Take all the courage you have left

In a book I read a while back, I stumbled upon the following lines:
That's the thing about activism. It isn't a members-only club. We don't get to choose who is, and who isn't, an activist. The ability to stand up, to do the right thing - to be active - is in every human being.

I found this idea to be quite motivating, and while that hasn't changed, I now question to what extent it is true.

What if we in fact don't all have what it takes to be an activist?

These doubts come after my experience in the Tel Aviv airport a few months ago. I think I was doomed from the start. Several people had told me that as a young woman traveling alone, I would be one of the top profiling targets and warned me not to bring along clothing with the word 'peace' on it or anything that would mark me as an 'activist.' This only increased my natural tendency to worry. Besides this, I am really bad at lying and have a rather irrational fear of 'getting in trouble.' On top of it all, I stepped off the plane at 4:30am after spending all night traveling.

True to prediction, I had barely taken my place in line for passport control before I was approached by a security employee who asked if I had been to the country before and what my plans for the visit were. Upon reaching the counter, these questions were repeated as well as inquiries about where and with whom I was staying. Apparently, my answers were unsatisfactory, as the woman behind the counter conferred with a second woman (in Hebrew, of course) before the second woman took my passport and led me to another room.

Here I faced an intimidating man who repeated the same questions and added ones about what I do in Germany (try explaining an organization called "Peace Brigades" without using words like peace and human rights!), if I knew anyone in Israel, what I knew about the conflict, and if I had any ties with Palestinian groups or plans to go to Palestine. He then moved on to his problems with the American pastor (who previously attended the same church as my parents)that I was planning to stay with because 'why would someone who doesn't even know you invite you to stay with him?'

Despite the fact that it was not yet 5:00am, he then proceeded to call Pastor Fred, question him about his alleged guest, chide him for inviting others to Israel when he himself was a guest in the country, promising to make remarks in his passport, and threatening trouble if anything suspicious were to turn up. Perhaps the most absurd element was his suspicion caused by Fred's and my shared connection to a church called Bethlehem Lutheran.
Read Fred's account of it here: http://walkinjerusalem.blogspot.com/2011/07/please-repeat-question.html

The security officer then demanded my cell phone and proceeded to search through its contents. It was all I could do to conceal my fear, as I had repeatedly claimed not to know anyone else in Israel and there were in fact two ICAHD contact numbers in my phone. Luckily, security man only found the most recent calls (bonus points for German-language phone!), though he even seemed suspicious of these German contacts ("Who's Gaby? A friend in German, really?")

As he then led me across the hall to a waiting room, I quickly pulled out my phone and deleted the two Israeli contacts as secretly and subtly as I could. But of course, just as I was flipping the phone closed, security man turned around and saw me: "What are you doing?! Why are you deleting messages?! Give me that phone!" And so my phone went off to join my passport in the land of confiscation.

The make-shift waiting room to which I was taken was quite surreal. In it were about a dozen security workers and soldiers who appeared to be on break: some were dozing, some were eating, and some were playing games on their phones. Besides me there were two young women who, if I were to make a guess based solely on appearance and attire, were part of some sort of prostitution/trafficking ring. Above the vending machine, a TV was playing without sound and appeared to be showcasing some sort of 80's workout video with three leotard-clad people doing sit-ups on some mountaintop with a sea or ocean in the background. This would later switch to them doing jumping jacks on a cruise ship, with the instructor wearing a captain's hat. If the officials were trying to play mind games with their detainees, it was definitely working.

After a second round of answering the same questions (from a different official in a different room) and another wait in the jazzercise break-room, I was taken to a third room, where I was greeted by yet two more security officials and told that:
"We are going to ask you some questions that we already know the answers to so that we can see if you are cooperating."
Security man then proceeded to tell me that they had spoken with Fred five minutes before and he had no idea who I was. Further, Fred's letter of welcome was something I could have typed up myself and after he brought up the internet on his computer came the following exchange:
"Please sign into your email and show us your conversations with Fred."
No, I won't do that.
"Why not?"
Because I don't show my email to people.
"We are not people - we are the authorities."
I don't have to show you my email.
"You don't have to enter Israel...What are you hiding?"
I'm not hiding anything - I have the right to privacy.
"You have no rights in this room." (It was this statement that just about did me in). "So you are refusing to cooperate - you know this will prevent you from entering Israel. We are also friends with the USA, so if you don't cooperate with us, you will be in trouble there."

And with this, they sent me back to the waiting room, but not before asking exactly how much money I had, having me take out my cash, and keeping my wallet and the rest of its contents.

So there I sat. Fighting tears. Expecting to be sent back to Germany. Hoping that nothing worse happened, that somehow they would find proof of something and arrest me.

After a while, I was approached by yet another anonymous official who informed me that they knew I was lying and if I continued not cooperating, I would not enter Israel.

