What Has Happened to Us?

Today was such an intense, incredible day. It feels like today was several weeks, like nearly every hour was at least a day's worth of experiences. But even more than that, like each of the day's worth of experiences was the type of epic day that in our normal lives, we experience only every several months. I'm only going to be able to write a little because it's now 10pm and we're leaving for Masada tomorrow morning at 3:45am. Last night I thought that yesterday was such a big day that I had to capture it and get my notes and photos organized before I turned in or I would lose the opportunity to capture the energy I felt. Siena's birthday, all of East Jerusalem, the Conflict, the Settlements inside East Jerusalem, the history of three great religions, the Wall, the Dome, the Sepulchre. So, I sorted photos, posted Hasmig's blog entry then wrote my own. Hasmig wanted to get up early to see the Sunday Mass at the Armenian Church in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at 6am, and I wanted to go with her, so by the time I finished what I was doing, it was after 5am, too late to go to sleep. I actually pulled my first all nighter in years. I often get by on 2 -3 hours sleep, but 0 isn't enough even for me.

Our guide met us after breakfast and took us on a deluxe walking tour of West Jerusalem, including the diverse neighborhood that he grew up in, the one where his grandmother lived as a baby, and where she lives now. The most beautiful and expensive houses throughout West Jerusalem are those built and formerly owned by Arabs. In 1948, they were taken away and now are owned by Israelis. We ended up in a local open market that was for some, the highlight of the trip so far. We ended up wandering in small groups exploring, browsing strawberries, juices, fish, meat (including goat testicles), chocolate and all types of produce, all locally grown, caught, raised or produced. Our guide pointed across several stalls, and said to us, "See that guy running the juice bar? He's my doctor. He cures anything." Leib exuberantly jumped forward and said, "I have a sore throat, I have a sore throat! I want to be cured!" We rushed over to the stall, our guide told the big burly juice man of Leib's ailment. He asked no questions, but immediately grabbed Leib with one hand by the back of the jaw and squirted several droppers of something against the back of Leib's throat, then gave him a small cup of something yellow and told him to drink it. The other three of us ordered cardamon/cinnamon chocolate or ginger apple juice. As Leib noted tonight, it was the first time that we weren't in a group of 20 among five other groups of 20, doing things that only tourists would do. After the Juice Doctor, the falafel stand was everyone's favorite event. Can a falafel stand by inspired? Let's just say the condiment options were creative and expansive.

Next to the falafels, The Halvah King seemed to be the second most amazing find so far:

After lunch the day moved into a much more serious phase. We took a short bus ride to Mount Herzl, named for the founder of the Zionist Movement, and among other important sites, we spent quite a long time at the grave of Yitzhak Rabin. It felt a little like visiting JFK in Arlington Cemetery.

Remembering his assassination and the end to the possibility of peace that it represented was painful for those of us old enough to have a political memory.

From there we walked to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum. Most of us didn't like our tour guide much, and interestingly, most of the group came to the conclusion that although it's easier just to tell someone what you want them to know, feel and believe, it's much more powerful to let people arrive at their own feelings and conclusions. Our guide, who apparently had somewhat traditional interpretive training and an important story to tell, often told us how we should feel, and for many of us, that had the unintended opposite effect making it impossible for us to feel it. At one point, she told us that Warsaw Ghetto was so crowded that there were 8 people to every room. Leib commented, "Wow. The Muslim Quarter is almost that crowed now, about 4 people to a room." The guide, missing the opportunity to grapple with a challenging comparison, ignored him, as if she had not heard, but Leib was standing directly in front of her. The opportunity for an authentic, meaningful, learner-centered discussion was lost, and the scripted tour continued. The narrative of the Holocaust is so profoundly disturbing, so intellectually and emotionally challenging, I felt compelled to discuss my thoughts and feelings, craved the chance to make sense of what I was learning, to construct my own tenuous understanding. The scripted tour precluded that level of depth. Nonetheless, facing the reality of the Holocaust was devastating, absolutely devastating. Callie told us late tonight that she couldn't get the image of hundreds of emaciated bodies being bulldozed into a pit out of her mind, and was still disturbed by it. Eli and I were disturbed by the fact that when we arrived, the museum grounds were filled with hundreds of Israeli soldiers, each with a pistol and a huge automatic rifle. I get the connection between the Holocaust and the need or perceived need for a strong army, but it seemed so ironic. It made us all uneasy to be around so many armed young men and women, many younger than those in our group.

