my words and her new understanding linger in the mind of the girl I met on the train...

Running Away

We're nearing the end of our 8 1/2 months here, and that means running away once again. I will fly out on May 29 leaving annoyances unaddressed, conflicts unresolved, relationships abandoned. I'm getting really good at this, seeing as my life since 2005 has just been one blip after another. Moving every year or two, either house or church ... or continent.

And every time, dying a little more inside.

I don't like feeling so rootless. I don't want to be so unknown and unaccountable to -- and unloved by -- church leaders and Christian friends. I don't enjoy stuffing my feelings deep down yet once again, knowing that as the years go by, I'm actually getting less mature instead of more.

But here we go. Moving to yet another home, searching for yet another church, struggling again to make friends and find community, knowing that the truth of who I am and how my family functions is so much uglier than anyone can imagine. And what will I leave behind at Tantur? Nothing. My baggage will come with me. My tears and frustrations, loneliness and despair, will be packed away like my books, and carted off to my next "home."

Maybe someday I'll live somewhere long enough to be deeply known and counseled through my struggles. Maybe one day I'll be able to mature in my relationships, so I can be honest and real, and learn to do more than just running away.

Taste Test

Yesterday Chef Issa made a side dish of squash for lunch. Amazing, delicious squash. As in, I'd never tasted such good squash before!! And you didn't want to try it.

You, sweet two-year-old Miriam, were more than happy with your pasta. Your plain bow-tie pasta. With no sauce. And no flavor. You asked for seconds of it, and we gave you some. Then you asked for thirds, and I drew the line. I said, "Yes, you may have more pasta but you need to try the squash first. It's SO yummy!!" You shook your head, determined that you would not like a new dish.

I tried everything. I said that after you took a bite -- just one small bite -- of squash you could also have the bread you wanted. You could eat the fruit salad that interested you. Just one bite!! How hard could it be? But you kept shaking your head, saying, "No squash." I tried calling it "veggie" instead of "squash." I tried asking you to close your eyes so you wouldn't see what it looked like. Nothing worked.

And then I struck gold!

I decided to try turning this into a fun game of "taste testing." I demonstrated this new game by closing my eyes and letting Ethan stick bite after bite into my mouth, calling out a food name after each one. You were intrigued! After my turn, Ethan demonstrated, too, and then you were ready to give it a go!

You squeezed your eyes shut and opened your mouth wide. Ethan gave you a bite of fruit salad, and you excitedly said, "Apple!" He followed up with a bite of cucumber and you said, "Cupepper!" After a taste of tomato, you finally got to a bite of the much-dreaded (but very delicious) squash. And you liked it!! You identified it as "Squash!" easily but when I asked if you wanted another bite of it, you said, "Yes!" We'd gotten you past your mental block. Success!

And then the cutest part of the whole meal was that you continued the Taste Test for the rest of your food. We stopped feeding you and were even ready to give you the pasta and bread you'd originally asked for. But you liked the Taste Test and so kept giving yourself bites of fruit and veggies, each time closing your eyes after you'd taken your bite, pausing to chew and then happily proclaiming what it was you'd just eaten. You were truly taken with this idea of eating as a game.

I get a lot wrong these days. Our whole family struggles on a daily basis to help you with this tricky transition to independence. But we also LOVE you to pieces, and so I'm always happy when we get something right. For the most part, you enjoy eating and you've even taken to listing all the foods you like by saying, "I LIKE cupepper. I LIKE apple." Now we have a way to help you when you have a chance encounter with a food you think you don't like. I hope it works again!

What Will You Remember?

Dear "Big Kids,"

These 8 months in Israel/Palestine have been quite full, haven't they? You probably feel like we've never done more sightseeing in our lives -- and you're right! I know you sometimes (frequently?) wish you could move back to a "boring" place so that we have fewer sites to visit, but I wonder if you'll miss this when we return Stateside.

Yesterday I took you 5 kids to Ramallah for the first time and after leaving the house at 9:15 AM and getting home at 5:45 PM, it felt like a very full day. Granted, we'd only accomplished two things and we'd spent just as much time commuting to and from Ramallah as we did in Ramallah. There were definitely positive aspects to our 'day out,' and yet I wonder what you will remember...

Will you remember my willingness to ask a dozen people for directions since our map apps weren't working? My efforts to understand their Arabic and hand motions? My attempt at copying the Arabic you taught me for "where is the bus station"? Will the day have left you with a confidence at getting around? Or will you remember feeling frustrated and worried about how to get home?

Will you remember Miriam's joy at seeing an unexpected flock of grazing sheep as we made our way to the Arafat Museum? The way I turned around to give her a few extra minutes when she wasn't satisfied with a passing view? Or will you remember the poop on the sidewalk, and waiting in the sun, unsure of how long I'd be?