I was then led into another screening room, only to be taken out again so they could Fred again, this time without me being able to hear what they said to him. When I returned, security lady told me they were willing to let me into the country if I signed an an agreement that I would not enter areas under control of the Palestinian Authority and if I left a monetary deposit as a safeguard that I would do as promised.

In my somewhat-altered decision-making capacity, I agreed to the conditions, even though it's quite possible that the monetary sum (which I can no longer remember) was more than I even had available. But at this point, after having repeatedly denied any intention to go to Palestine, I figured it would be unwise to turn down the agreement.

I was sent once more to the waiting room and upon return was greeted with the ever-so-gracious announcement that "We now believe you, so you don't have to leave a deposit."

They, however, did not believe me enough to forget about the agreement, which threatened deportation, a fine, and a 10-year ban on Israel if I were to enter PA-controlled zones.

And so, four hours later, I received my passport, complete with stamp, and continued on my way.

There were many true activists headed for Palestine that day. More than 300 were on blacklists sent from the Israeli government to European airports and were thus not allowed to board their planes.

Others arrived and, unlike me, boldly and purposefully stated their intentions to visit the Territories. As a result, they were arrested and imprisoned for four days, some of whom were harassed or beaten (http://mondoweiss.net/2011/07/100-hours-in-israeli-detention-for-trying-to-visit-bethlehem.html)

And this is of course is nothing in comparison to the threats and violence that face Palestinians and activists around the world on a daily basis.

Yet, against the background of a safe, spoiled, and secure life, my airport experience was one that shook me to the core.

And this begs the question: if I am so troubled by a few uncomfortable hours and some intimidating questions in an airport, how can I hope to handle facing soldiers at a checkpoint or settlers on an accompaniment? If such a minor incident affects me so greatly, how can I believe I have what it takes to take part in these actions of solidarity that so interest me?

I know, of course, that there are many ways to take action that involve neither threat nor risk nor fear. But somehow, to me, it's not the same.

And what if activism, this kind of activism, truly is a members-only club? And I don't belong?

May you experience this vast, expansive, infinite, indestructible love that has been yours all along.
May you discover that this love is as wide as the sky and as small as the cracks in your heart no one else knows about.
And may you know, deep in your bones, that love wins.

- Rob Bell

Because my dad told me to...

Last month I took a trip to Palestine, or more accurately, the Occupied Palestinian Territories. I have much to write about the experience, but due to the very real danger that I will never get around to it, for now I am posting, at my father's suggestion, a few words I wrote for the organisation's donors:

It has been about a month since returning from ICAHD's summer rebuilding camp, and in that time countless people have posed the same question: 'How was Palestine?'

And the first word that comes to my mind (as if you could describe the experience in a word) is hard. The physical work in the heat and sun was hard, of course, but so much more so was witnessing injustice at a magnitude I had never yet encountered. As the camp came to a close, I couldn't escape the feelings of anger and despair that weighed me down.

Yet, in those two weeks, I also encountered so much courage, perseverance, and sheer goodness that I couldn't help but leave that place inspired.

I was inspired by my fellow international volunteers, who came from all around the world to join in this common goal. Being united in communal work and life with them was refreshing, and hearing of their steadfast efforts in their respective homelands was motivating.

I was inspired by our Israeli leaders, who have the insight and vision to see beyond the system in which they are living. I can't imagine what it is like to work not only against the policies and practices of your own government but also against the values and prejudices of your own community, yet the Israeli activists we got to know engage in this effort tirelessly, some at the cost of relationships to friends and family.

And, most of all, I was inspired by the many Palestinians we met and worked with, who, simply by remaining in their homes and continuing their daily lives in peace, are exemplifying resistance. Despite being denied both rights and basic needs by a regime bent on getting them to quit and leave, they refuse to give in.

Beyond this, I was touched by the generosity and hospitality which
our various Palestinian hosts bestowed upon us, be it welcoming us into their homes, sharing delicious meals with us, or inviting us, strangers who neither spoke the language nor really knew the culture, to take part in a family's wedding festivities.

One moment I found particularly touching was when one of our hosts returned from the hospital with her newborn daughter. Even amidst the occupation, the joy of new life continues, and we were fortunate enough to welcome it.

When we weren't busy meeting and being inspired by people, we were of course building a house.

And it was this aspect that drew me into the camp from the moment I heard about it. I currently work in the office of a human rights organisation, and when sitting at a desk day after day, busying myself with translations and grant reports, it is difficult to feel like, much less see that, I am making any sort of contribution toward the fight for peace and justice. At the camp, it was different. There, when I left the work-site each evening, my eyes could see what we had accomplished that day, and my tired muscles could attest that I had done my part, however small it may be.