Back at the hotel, we moved into our new rooms, then came down for pizza dinner with the SCG Arab Israeli Home Group from last summer. There were four Palestinian young people who I had met in Colorado at the Building Bridges for Peace Retreat last summer. They told us a little about their lives and how the homes of family members have recently been taken away and given to Israelis. They showed us a multi-media project they've put together depicting their "Roots in Israel." Bravo! Then we were joined by two members of the Bereaved Parents Forum who told us their stories and a little about the organization. This was crushing, horrifyingly sad. Ben, an older Israeli father, told us of his extraordinary daughter, Yael, who he so deeply loved; a Captain in the Army, she was murdered by a Palestinian suicide bomber at a bus stop on her way home for an evening meeting. His words burned into me like a white hot branding iron, "People called me to say they wanted to help me, to take some of my grief away. I was so angry, I yelled at them, 'Yes! Come over here and get your two kilos of grief and take it away. What the hell are you thinking?.'" He planned for three weeks to take his two guns down the street to where he was certain he could kill five Palestinian workers before being stopped. Siham, a Palestinian woman, told us of her brother, who she felt so close to and so bonded with that she called him her sister. He was shot in the head at point blank range by an IDF soldier who judged him guilty and condemned him to death after a two-minute altercation. He died instantly, and she swore to her mother that she would find that soldier and kill him. Ben and Siham have somehow found an inner strength that awed and honored and aged us all, and now they are working together for peace and reconciliation.

At the end of the evening, our guests all left, and we went around our now intimate circle to do some debriefing, and the most profound comments, along with many tears fell from the mouths and eyes of our 18 member family. It has been two days. It feels like two months. We are not the people we were when we arrived. Our group is not the group we brought off the airplane. What has happened to us?

Written by Eli

After a Saturday exploring the Old City and East Jerusalem, we spent Sunday touring the New City of West Jerusalem with our amazingly knowledgable and cool tour guide. He took us through a cross section of residential neighborhoods, all of which had stories behind them. He explained to us how the original Palestinian people living there were forced out of their houses by the Israeli government during the 1948 war. We also saw a booth protesting the Israeli government to try to get back Galid, who was an Israeli soldier taken by Hamas as a hostage five years ago and has become a popular symbol for the Israeli people.
Craig's photo:

Next we went to the market in West Jerusalem, where we grabbed falafels for lunch and ate in a park. Priceless moment of the day: Ben and Siena guessing correctly the wifi password of a nearby house - "moses." After that we went to a cemetery on Mt. Herzel, which is named after the founder of the Zionist movement, and saw the graves of various Israeli prime ministers and soldiers. After that we went to the Holocaust Museum, which was a little bit of a disappointment to some of us, including me. It seemed as if the tour guide (not ours, a different one) was trying to force certain emotions on us and telling us how to feel instead of letting us interpret the experience for ourselves. (Props to Ben for finding the lost headset - they wouldn't let us leave until we returned all of them, until the last one was discovered in the wrong basket)
We met over dinner with four Palestinians living in Israel, who were our age and really interesting to talk to. They were former participants in Seeking Common Ground's summer program, and we saw a photography project one of them made with the theme of Palestinian roots in Israel. Afterwards, we met with two members of the Bereaved Family Forum. These were an Israeli man and a Palestinian woman, both of whom had lost loved ones to the conflict. They both told us how at first they wanted to take revenge. The Israeli man described how he overcame that desire: "I realized that if I shot the Palestinians, that would only cause their family members to want to take revenge on Israeli's, and I would be continuing this cycle." Listening to them talk was incredibly humbling and moving. We ended the day with a check in/debrief, and we all shared our individual thoughts and observations about the trip so far.
Eli at the Blog:

It's All About Rocks

What an amazing day. As my old intertidal biology professor, Todd Newberry likes to say, "I saw the scales fall from their eyes." We spent the entire day in East Jerusalem, and walked through all four quarters of the city. Our guide began the day by telling the story of the Conflict from about 1890 to the present. He was so clear and elegant (and just funny enough to add insight without being disrespectful) in his storytelling that I felt for the first time I really understood the sequence of events from the beginning of the Zionist Movement to the Partition Plan to the 1948 War to the 1967 War to the first Intifada, the Oslo Accords and Camp David to second Intifada and the controversy over Settlements. He established how hard it is to understand the complexity of multiple points of view about the same events, and he laid out several themes related to complexity and ambiguity that he returned to throughout the day.

