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...

Confusion

My tablemate, a young woman I'd just met at Sunday dinner, was glowingly happy and described how her move to Jerusalem had encouraged her so much that her family back 'home' was also  increasingly happy as a ripple effect. Of course I rejoiced with her, but I also probed a bit, asking why she was so content here. She mentioned her proximity to various neighborhoods, from the Old City to East Jerusalem to West Jerusalem, and even more, her nearness to key religious sites like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (another tablemate calling it 'the belly button' of the Church). She feels like she's living in the center of the world.

When I asked her and her friend about how much they rub shoulders with folks from East Jerusalem, and what they're learning from them about life as second-class residents, they responded with blank faces. They admitted that they avoid asking questions about 'stuff like that' and don't really have any 'political' experiences or conversations here.

I was stunned.

Just a few hours earlier, I'd been visiting with an American friend who's lived in Bethlehem for the past 2 months. He'd been telling me about his two new Palestinian friends who struggle to support their families despite owning souvenir shops. A brand-new baby girl -- a firstborn -- had in fact just been born that very day to one of the friends, and yet David told me that this fellow doesn't have the money to pay the hospital bill, required to get the mother and child home. His other friend is suffering from unexpected doctor bills from his daughter being hospitalized last month.

David had also said, "You probably don't get to hear about the violence on the other side [of the Separation Wall] but in the last few days, there have been a number of incidents." He went on to describe a 17-year-old medic (wearing visible clothing showing his 'medic' status) being shot and killed by an Israeli soldier for no apparent reason. He also told us of a couple in a car in the refugee camp who needed help, and of the thirty-something-year-old man who was walking away from having helped them when he was shot by a soldier in a tower at the Wall. For no apparent reason. And of groups of Israeli settlers who have been attacking a couple Palestinian schools. And these are all just a week after another few senseless shootings of Palestinians by Israeli soldiers in Bethlehem.

I am heartbroken.

And confused.

How can someone live here and not have these conversations? How can we joyfully live 'in the center of the world,' happy to be only minutes from the location of Jesus' death and resurrection, and not just as equally be gut-wrenched about the suffering around us? How can we not be 'political'?

Without a Car -- part 1 "The Clinic"

I glanced out the window, checking on the weather as I sat visiting with a friend in my living room. To my dismay, the rain was back. The sky looked windy and wet, but I knew that I'd need to venture out regardless since Selah was scheduled to get her shots in an hour.

What does it mean to not have a car while living in Jerusalem?

I bundled Selah up in her slick pink snowsuit and strapped her into my baby carrier, hoping she'd fall asleep against my chest and benefit from my warmth. I put on my own jacket over the carrier, donned my backpack (including diapers, spare clothes, bus card, purse, and passports), and set off hoping my umbrella would withstand the wind. For the next 10-15 minutes, I walked as fast as I could, down the paved hill to Tantur's front gate, across the street and through a major intersection, waiting at 5 lights for pedestrian crossings. Just as I started down a set of stairs, through water gushing across the sidewalk, only a few more minutes from the bus stop, I saw the number 32 pulling around the corner and heading away from me up the hill. I had barely missed it.

With the wind blowing relentlessly and making the rain come sideways, my legs got increasingly wet and my hands increasingly chilled. I couldn't believe I had just missed the bus. Now I'd need to wait another 10 minutes for the next one, though thankfully there was a small shelter available. Two buses passed me before the right one arrived and I flagged it down. After inserting my bus card into the machine, deducting a trip from my total, I sat down on a seat facing others, grateful that there was space for me. Ten minutes later, I buzzed to get off the bus and walked the final 6 minutes to get to the clinic.

Since Selah just needed to be weighed and measured, and receive two shots, the appointment didn't take long. (Though they couldn't figure out her name or find her in their system until I handed over her passport for them to see it written.) We walked back to the bus stop less than an hour later, grateful that the rain had stopped. This time I had Selah facing outward in my baby carrier, despite the wind, for when she's not asleep, she always prefers seeing the world around her. I warmed myself up, walking back up Tantur's steep long hill, and Selah fell asleep, with the weight of her head supported by my hand against her face. In just under two hours, we'd made it to the clinic without a car and were back in time for dinner. 

Privilege Meets Oppression

Construction dust filled my nose and made my eyes sting as I walked down the ramp just meters from Checkpoint 300. Dozens of people walked or stood in front of me, all trying to leave Bethlehem (the West Bank) and enter Jerusalem (Israel). My parents had just visited Bethlehem for the first time and we were late for lunch. I'd made this crossing many times before and didn't think twice about the extra five or ten minutes it would add to our journey home. This time would prove different.

