Reflection By Hasmig

I have this photograph from the night after Kyle died of all of his friends hovered on my couch eagerly looking through pictures of him. Gone only 24 hours, they were searching for some signs of his life, desperately grasping memories that they worried would slip away as quickly as he did. Similarly, I started ransacking my own brain for memories that, like a vivid dream, disappear as I try to describe them. But my last interaction with Kyle is fortunately fully in tact for the re-telling.

It was the Friday before Spring Break and students were in the computer lab getting help with next year’s schedule on line while I was writing passes to the counselor so they could set up their initial “college talk” appointment. I wrote one out for Kyle and he rejected it. “I’m not going to college,” he stated bluntly. And then proceeded to orate his well-rehearsed spiel about his calling toward the Israeli army. I retorted with my now-broken record lecture about politics, options, and his safety, both physical and emotional. I knew he’d be forced to make decisions that were counter intuitive to his sensitivity and deep loyalties to fairness. Born in the sign of Cancer, Kyle is a water baby: emotional, committed, and loyal to his cause. “I’d be safer there than I am here,” he said to me. Born in the sign of the Taurus, I am stubborn. “Take the pass,” I said to him with stern eyes, as I shoved it towards his chest. He grinned and shook his head sideways at me, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked away.

We watched headlines for weeks leading up to March 31, 2011, looking for signs that a surge of violence in Israel/Palestine would postpone our trip. Several times, we were on very close watch, emailing several times a day with our partners in Colorado as news from the region was tenuous. My last conversation with Kyle was never far from my mind as I balanced my concerns for our kids’ emotional safety with my fear that we might accidentally find ourselves in a physical situation I couldn’t get them out of. My adult responsibility suddenly weighed heavily and there were moments when I doubted. “Were we being impulsive?” Once on the ground in the country, there wasn’t this constant dread of attack or anxiety that some of the kids had predicted might exist. We felt safe and protected, not only because we were Americans after all, but also because our hosts had gone to great lengths to plan every moment of the trip with our students’ security in mind.

However on four occasions, mostly in the second half of the trip, we had piercing jolts of adrenaline course through our bodies that reminded us that we weren’t in Kansas anymore, nor Berkeley for that matter. The photograph on page of Leib holding hands with the Bedouin school children is arguably one of the sweetest in the collection. It captures an innocent playfulness that we brought with us in our 14 participants and met all over the country.

Illustrative of the harsh contrasts in this region, not 5 minutes after that photograph was snapped, we witnessed a forcefully loud explosion, close enough to marvel at the mushroom cloud it left in its wake, close enough to have the innocence and playfulness from moments before rapidly replaced by fear, curiosity, and shock. But that was Israel and Palestine. In exactly the same moment, you were looking at both the photograph and its negative.

The entries and photos that follow, chronicle the conclusion of our vivid dream realized on this soil of intrepid beauty married to cruel injustice.