Our first stop was Mt. Zion just before entering the Old City. Our guide knew just the place to provide us with a microcosm, a metaphor for Jerusalem. On Mt. Zion is an ancient limestone building, interesting looking, but not out of the ordinary here. On the bottom floor of the building is the purported Tomb of King David, the great Jewish King, known for his charismatic personality, prowess as a warrior, ability as a musician and that certain way with the women. It is a holy site for Jews, not so important to Christians, and has been converted into a working synagogue. The second floor holds the purported Room of the Last Supper, a holy site for Christians, not so important to the Jews, and has been converted into a church. On the third floor is a Muslim mosque. When the area was under Jordanian rule, the Jews and the Christians fought over access to the building for decades. So, they went to the King of Jordan to each plead their case for why the building was especially important to their respective religions, and why the other group should not be allowed access. The King of Jordan decided that since King David and Jesus were both important to the Muslims that they should have access to all three floors, and he threw out both the Jews and the Christians! Ironically, our guide tells us, it is not historically possible for King David's Tomb nor the Room of the Last Supper to be located here, so everyone is fighting about land that is unrelated to the holy events attributed to it.

The stone work of all the streets and buildings is absolutely breathtaking. Nick and Eli will both be moved by the stone work and architecture at different times during the day. Over the course of the day, we see and hear larger-than-life stories, stories of Biblical proportions, so to speak, about the Western Wall, the Dome of the Rock where Mohammed ascended to heaven, the rock that marks the spot of the Crucifixion, the rock on which Jesus body was laid, the rock that marks his Tomb and Resurrection, etc. Each one has long lines of people waiting hours to be able to touch the rock that means the most to them. Quiet, understated Eli sidles up next to me and says, "It's all about rocks, isn't it?" What do you mean, I ask. "Here. It's all about rocks here. Everything is made out of them, everyone fights over access to them, they wait in line to touch them, and when they have problems, they throw them at each other."

Today is Dear Siena's 18th Birthday. Imagine turning 18 in the most sacred place on Earth with your best friends. We don't have much time for a party, so last night Gemma hid in the bathroom in the girl's dorm room, and on her hands and knees on the tile floor, drew a beautiful, over-sized Birthday Card we all signed in the morning. The grown ups created a two-part sign that says, "Happy 18th Birthday" in English on one, Arabic and Hebrew on the other. I forced Siena to carry it around with her all day so I can take a series of Birthday Photos of her. Here is a small sampling:

We had a baklava birthday celebration in the late afternoon on a rooftop overlooking the Muslim Quarter. Hasmig offered a lovely toast to our Madamoiselle Sunshine over mint tea.

Priceless moment of the day...we had this fabulous lunch of hummus, falafel and best fresh passion fruit juice that any of us has ever had. It was set out family style, more than we could eat, in an outdoor cafe on the narrow, labrynthine streets of the Old City. The only thing I've ever seen like these chaotic, market-filled alleyways is the D'jmaa El F'naa in Marrakesh. The Cafe lined up card tables end to end in the alleyway to accommodate our group. The tables nearly touched the walls on either side of the street, with just enough clearance to squeeze into our chairs. Turns out there were pigeons standing on window sills directly above us. One did its thing and a nice, goopy poop the size of a silver dollar splatted on the table between two plates and about an inch from Ben's hand. Ben squealed, shrieked, pleaded with Ms. Minassian to clean it up for him, and finally gagged as he mopped it up with a wad of about 45 napkins. Within 10 minutes we were bombed twice more. One landed on poor Max's day pack, the other caught the inside edge of our bowl of Lebanese yogurt. Ben came unglued, and searched the table for some type of protection for this head. All he could find was pita:

