Written By Gemma

After our routine breakfast of challah rolls, labneh, and cucumber slices, we board Yusefs trusty blue bus with large Hebrew letters sprawled on the side. Our guide today, a longtime member of Building Bridges For Peace climbs aboard and tells us what to expect as we pass through Kolandia, the checkpoint that passes through east jerusalem and Ramallah in the West Bank. Right away we are allowed in and we park our bus aroung the corner to get off the bus so that we all can see the sorting system that takes place there. As we approach the jungle of lines and gates someone points out how similar it is to the boarder crossing from Mexico. We walk one block north and we are at the Wall. Our guide warns us to be quick as we pull out our huge Nikon cameras and begin to snap pictures of the graffiti covering this large segment of the wall. "Imagine. War is Over." and "One Wall. Two Jails." are two of many lines that stick with me.

Following our guide's orders we scramble back on the buss and wind our way to the Palestinian Municipuality Building where we are greeted by our first Palestinian soldiers. After approaching Arafat's tomb and snapping some photos with the guards we get back on the bus and head towards Ramallah's old city. As we make our way around what seems like a very prosporous and attractive city, our guide begins to tell us about the controversy revolving this city, she tells us that many palestininans feel misrepresented by the look of Ramallah and that it being the largest all-palestinian city it doesn't show its many visitors the effects of occupation in the West Bank. At last we arrive in the old city and meet the guide who will take us on our hike. We begin at the top of a vast green valley and as we make our descent the guide begins to show us abandoned palestinian buildings that when 75% finished being built the IDF took them over. Our guide tells us that in the West Bank there are 3 types of control; A: Palestinian governed and controlled from security to social services, C: land and people militarily controlled by Israel, and B: some where in the middle. 60% of the West Bank is type C and only 12% type A. The construction of these homes that were meant to be a Palestinian engineer community were in type C. These mostly completed homes are now used as IDF training facilities. After an alleged 10 miles we arrive back at the cobblestoned old city where a feast of barbecue lamb and chicken awaits us.
It is ever amazing that so much beauty and hope can be intertwined with the pain and reality of the conflict.

Unrecognized

Note: Our postings are now hopelessly out of chronological order as we try to catch up and write about events of the last several days when we had very little time and connectivity. This posting follows my earlier post, Two Moms, from our day volunteering in Bedouin schools. Several people have asked in Comments if we are going to write about our day in Ramallah on the West Bank. The answer is, yes! it was a fabulous and moving day, and we'll get to it. Keep following this Blog, as we'll keep posting even after we return home.


We had so much fun with the students of Al Najah ("The Success") Elementary School. We sat in a circle and each person said their name and their favorite candy (mostly chocolate). Then we played People Bingo, a huge success if I may say so. And finally a rousing game of Cockroach Tag. If you get tagged, you have to lie on the ground on your back with your hands and feet in the air. You can only rejoin the game if a compatriot rolls you over back onto your stomach. Evan and Gracie made memorable cockroaches! For the last several minutes of our time, small groups of kids gathered around each of us, talking and laughing, communicating great volumes with the very few words we shared in common. The bell rang, and more kids flooded out onto the playground with bags of chips and Bamba (peanut butter flavored cheese puffs, an Israeli junk food delicacy). We laughed, played, took photos and finally spirited ourselves away and out of the school.

Al Najah School is 100% Bedouin, located in the middle of the northern exposure of the Negev Desert. Next door to the school is a corral holding 100 goats, a half dozen camels and three horses. And yet as I walked the halls there I noted that the school smells exactly like an elementary school in Daly City or Oakland or Novato. That unique aroma of dust and concrete hallways mingled with urine, janitorial chemicals, and musty children’s socks is unmistakable to me. I recognize it as surely as I do the defining scent of a dry late summer oak woodland, a California tidepool or a damp winter redwood forest. The same goes for the kids themselves. They are Bedouins. Most of the children have never been to Jerusalem or Tel Aviv, much less another country. But they wear blue jeans and t-shirts, hoodies pulled over their foreheads even though it is warm out, and sporty basketball shoes. Some of the girls, only a few, wear head scarves. They all have dark Middle Eastern skin. And yet, they look like the kids you would see in Berkeley or Newark or San Francisco.