The way I see it, ICAHD's Summer Rebuilding Experience allows volunteers to do three great things. First, it provides people from various countries the chance to witness the occupation firsthand: to see the demolished houses and uprooted olive trees and to hear the personal stories, and thus equip us to share our experiences with others upon our return. Secondly, the camp provides a home to a family who had been robbed of one, a fact that, amidst all the politics and symbolism, should not be overshadowed. Finally, the camp provides the chance to take action in peaceful resistance, the chance to set a sign that, ultimately, injustice cannot win.

I consider myself honored to have been given the chance to take part in this amazing experience, and I sincerely thank all those who made it possible for me as well as those who enable the participation of others in the future.

Man teou!

Several months ago (yes, I am rather far behind in my documentation efforts), I visited a friend in his hometown of Bad Driburg, a quaint destination known for its spas, scenery, and men on benches.

Yet, the real highlight of the weekend was experiencing a true German Karneval celebration. Karneval precedes Lent and is the German equivalent of Mardi Gras, with the same level of public intoxication but with costumes instead of beads and nudity. Case in point: monkeys distributing bananas and booze.

The most interesting/amusing/disturbing part of the experience was the evening event, which consisted of countless middle-aged, small-town Germans clad in a wide assortment of costumes and gathered in an explosion of flower power.
If you can't imagine what that looks like, let me show you (bonus point for finding the gnomes, my personal favorite of the evening):

Once all had gathered and admired each other's apparel, the program began. This consisted of various groups marching to the stage (accompanied by the band's marching song) as we all stood up and clapped, the group presenting some sort of dance/skit/speech, and then marching from the stage (accompanied by the same song) as we yet again stood up and clapped.

And if this wasn't enough slightly creepy ritual, I found myself joining in (I'd like to see you resist this type of group conformity and peer pressure)on the battle cry cheer 'Man teou!' with accompanying arm wave that was passed back and forth roughly 500 times throughout the evening.

This fanfare continued for more than four hours.

This may all seem rather excessive and ridiculous, but there were some very important persons to honor:

George Washington wanna-bes

The Shriner-types who organised the whole event

More majorettes that I've seen in my lifetime

The Karneval King and Queen!

The women drumming on giant exercise balls

The lingerie-clad, pole-dancing crowd pleasers

The teen girls disturbingly clad in hooker outfits and performing virtual strip-teases

The teen girls even more disturbingly clad in matching wigs and ruffled underpants and performing the can-can.











There was, of course, much more to see, but my camera couldn't handle all the excitement.

While the whole event was quite bizarre and left me with burning eyes and smoke-scented clothing, I am grateful for the rare glimpse of instinctive German behavior in its natural habitat.

My personal crossing guard

When cruising the bike lanes of Hamburg, who you end up behind can be crucial, as any number of annoying traits or simply the slowness of your forerunner can set you on a treacherous attempt to pass them, in which you narrowly miss colliding with pedestrians.

Today, however, I wound up behind my newest role model.

First, she had a review mirrior sticking off her handlebars, something not all too uncommon among Hamburg's bikeriding senior citizens.

Even better, anytime she crossed an intersecting street, onto which cars were waiting to turn, she would hold up her hand in a symbolic effort to halt the vehicles. Or, as I imagined it, as if to say 'Oh no, you don't!' to any drivers who would rob her of her right-of-way.

As humorous as this was, I, having been very nearly hit by turning vehicles on multiple occasions, could easily understand the rationale of her defensive riding.

Sadly, she turned in another direction, and I spent the rest of my commute feeling just a bit less protected.

The weekend's best

Visit from a friend and how much better everything is when done with company. Pakistani bread. Tour guide failures. 'To your left, you will see the Messe, again.' Planten un Bloomen after a long absence. Marzipan-cherry ice cream. The absurdity of the Reeperbahn. Narrated vocational tests and finally discovering my calling as a vineyard worker. Hamburger Hafen and pondering potential life on the high sea. Ewan McGregor on the big screen. 'What? We're not allowed to interact with the art?' The German genius of baking Brötchen with hazlenuts and pumpkin seeds. Sun on the beach. Attempting to justify the game of baseball - 'If you need a 7th inning stretch, then the game should be over by the 5th inning.' Fresh cherries. View from the boat and view from above. Reading in the park while Bob Dylan sings to me a few hundred meters away.

And this (which you may or may not be able to see, but I can):
https://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=764634245063&comments

I'm so much older than I can take

I turned 25 the other day.

In the week surrounding this life anniversary, I did the following:

- through a mix of bikeride-stripping and careless clothing placement, allow my beloved sweatshirt to be so tangled in the bike gears that it had to be surgically removed

- experience a minor bike collision that left with me with bloody knuckles for the rest of the day

- engage in a culinary miscalculation and thus delay the dinner of 30 hungry national assembly attendees (and trigger slight emotional breakdown)

- somehow manage to drop my cell phone precisely into my mug of tea, thus depriving me of both communication and time-keeping ability

- break my office's coffee press just as said assembly attendees were arriving, desperate for a caffeine jolt

Obviously, in my case, grace does not come with age.