The most moving part of the day for me was at the Western Wall, the site of the remains of the original Temple of Jerusalem. My good friend, Sarah, wrote my family a piercing empathetic and insightful song in the weeks after Kyle died. It's called, "I Need A Boat," and the lyrics are posted on www.sweetsweetkyle.blogspot.com. Sarah and her husband, Tim (who I met the first day I moved into my freshman dorm room in college and have been close friends with since) drove from Arizona to play it for us at the unveiling of Kyle's headstone. One of the verses,
I'll sail away to the land of Zion
I'll place your name in that sad wall
I'll see your face in the eyes of strangers
I'll feel your heartbeat inside my own

inspired us to have friends, family and CAS seniors write notes for Kyle, for peace, for themselves that we could leave at the Wall. It was a truly awe-inspiring experience to come to the wall, to touch it, to leave our messages, and do whatever form of introspection might comfort each of us. The Wall is a working synagogue; or perhaps many working synagogues. There are several arks holding Torahs, and since it was Shabbat, the arks were being opened and services were in progress. The scene filled me up and I couldn't leave. I didn't notice that no one in our group was still there, till Nick came up behind me and put his arm tenderly over my shoulders.
"How are you doing, Craig? You OK?"
"Ya, just a little overwhelmed."
"I know. Me, too. I can really feel it. Like it almost brought me to tears. You know that feeling like when you're running or riding a bike really hard, that feeling right when you stop? That's how I feel right now. I don't really pray; I'm more of a meditation guy, but whatever, I can really feel it right now."
"I can, too, Nick. I'm glad you're here with me."
"Well, this is the highlight of my teenage life..."

Tonight after dinner we met with two members of Combatants for Peace. One served in the Israeli Defense Force until he was stationed in the West Bank to protect settlers and was forced to shoot randomly into villages in retaliation for unseen Palestinians firing on his base; the other drove a bomb into West Jerusalem with the intention of detonating it at the Israeli Police Station in retaliation for an Israeli soldier going on a random shooting spree and killing several civilian Palestinians. He was arrested before he reached his destination, and served five years in prison. They are both doing non-violent peace work now.

I'm supposed to be getting up in an hour to go with Hasmig to the 6am Armenian Church service. Then we're off to West Jerusalem and the Holocaust Museum.

Whoa.

My Father's Name by Hasmig

The plane landed smoothly on the runway in Tel Aviv. I lean over Leib to get my first glance of Israel--flat and beige and desert like. "Leib, we're in Israel." Feels very surreal. We gather our belongings and push our way into the line of people exiting the plane. We were seated several rows ahead of the others so we stand aside and wait for everyone to gather. Rebecca is the last one off and we huddle the kids to remind them of the rules at security. Say you're on a tour. Craig and Rebecca will go ahead of everyone and explain the group's objective which, presumably, will make it easier for kids to get in. As planned, I will go last. My passport has three words that will undoubtedly raise flags for the Israelis: United Arab Emirates. The name alone is intimidating. The last thing this particular government wants are United Arabs. We've instructed the kids ahead of time not to worry and that any detainment would be temporary. In line, Ben asks me, "Are you nervous, Shmig?" "Not at all, Ben." And I wasn't. I wasn't 100% convinced that I'd be pulled aside, and if I were, it wouldn't be the first time. Ever since 911 I have been flagged coming in and out of the country and right after 911, I was constantly flagged when trying to travel from one state to the next.

My identity, in some ways, has been formed around the notion of being flagged an "Arab". I grew up calling myself Armenian, and still do. But two things really crystallized my Arab identity as well. One was my visit to Lebanon in 1997. I hadn't been since I was three years old, thus didn't remember a thing from my brief childhood in Lebanon. Everything felt familiar: the people, the food, the music, the smells. Everything. Growing up, I thought everything was the way it was in my home because we were Armenian and while that was true, I think we absorbed many more Arab traditions than was ever named for us specifically. When I left there, I really felt my Middle Eastern identity in a visceral way. I regret not speaking Arabic. It was always on the tip of my tongue. My heart and mind wanted to speak it. My mouth could not push out the words. It's a beautiful language. They have over ten words for "love".