Tall turnstiles usually spin continuously, letting travelers into the security space where belongings go through an x-ray machine and people go through a metal detector. Despite the gargantuan size of the facility, I'd only ever seen one turnstile and security space being used at a time. This day was no different -- except that now the single turnstile was locking after every 2 or 3 people went through, trapping the next person between bars for an indefinite amount of time. I have no idea what was making the soldiers slow down our line as much as they did, but what normally would take me 5 minutes to go through, this time took over half an hour.

I am a person of privilege. I don't feel like it when I'm living in America, but there have been key times and circumstances in which my privilege smacks me square in the face. And the comparison of my ease in crossing back and forth from the West Bank, with the struggle of the Palestinians to do the same, is one glaring example of my position. I do not have to have a special permit to exit Bethlehem. I do not have to pay thousands of shekels to acquire such a permit. I have never faced the humility of my belongings or my person being scrutinized in a more in-depth way than the x-ray machine and metal detector. I do not stand for hours every morning, shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to leave the checkpoint for my daily commute to work. I usually breeze through the process at non-rush-hour times and flash my American passport for an easy way past the gun-toting guards.

On this day, however, being American didn't make any difference. My blue-eyed baby snug in my baby carrier and my blonde toddler hungry for lunch had to wait just like their black-haired peers in the arms of hijab-covered mothers. My parents and I were smack dab in the middle of a crowd, all trying to wait patiently at the mercy of Israeli soldiers, but all growing impatient at the meaninglessness of delay after delay. We heard voices rise from frustrated bystanders as they questioned why it was taking so long for one mother to go through security. Another mother, one who had been sweet enough to offer me the chance to cut in front of her with my babies, found herself suddenly stuck in the turnstile after her two children were already through. I watched her face cloud over and saw her rest her head against the metal as she felt the 'trapped' sensation of being locked between bars. She was unable to move, and couldn't comfort or guide her children, who were left to fend for themselves in the security space. I saw her angst and mentally planned how to walk our party through so that Miriam wouldn't be stuck on one side or the other, away from someone she knew.

Anger rose within me -- not just at my own circumstances of being hungry and feeling like my time with my parents was being whittled away, but more at the idea that this is what Palestinians face in every aspect of their lives. They are fellow human beings who live according to the whims of the Israeli government, having their water highly limited and their olive groves cut off from their homes, among countless other inhumanities. My 35 minutes in line was barely a sip of struggle compared to what Arabs drink routinely, but my eyes were opened more widely to the oppression my neighbors face on a regular basis.

As tears began to fill my eyes, my dad turned to me and said, "I guess most tourists don't see this, do they?" And I had to agree. Not only do many Americans on typical tours never see the Separation Wall, as their tour buses enter the West Bank through a tunnel, thus sparing them a view of the barbed wire topped concrete monolith; they also don't walk on foot to leave the West Bank, so they miss seeing the lines and scrutiny.

I don't know what hope there is for the conflict here in Israel/Palestine. I don't have answers or even suggestions. But I do know that the feeling of being herded through barriers, locked at will, is not a good one. And it's hard to not despair...

What I Miss -- a guest post from Ethan

We're just days away from the halfway point of our time in Israel/Palestine. I asked Ethan what he misses (since he's the one who mentions missing home the most) and he wrote a long list. I'm grouping his items a bit more than he did....

In general, Ethan misses (in his own words):

• Being nearer to family
• Libraries
• Unlimited free refills of soda
• Having a car
• Friends
• Going to the creek
• Recognizing places as we drive about
• Lazy mornings where I can wake up at 10:00 and eat breakfast then
• Our church Truro
• D.C.
• Snow
• Being with family during the holidays
• Food: smoothies, Krispy Kreme donuts, pizza, caramel frappuccinos, Costco samples, hamburgers
• Cereal, waffles, pancakes, and coffeecake for breakfast
• Our homeschool organization IBCHE
• Cherry blossoms
• Having a larger variety of clothes to wear
• Eating in our dining room as a family
• More toys
• Being more naive about the conflicts of this world. (Though people need to be more aware about the injustice and suffering happening in Israel and everywhere.)
• Doing more stuff as a family
• Camping
• Having people visit our house

About our home in particular:

• Having a 2-story house
• Having 2 bathrooms
• A larger kitchen
• Our trampoline
• Large carpeted areas
• More windows
• Our sunny kitchen with butterflies fluttering outside the window
• More sitting space
• Much more counter space
• Vents in our rooms which let in warm air
• Our Wii machine
• Our TV

There are a few things I didn't include (he listed 60!!), but I think you get the gist. A theme I noticed, especially when I probed a bit by asking him questions, was he misses familiarity and he misses a sense of home. I wonder if he'll still say the same things when we leave 4 1/2 months from now.