Here in the south, the controversy between Jews and Arabs revolves around whether the Bedouin villages are officially "Recognized" or "Unrecognized." The Bedouins were historically nomadic people. As their land has been subsequently taken over and colonized by Turks, English and Israelis, they have eventually settled into permanent or semi-permanent villages. Poverty and unemployment are the highest in Israel in these communities. If a village is Recognized, the government provides regular services, not comparable to those in Jewish towns, but adequate: roads, water, electricity, public schools, hospitals, etc. Unrecognized villages, no matter how long they have been in their present location or how many people live there, receive none of those services. Al Najah School is in the Recognized village of Arara. From there we went to a wonderful lunch with all our Jewish and Arab volunteer hosts in the community center of a neighboring Unrecognized Village.

Waiting for lunch

In the Community Center, falafel on the way

After lunch, an Arab man from the community center led us on a short walk to the top of a hill overlooking the village. We looked down on three different clusters of makeshift homes, corrals and other buildings. The clusters are separated by small dusty washboard dirt roads. This is the desert. It is dry and hot. Our host/guide spoke only Arabic and so one of the Jewish volunteers translated for him into English.

He told us how hard his people's lives are. Not only does the government not provide them with basic survival services, but periodically, the government sends bulldozers to knock down buildings in the village. He said some homes have been destroyed a dozen times only to be rebuilt by the owners who have no where else to go. He said if you are sick you must ride three different buses to find a hospital. He said, "You cannot imagine how hard our lives are, there are no words to describe it, but if you came to live with us for one day, just for one day, you would know." We look over the arid, unfriendly but nonetheless beautiful landscape, in sad silence, and begin to walk down the hill.

Yusef parking our bus in Bedouin Village

The Unrecognized Village

I quicken my pace from the middle of the pack up to the front and walk alongside our guide. "Excuse me, but can I ask you a question?" He motions to the young Jewish woman who was translating. I dare to be naive. "Why do you think the Israeli government will not Recognize your village?" He answers, quietly, measured, without stopping to think. He pauses every two or three sentences for the translator to catch up. "She wants the land. She wants to take our land to give it to the Jews. She wants the Bedouins to have less land for more people. And she wants the Jews to have more land. She says they cannot make services for our villages because it is expensive, but if one Jew wants to be a "lonely farmer," and have one house with no one else around, she will build roads and make water and electricity. But when hundreds of Bedouins need services, they cannot do it." The Jewish volunteer who has been translating waits for the guide to finish, then takes a step toward me away from him, and with anguish in her voice, quietly continues, "I was just translating, just telling you what he said, but I do not agree with it. He told you only one side. The whole point of what we are doing here, the Jews working with the Arabs, is that we are supposed to learn to think from both sides," her voice rose as she repeated, "He only said to you one side. I will tell you now the other side. Look around and see how spread out and disorganized these Bedouins are. Some live here, some live over there, some over there. We cannot possibly provide them with services. It would be far too expensive. If they move to a Recognized village, they can have these things. They used to move all over the land wherever they want to go. But this is not possible any more. It is not their land anymore. It was governed by the Turks, and then by the British and now it is with Israel. They think whatever they had with the Turks should be the same with the British or with Israel, but this is just not possible."


All I can think is that I really only knew of the Conflict between Palestinians and Israelis until very recently. This issue of land ownership with the Bedouins is as unrecognized as the villages themselves. And then I wonder, who chose the vocabulary of this hardship? On top of poverty, unemployment, and unhealthy conditions, could there be anything worse than being Unrecognized?

Written By Leib

April 3, 2011: The Market. 