The second solidification of my Arab identity came after 9/11 when the American government now considered me an Arab. And not only the American government, but that guy in a sundry store in Zion Canyon National Park. I was never held for long, strip searched, nor violated in any specific way. I was always given all of my rights as an American citizen and did not face an ounce of real discrimination, compared to Arab-Americans all over the US and abroad. But there is something about belonging to a group, even peripherally, who is being targeted, makes you want to move in closer and feel more connected to them. When we are not facing real hardship for identifying with that member group, it's much easier to claim it and take pride in it as a way of standing out to yourself and, if we're being honest, to others. So yes, I have identified as an Arab for a long time. And when someone asks, "I say I am Armenian from the Middle East". And someone did ask.

The line is inching forward as student after student gets through the security check. Later we hear stories of what the kids were asked. Mainly they re-tell being asked if they were Jewish, who they were with, and what they were going to see. Ben's story makes me laugh out loud.

"I'm here to climb that big mountain"

"There are a lot of mountains in Israel, sir. Which one?"

"I don't know", he pleads ignorantly, "You know, the big one. The biggest one." and he gestures with his hand. He is playing dumb of course, but to the Israeli security forces, he is playing right into a common stereotype of Americans. He gets his stamp and moves on.

I am last in line as planned. I walk over to the window and I see Rebecca, who has already been granted entry. She is waiting for me.

"Passport."

"You are the leader of this group, yes?"

"Yes, I am."

"Are you Jewish?"

"No I'm not"

"Why are you leading this group of Jewish students if you are not Jewish?"

"I am their teacher."

"What is this name you have. Min-ACE-EEN"

"Minassian. It's Armenian."

"It says here you are born in Arabie Saudie?"

"No, I was born in the United Arab Emirates."

"What is your father's name?"

"Vartan Minassian"

"What is your grandfather's name?"

"Which grandfather? My father's father?"

"Yes"

"Levon Minassian"

"Spell that."

"L-e-v-o-n"

She presses a button under her desk.

"Stand aside. Neeext. "

I look over at Rebecca and give her a look I'm sure she recognizes. She gestures to me that she'll wait for me outside. I smile and say okay. A burly woman in uniform strolls up to the booth and takes my passport from the booth security. She grunts for me to follow her and points to a row of chairs behind a cloudy partition. I assume I am to sit there, but have no idea for how long. I am in the room with two men. One of them is reading a book and looks very comfortable. The other is playing on his smart phone. Neither is paying attention to the very close basketball game that's blaring on the TV in front of us. There are two vending machines which are frequented only by employees of the airport. I lean back in my chair, eyes droopy with sleeplessness, and stare up at the floors above me. All around there are small cameras looking down on me. I imagine I am in an observation room and they are holding me there to see how nervous I seem before questioning, if I shuffle in and out of my bag, or make a phone call. I am completely still, almost catatonic.

Sitting there, I am reminded of another airport detention with distinct memory. It's April 1997 and I am at Beirut International Airport, on my way back to Paris from a week visiting my grandparents and aunts and uncles in Lebanon. I have checked in and am seated in the waiting area with all the other passengers. Suddenly, an announcement comes over the PA, in French, asking Hasmig Minassian to come to the nearest desk. I walk over to the counter, thinking I had left a belonging behind. I give the woman my name and she tells me to 'hold on' in Arabic. She makes a phone call, calls an airport security officer over, and says something to him in Arabic. "Come with me." he says. I look at my watch. It is 10 minutes before we are supposed to board the plane. We walk through these tall, windowless, heavy oak doors into a room where another woman waits. "Sit over there" he says, and leaves. I am sitting nervously on a plush, red couch staring at a life size painting of a man I don't recognize. A woman comes out into the room and offers me some coffee. "No thank you." I say politely, "If you don't mind," I continue, "What am I doing here?". She smiles. "One moment, please." After about 10 minutes, she comes back and this time, a bit more urgently, I say "I am supposed to be boarding my plane. Can you please tell me why I am here?" "Come with me." she beckons. We step into another room and there is a man behind a desk. He tells me to have a seat and welcomes me. "You have an uncle, yes?" he asks. "Yes, I have many uncles." "Well, your uncle who works for Rafik Hariri (the prime minister at the time) has called us and wants you to have a special goodbye, so you will stay here for some coffee and then we will take you to your plane, yes?" "Sure", I say. So I drink the coffee to calm my jitters and sure enough, 20 minutes later I am on a tram with the woman from the lobby (who I later found out was a British diplomat of some import) and we are shuttled to the plane where everyone is already seated and waiting for our arrival.