Watching old footage at Arafat Museum

Will you remember the video footage we saw of 100-years-ago Jerusalem? The Palestinian Declaration of Independence written in beautiful calligraphy? The siege bunker where Arafat lived and worked for 34 months before his death? Or will you remember the way Miriam ran up and down the ramps pushing her stroller and my frustrated efforts to keep Selah from crying?

Palestine's Declaration of Independence

By Arafat's kitchen during 34-month siege

Will you remember the yummy stretchy ice cream we ate at Rukab's? The fun variety of flavors? Going for round TWO? Will you remember the way a server made Selah laugh? And the way Selah tasted her first cone? Or will you think of the way crowds pressed against us as you struggled to decide what you wanted to try?

Will you remember the way a family of Palestinian kids made Miriam laugh and Selah smile on our bus ride back to Jerusalem? The exuberant giggles as Miriam joked around with the 8-year-old boy, saying "Ouch" and laughing even though they didn't speak the same language? The relief when we finally made it onto our final bus headed to Tantur? Or will you think of the complete standstill we were stuck in, as we waited our turn at the Qalandiya checkpoint? And the confusion when we had to disembark one bus only to get on another after the checkpoint? Will you think of your thirst, your need to go to the bathroom, your tiredness?

Boy selling cotton candy to waiting vehicles

Every outing we've taken seems to have been a similar mix of difficult and fun, educational and challenging. I'm so thankful for the places we've visited, the things we've seen, the observations we've made, the lessons we've learned. I'm grateful for your help in carrying heavy backpacks, taking Miriam potty, wearing Selah in the frontpack, schlepping stuff on and off buses. You guys have given up hours of your own time to sightsee with your full-of-wanderlust parents, and for my own part, despite the challenges, this year is one of precious memories. I wonder, years from now, what will you remember?

Forty Days

Forty days left.

People have been asking me lately how I feel about "going back home." When someone phrased it that way yesterday, I just laughed. "I don't have a home," I replied. And I don't. We sold our townhouse to come here, and we're not returning to the same suburb of DC. The area we'd lived in for the 7 years before this move is not where I'd grown up and not where I had roots of any kind. I long ago realized that "home" was wherever I was at the moment. This is often the reality for a TCK (third culture kid). 

But back to the original question -- how do I feel about returning Stateside?

The truth is, I'm quite conflicted. There have been some REALLY difficult things about my time at Tantur. I have the feeling that my overarching memory of this specific place will be one of loneliness and disappointment. There are also, of course, difficult things about living in Jerusalem, especially as close as we are to Bethlehem and the checkpoint into the West Bank. My answer to the question, "Have you liked it here?" is "Yes -- and no." It's complicated. 

And family life this year has been more challenging than in many previous years. The combination of a two-year-old and a newborn and multiple tweens/teens has just about done me in. Even on the days when I feel like I'm maybe "getting it right" with one or more of them, someone is bound to throw me for a loop. We've had hours of tears, countless raised voices, and a growing sense that our family is coming apart at the seams. Marriage has been interesting and I've struggled with months of depression. 

Despite all the heartache and frustrations, I'm also deeply sad about returning to the US. Ever since I was little, I was friends with people different from me, whether by color of skin or nationality. I lived in University of California family student housing for the majority of my childhood, where there were students from around the world, and then at age 14 moved to Nigeria. As an adult, I've lived in a few other countries, as well as suburbs with international populations. I love the beauty of diversity, I love learning about other people and cultures, I love 
hearing their music and eating their food. So every time I have to return to the US after some time abroad, a large part of me is quite melancholy.

Besides my broader appreciation for the world, I also have grown to love this place. As mixed up as it is, as much pain and suffering as there are here, Palestine/Israel has been a special place to live for 9 months. I've gotten to see buildings and/or ruins from all kinds of eras and I've gained understanding about distances between places mentioned in the Bible and what those places looked like. I've greatly enjoyed the diversity of the land's topography and botany, as well as the beauty of different people groups who live here. I love hearing Arabic and Hebrew, Muslim calls to prayer and Jewish songs that begin Shabbat. I love experiencing the sights and smells within Greek Orthodox and Catholic churches, and hearing Jesus' name praised in traditions and languages not my own.

Most of all, by living so close to Bethlehem, I've seen the Separation Wall with my own eyes, experienced the checkpoint dozens of times, and heard firsthand accounts from many Palestinians about how the conflict affects them. What used to be just "head knowledge" now feels more real. Of course it is still just knowledge for me, as I don't personally suffer the violence and fear and discrimination that my neighbors do. But at least I have faces and names in my mind's eye. And I have my handful of representative experiences, like soldiers boarding my bus to check IDs, and delays at the checkpoint, and Palestinians being forced off the bus at the border while the non-Palestinians remain on. Why is this what I appreciate most of all? Because it is real. It is now. I would rather know what people are facing here, than think that everything's great or just another news story of terrorists and bombings. 

Forty days left. Not long at all. May I make the most of it...