Touring West Jerusalem, which was an interesting site, we looked at the different neighborhoods most of which were Jewish. We saw giant houses with beautiful tile, massive balconies, and gorgeous gardens. The nicest houses were Arab built, but there were no Arabs living in them or even around them. In 1948 Arabs were forced out of their homes in what the Jews call the War of Independence. These Arabs were either placed into refugee camps or fled to other countries. To the Arabs this is known as the Catastrophe. As our tour guide shared different stories of Palestinians' previous lives or stories about visiting the very same home they still have the key to and the deed to, the home they built, but are not allowed in the door, we for a little bit could access a glimpse of pain that the Palestinian nation feels every day. 

In 2011 We looked at this same but very different small community near a market. It was interesting how that community was very much a community with a great diversity of people. All Jewish but different degrees religiously. Ranging from the strictest orthodox to not religious at all. They bring their own culture with them and share it and combine it, and this great joint community, culture, and existence thrives. You wonder if a community like this could exist between Arabs and Jews? Next we went to the biggest market in West Jerusalem. We split up into small groups and walked around. My group leader was our tour guild. He grew up in West Jerusalem, he was the only person in his family to drop out of college for the last 3 generations. He now works as a guide, and is very involved with conflict resolution and human rights in the Middle East. He is such a good guide, funny, informative, engaging, but he didn't push opinions; he would share both sides and his if you asked but left the interpreting to you. He asked if anyone needed a doctor. I told him, yeah, my throat is killing me. And he said here I will take you to him. He lead me through the crowded scene. We slipped through the crowd, you could smell the strong aromas of  people's different scents, some very pleasant and some not so much. We made it to what looked like a juice stand. Our guide greeted a oldish Jewish man with a short white beard a round head with a Kepa sitting on top, the man returned the hello with a big smile and an enthusiastic hand shake. Our guide then spoke several lines in Hebrew and and then the man looked at me, I touched my throat in an attempt to convey what was the matter. He then turned around, opened a large wooden cabinet and took out a small glass vial with a screw in drip dropper top, the glass was labeled with a hand written inscription. He then came up to me and motioned to open my mouth he then grabbed my chin with his hand and positioned it and stuck the long syringe in to my mouth, hovering over the back of my tongue. Three Squirts he gave me. I was terrified of the taste but it wasn't to bad. Spicy like peppers but a little sweet too. Next he yelled to his assistant, and she produced a cup of juice. He took it from her and handed it to me and said drink. I took a sip. It tasted like ginger. I said "toda". He slapped me on the back and smiled. And then was on to the next customer. Our guide came over to me and told me that when ever he feels bad he just comes here and the next day it's all better. He later explained to me what was in the remedy. The liquid in the vial was a combination of red pepper, black radish, and honey. And the drink was ginger and apple juice. I awoke the next morning feeling much better. Still a little flemmy but no more pain. 

Written By Beebe

Today was our last day in Israel, a day filled with feelings no one can describe. We are all sad, yet fulfilled. This trip couldn’t have gone any better, except maybe an extended stay. We spent our last day at the beach. It was a beautiful day. We found a cabana right by the water, got some chairs, and relaxed in the sun overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Only a couple of us went into the water, including myself. It wasn’t necessarily warm, but it was much nicer than the ocean water in the bay area. Then max, nick, ben, and I decided to take a walk down the beach. There were many people on the beach. Some were playing racket ball, some swimming, and the rest were all sitting in chairs along the beach. Unfortunately we didn’t know what time we were supposed to get back to our spot on the beach, so we were late to programming. When we got back our group had already started digging the hole on the beach for the memorial we were going to have for Kyle. So we helped them finish digging, and then sat in a circle under the cabana and shared what we learned from the trip and what we brought to put into the memorial hole. I don’t think I’ve ever shared such a beautiful moment with people in my life. I was facing the ocean, feeling the wind in my hair, tears rolling down my face, looking upon an amazing, strong group of people, all in Israel to experience a trip for Kyle. After that we gathered around the hole and went around and threw in our object, and then as a group covered it with sand.