Back in the waiting area at Ben Gurion airport, I chuckle to myself. Somehow, I don't think my uncle works here, nor will they be offering me any coffee. Worried that my chuckle has just been dutifully noted, I straighten up in my chair and yawn to feign my boredom. The man reading the book is called in and I check my watch. This could be a while. I think about the kids now safely on the Israeli side. While I know they were prepared for this, I imagine they are a little nervous about the abrupt departure. I am comforted that they are with the calming presence of Craig and the expertise of Rebecca and the confidence of Janet, already waiting on the other side. While I am certain I will stay, I consider for a brief moment all that it took to get to this waiting room and muse at the irony of being sent home.

Twenty minutes later, a tall, nicely dressed man comes into the lobby. He looks at me and, I presume, attempts to say my name. He gestures for me to follow him and we walk into a small office with a desk and dim lighting. It is attached to a larger office with a few bored looking secretaries. The first pen he tries to use doesn't work. He curses under his breath and walks to the other room to get a new pen.

"Say your name for me"

"Hasmig Minassian"

"Why are you here in Israel?"

"I am leading a group of students from California"

"You are their leader?"

"Yes, I am one of them. The other two are with them now. "

"From where are you coming?"

"California."

"What do you do in America?"

"I am a teacher."

"What do you teach?"

"History"

"What kind of History"

"American, World, Government. All kinds"

"What is your father's name?"

"Vartan. V-a-r-t-a-n"

"What is your mother's name?"

"Sylva. S-y-l-v-a"

"Are you Arab?"

"No."

"Why are you born in the Arab Emirates?"

"My father had work there when my mother was pregnant. She had three small children so they decided to stay together so he could be with her when I was born."

"What work did your father do?"

"He was an engineer. A building contractor."

"Where is he now, your father? What is he doing?"

"He's dead."

"What will you do in Israel?"

"We're touring the old city, climbing Masada, going to Yad Vashem, etc."

"Are you going into the Palestinian Authorities?"

"The what?"

"The Territories. The Palestinian Territories. Gaza, Ramallah..."

"No."

"Are you Muslim?"

"No."

"From where is your family? Where are your parents from?"

"Originally?"

"Yes. Originally."

"Our origins are from Armenia."

"Ok." (he takes out the stamp). Welcome to Israel."

So with that, I grabbed my things and walked over the imaginary line into Israel. I was relieved to not have been asked questions I wouldn't have been able to answer to their liking. Questions like "Where were your parents born?" or "Have you every visited any Arab countries?". In conversations later with Janet and Rebecca, we agreed it was probably my being Armenian that saved me further questioning. This was somewhat confirmed today before walking through the Zion gate of the Old City, right into the heart of the Armenian Quarter in Jerusalem. "The Armenians, they are more or less left alone, thought to be neutral. They get along with everyone." That was our guide's response when I asked him whose side they were on. In the case of my experience at the airport, apparently on the right side.

History has odd twists and turns. If this were 1915, I would have proudly stated my father's name and my mother's name to an Ottoman Turkish gendarme before he promptly beheaded me for my Armenian origin. Today I say my father's name and mother's name to escape suspicion and persecution.

My adventure, not surprisingly, has an afterword. I walked up to the baggage carousel in a slow haze, a bit perplexed by my experience with Israeli security. A quick look around told me the group had gathered their belongings and made their way through customs. I was glad no one had lost luggage and that they were on their way, certain they would be waiting for me on the other side.

"We'll wait two hours and then take a vote," Craig had joked at the last meeting when mapping the plan for my imminent detainment. It had only been an hour and a half. I was still safe. I looked for the Delta carousel but by then, the screens had all changed to new airlines. I walked over to Delta's lost and found and asked which carousel was for Delta. "It's Carousel 6, but nothing is left."