            I am at a loss of words to describe the trip. Every day was filled with unforgettable experiences. I couldn't have picked a better group of people to be on a trip together. I am extremely sad to be leaving, but happy to have had such a great opportunity.

The lovely Blogger (Note nice bracelet!)

Max and Beebe in Tel Aviv

Ben adjusting his compass

Leib and Hasmig signing baseballs for Kyle

Farewell Israel and Palestine

Last view of Tel Aviv

A Dream Written By Hasmig

The birds on Kibbutz Einat chirped me awake this morning. For the first time in over week, I hadn't set an alarm.  When I was first coming to, I thought I was at home, surprised that Sevan hadn't woken me up yet. It was Saturday, after all, and time for some Sponge Bob Square Pants, my merciful weekend snooze button. I opened my eyes and closed them again. Had Israel been a dream?   I open my eyes again and look across the room.  My green suitcase is overflowing with peace t-shirts and passports, the shiny blue heart, a gift from Sandi (Craig's sister) that has been my pocket's companion this whole trip stares at me from across the room.  Yes, this has been a dream.  But a real one. We arrived on Kibbutz Einat, thighs burning from the bike ride across Tel Aviv, cheeks soaked with sun.  Shortly after we grabbed our things from below the bus, pairs of families arrived to bring us into their homes.  Gemma and Bebee walked off with a grandma, Evan, Alex, and Leib were picked up by two young boys, not more than 13, and Callie, Jazzy, and I walked off with two Seniors in high school who were in Building Bridges through SCG in Denver and are preparing for their year of service before the army. One has a mother who is a single mom by choice. Her older daughter is in the middle of her first year in the army's education unit, on one of her bi-weekly weekends home for a visit. The two girls, one who lives in the South, but was also part of BBFP Denver, and I went to the grocery store to shop for the evening's Shabbat dinner with all of the families and our kids. Along the way, we talked about Kyle and how we connected with Seeking Common Ground. We talked about high school and senior year and Jewish American tour groups and the integration (or lack thereof) between Arabs and Jews.  For  the first time on this trip, I feel like I am home again, back in Berkeley, having half finished conversations with teenagers about life, love, and war. The grocery store is preparing for Passover. I am looking for Bamba--a peanut butter snack that was highly requested from the States. I ask a woman near the snack aisle "Which one is Bamba?" "Big or little?", she asks me, and points me in the right direction. I bring the Bamba back to the girls and they check to make sure it's not Passover Bamba. "Its' disgusting, the passover Bamba.  Make sure you didn't get that." Over at the Passover aisle, there are stacks of Matzoh and cookies. I ask one of the girls which ones are best and she raises her eyebrows with a half smile.  "Well these ones are pretty bad," she says, "And these ones are also really bad, but less bad than those ones, so you should get those."  Then she tells me the story of how the army is sent so many stacks of Matzoh around Passover that they are forced to eat Matzoh long after the last seder plate is wiped clean.  Upon our return to the house, a girl was already starting the outside fire for the main course. I watched as she poured olive oil, spices, cut up vegetables and chicken all in a pot of boiling water, doused it with generous volumes of red wine from a local vineyard, covered the pot and set it on the fire.  

The kids were arriving from their host family homes arms full of food and drink.  The scene was very idyllic--green everywhere, flowers blooming, smoke rising, and shiny, clean faces full of anticipation for another community who has embraced us with endless warmth and hospitality.  The boys arrived first and soon after decided that they'd play a game of basketball before dinner.  

As they've done all along, they checked several times that their help wasn't needed for dinner before they ran off.  This genuine spirit of communal living has inspired me most on this trip.  Every one is doing their own part as well as the part of their peers. At school, I am often asking two or three times for someone to help with this or that. Here, I don't even have to ask. They ask, they care, they want to help, and they hold themselves and each other up. Every time. Jazzy, Callie, and I take a walk around the kibbutz. We find sweet little cottages, painted in rainbow colors (here, even the rocks are painted) with sweet gardens and winding stone pathways that lead to another corner of heaven. There are dogs and old people and hand woven fences abounding. Everyone is relaxed, breathing deeply, seemingly far away from the rest of this country we've been living in for a week. Not a soldier in sight.

Kibbutz Einat

A Dream

Dinner is divine as usual. We are sitting in circles around tables or the fire, talking in mixed groups to kids, teens, and adults who live on the Kibbutz.  Craig and I are deep in dialogue with one of the fathers from the kibbutz.  He has two daughters. One of them is playing Angry Birds to my left and the other is filling her plate with more food from the spread.  The one at the buffet is in her first month of her army service. The father says he is always surprised by Americans impressions of the Israeli army as always being in combat.  "Here the army is used for many things. We don't send our kids to other places to fight. We see them every two weeks and they are doing community service for our country.  In America, you send your army to other countries for war.  When Americans sign up for the army, it means they want to fight.  Here, most of them don't want to fight."  It crystallizes a theme I've heard many times: Military is not synonymous with violence and war here. At least not for some people.  Serving the country is a source of pride and so many people we've met can't wait to join and will avoid combat at any cost.  But at the end of the day, if they needed to, they would do what their country asked of them. Like Kyle, loyal to the end. Well, most of them.

Lighting Shabbat Candles

I re-read my words and feel like I have yet to speak. There is too much to tell. In the hopes of posting before our departure, I'll just end here.  We are off to Tel Aviv for a day on the beach to debrief, memorialize, and prepare for our re-entry into the atmosphere. Craig and I are on a set of stairs outside a random building that luckily has free wireless. We are overlooking the beach at Tel Aviv, from a distance our flock sits, sleeps, soaks, and munches on Israeli snacks. We are persistent communicators, my companion and I. It has made all the difference.   The dream has been awakened. We are just 15 passports, 15 boarding passes, 15 backpacks, 15 pairs of shoes, and 7.5 million hearts, Coming home. 

Two Moms

More Tales from Be'er Sheva. We arrived in Be'er Sheva and went to the NISPED/JEEV Peace Tent, their volunteer headquarters. The Jewish and Arab teen volunteers descended on us, introduced themselves to us and spent a very energetic half hour or so getting to know us. Many of the photos posted in Callie, Ben, Jazzy and Marina's entry were from those first few minutes of our stay there. The volunteers were so warm, so open and so incredibly skilled at engaging us. Then we all had lunch together in their courtyard. After lunch we broke up into our teaching groups. The Arab/Jewish team from each school took a few of us, and we spent a couple hours planning what we would do with a class of children the next day. Mainly we planned games and ice breaker-type activities to allow the kids to get to know their American guests and our group to get to see how Bedouin schools work in the Negev of Israel.

I went with Gracie, Evan, Eli, Beebe and Siena. We would be working the next day with a fourth grade class. All Bedouin children. I suggested we play People Bingo, which will amuse my MARE colleagues at Lawrence Hall of Science to no end. I'm sure they'll tease me when I get home, as it is our age-old, tried and true, never fails, workshop ice breaker. For awhile it was a running joke in my office whenever we got stuck on a project or were working with a difficult group of people, whenever we didn't know what to do to get ourselves out of a mess, someone would say, "I know. Let's play People Bingo." Here's how it works. You make a 4X4 Bingo board on a piece of paper. In each square is written a little challenge to get to find something out about someone. In our ocean sciences education world, we write things like, "Find someone who has vacationed on 3 different coasts." "Find someone who keeps an aquarium in their classroom." "Find someone who know about the sex life of a barnacle." Each person mingles around the room interviewing people to find out if they can sign one of the squares. They have to tell you their story, too, so you can report it later to the group, like, "I met Emily. She lives in Oakland, and she has taken family vacations to the coast in California, Cape Cod and Hawaii."

Everyone thought it was a good idea, but that between the children, the volunteers and the gringos, we would need each challenge to be written in Hebrew, Arabic and English. So we set about brainstorming the challenges: Find someone who owns a horse. Find someone who has the same color eyes as you. Find someone who plays Lacrosse. One of the Arab volunteers said, "Oh, I know one. How about find someone who has two moms." Craig from the Berkeley Bubble immediately thought of all the kids I know at home who have two moms. I was so surprised and impressed that someone suggested this as a question here. I said, "Wow. Are there children at the school who have two moms??" The young woman said, "Oh, yes. A lot of them. Some have four moms! My father has two wives." We decided to re-phrase the challenge, "Find someone whose father has more than one wife."

Welcome to Not Berkeley.

Evan being turned into a cockroach

I Thought I Know What I Believe

Last Tuesday April 5, 2011, I stayed with all our boys in the home of the Jewish NISPED volunteers who are working with Arab partners to improve a handful of Bedouin elementary schools in the Negev. Their house in Be’er Sheva is like a college apartment or group house, like Saul’s (Leib’s brother) floor at Occidental, like my nieces Sara and Erin’s house in San Luis Obisbo, like my own 8-bedroom college group house on Plymouth Street in Santa Cruz. Except maybe this one is a little messier, which is no small feat. I didn’t see any piece of clothing hanging up or in a drawer. It was perfect for us! Perfectly authentic. These volunteers are generally liberal humanitarians working for peace by reaching out to Arabs in an attempt to better understand their so-called enemy. Sounds familiar. They are allowed to delay their military service by a year by doing this type of service work. They all seemed to be kind, thoughtful, smart, even cool young people. I assumed that some of them might be resistors, or at least have ambivalence about joining the army in a year, especially after getting to know some Arab friends and working for a year in a Bedouin village. No such dilemma existed really for any of them, or at least no one admitted to any such dilemma. They told us right away how excited they are to be joining the Army. One young man has only one kidney and so, is not “fit” for a combat position. He is trying to deal with his disappointment about that. The others are eager for combat roles.

Ari, clearly the leader of the house, took a group of us (Leib, Nick, a VERY happy Eli, Ezra and Daniel) several blocks through his neighborhood to a ragged blacktop playground to shoot some hoop. Ari is about 6 feet 3 inches and has a beautiful big smile, one that doesn’t disappear when his face is at rest.

He played high school basketball on a team that went to the national championships and has only lost a little of his touch from the 3-point circle at the top of the key. He has a quiet presence, doesn't say much, but everyone listens when he does. He was the translator for those who speak only Arabic and Hebrew at our meeting back at the “Peace Tent” when we arrived. At the time, I thought he was staff because it seemed like he was in charge. Turns out he’s not staff, but he was in charge. We played three-on-three with the 7^th person rotating in.

Just like…boys. We got to know each other through some physical activity, a little banging around of bodies, and some friendly competition. After about an hour, some Palestinian guys who were kicking around a soccer ball on the same small blacktop playground, came over and wanted to join our basketball game. We all shot around for a few minutes, and some talking ensued in either Hebrew or Arabic. There was a series of exchanges, some tense laughing that seemed perhaps a little like taunts, and suddenly Ari smiled and quietly said to us in English, “I think it’s enough basketball. Let’s go back to the house.” He never told us what their exchange was about or what was actually said, but he told us he thought one of the Palestinian guys was a little crazy and he didn’t want to be around him. It was a simple thing, no incident, no drama or heroism. Just a simple, barely noticeable but leaderly act of avoiding conflict.

An hour later we were sitting down in the living room talking with Gil and Amira, who have coupled up for their volunteer year, and several other volunteers that came and went from the conversation. I was fascinated to hear that their ideas did not all fit the stereotype and assumptions I had so quickly formed. Gil and Amira are a handsome couple. Gil is trim and fit, has curly reddish blond hair (a small Jewfro), a peach fuzz beard and fair skin. His family has lived in Israel continuously, he says, for 13 generations. He is very proud of that. Amira, tall, with smooth olive skin and long wavy hair, is a national backstroke swimming champion (only for her age group, she demurs), and laughs easily and joyfully.

Gil said he couldn’t wait to join the Army. “The Army protects my family. I want to protect my family. My older brother went to protect me, and now I will go to protect my younger brother.” They asked us what we think of Obama. They were a little surprised to hear that we support him. Leib explained, “He has a hard job. He took over the country when it was such a mess. He isn’t perfect, and he’s made some mistakes, but we think he’s great.” Gil paused, carefully constructing his thoughts in English, “Well, Obama disagrees with our government. But you know, we disagree with our government, too, so I guess we understand that. But Obama has abandoned Israel, and he has made us look bad to other countries. Many other countries don’t like Israel, so we need a big country like the U.S. to support us.” I asked first if their own disagreement with their government made it difficult for them to serve in the military. The answer was, no. Everyone serves and they will, too. I began to understand that serving in the Army is not a political act for many, it is an obligation, a matter of culture and pride and service. Gil explained that serving in the Army makes people less selfish, less interested in just getting ahead themselves, more altruistic. “You are doing something hard to benefit everyone else, not yourself. This makes people better people.” I thought of Kyle, whose intention to serve I had had such a hard time understanding. My mind drifted to the late night, 2 o'clock in the morning, when we sat in my study at home talking quietly. I was incredulous, pained and afraid as he leaned forward, eyes red, and gently implored, "Dad, any Jew can go to Israel. Any Jew can live there. It's my home, too. It's a home and a family that can never be taken away. I feel like I have the same responsibility to protect it as anyone who lives there." I returned to the discussion about Obama. “I don’t think Obama has abandoned Israel. He has put pressure on Israel to stop the settlements, but he vetoed the UN Resolution condemning the settlements.” “Yes, the settlements. This is also so complicated. Most of us here think we should end the settlements, maybe even remove some of them. It’s not right that we keep taking their land. But it also keeps us safe. We can’t show any sign of weakness, or they will take advantage of it. We took all the settlements out of Gaza, and look. They had Hamas take over and they send their rockets. This was our government’s fault, too. They did not hand over the government there to someone else, so Hamas just took over. If we left the Bank, I think the same might happen. When we give them some, they want more.”

I moved to a different line of discussion. I asked, will it be difficult to be in the Army now that you are friends with your Arab partners and the Bedouin children and teachers? Amira picked up this question quickly. “Well, yes. I know they will not like knowing I am in the Army, but you know, they are so busy hating the Army, they don’t get that it is protecting them, too. The rockets from Gaza can hit an Arab the same as they can hit a Jew. I have read some of the Quran, and it is very violent, and this bothers me. You know at my school where you will go tomorrow, they beat the children. This is illegal in Israel, but they do it. When a child does something bad they are beaten. The school says it wants children to be non-violent problem solvers, to be good citizens, to be able to resolve conflict and use critical thinking, but the principal, he beats the children. When we ask about this, they say that there is no other way, that the children won’t respect them otherwise. On Rabin Day when we spend a day celebrating non-violence in schools, one of the children didn’t do his painting correctly and he was not following the directions, and so his teacher beat him in front of the class.”

Gil told us when he was in school, his class, like every class in Israel, took a field trip to Poland to visit Auschwitz. He said he cannot describe the feeling of standing in the death camp holding an Israeli flag. “So many people in my family died there, and now it is closed and we have our country. It made me understand how important it is to protect it. But you know when you go to Poland they tell you a lot about the balance. We must be strong and never let this happen again, but we must stay human and act with humanity.”

Gil tells me, “You know when we came here to do this work side by side with Arab partners, I thought I know what I believe. I had my views and I came here to live them. Now I don’t know what I believe. It’s too hard. It’s too complicated. I don’t know the solution anymore.” As he speaks, Amira, her gorgeous smile gone, her laughter silent, is nearly in tears.

Flipping our french toast breakfast