"I was detained for questioning so I didn't get my bag. Is there any place else it would be?"

"No it would be right here. But sometimes bags get lost. Here, fill out this form. It'll arrive on tomorrow's flight, we'll deliver it to you."

She reached over to pull out a form and from behind her, I saw a familiar bag. Not my missing suitcase, rather it was my camera bag. Instantly, I flashed to the airplane. Of course!! I had put my camera above my seat. In our haste to get off the 12 hour flight, we completely forgot the camera was there.

"And that over there, that's mine." Without missing a beat, the woman handed me my camera bag and the form. I filled out the paperwork, this time having flashbacks to Hawaii last summer when Alana and I both had our bags lost in the 25 minute flight between Honolulu and Kauai. I was ready for lost luggage, so wasn't worried about not getting my things. I had plenty with me. Most importantly, I had my freedom. A few pairs of lost white tees were replaceable. As an added bonus, they gave me 180 shekels for one day of lost personals. I joked, "What if it's not found tomorrow, do I get another 180 shekels?". As if my question were a serious one, he said "No, tomorrow you get 200." My sarcasm, as always, lost like luggage.

So I sauntered out. Camera bag, backpack, 180 shekels, and my freedom. There was a large crowd waiting on the other side of the sliding doors but no one looked familiar. I looked around for 5 minutes and decided to stand perfectly still, knowing someone would be looking for me, eventually. From a distance I see Janet and hear her calling my name. "Oh good, you're here. Where's Rebecca?"

"Rebecca? I don't know. I thought she went with the group."

"No, she was in there waiting for you. I'll call off the search party."

Janet talks to Naya (who I have yet to meet) and Rebecca, who arrives breathless from behind the same sliding doors I had just walked through.

"How'd you get around me? I was sitting there waiting for you, talking with the guys about why they are detaining you!"

I'm not sure how I missed her. Apparently she was trying to convince the security that they can't legally detain an American who doesn't speak Hebrew, that she should at least be able to be with me, and that she wouldn't leave until they released me. I felt loved and ashamed at the same time. Naya, a former participant with SCG and one of the trip leaders was on this side of the sliding glass doors, trying to get someone to respond to her pleas for my freedom.

"Sorry I missed you. I was filling out paperwork at Delta for my lost luggage."

"Your luggage isn't lost! We picked it up off the belt for you. Leib took it."

I laughed at myself and immediately discovered my fortune. If they hadn't taken my bag for me, and I had found it on the carousel, I would never have gone to Lost and Found and found my camera bag. In fact, if I hadn't been detained, I would have never remembered the camera bag. So in the end, for the sake of finding lost possessions, the detention and my time with the Delta Lost and Found crew, was worth it.

"Where are the kids? How are the kids?"

"They are all on the bus, waiting for you."

We walked out of the airport, me and my three guardians. Through a row of buses I saw some familiar faces peering relieved out of slightly tinted windows. As I boarded the bus, I was greeted by clapping and cheers and the happy, sleep deprived faces of my lovely flock. Now this is what I call a welcome to Israel.

Written by Callie

Today is the first day we have actually walked around and got to see Jerusalem. We woke up and went to breakfast at the hotel, then we met our tour guide. We walked to the Old City of Jerusalem. We started out near the Armenian Quarter of the Old City, but just quickly walked though to get to the Jewish Quarter. We saw the houses and walked though the thin alley ways of the Old City. We saw little Jewish boys and girl running though out the streets. We saw religious men also walking though the streets as well as many tourists. Everything in the Jewish Quarter was closed because it is Shabbat. Our guide told us about the archaeological history as well as political and religious history in the Jewish Quarter.

Our incredible guide (Craig's photo)

The group got hungry so we decided to grab a bite to eat. We walked to the Christian Quarter because nothing was open in the Jewish Quarter. We had delicious pomegranate and passion fruit juice that was freshly squeeze right where we could see the press. We ate delicious falafel, hummus, pita, as well as some other food, until we were stuffed. We got up and started walking to the Western Wall.
Walking through the streets of the Old City the walls and floors were made of limestone and there were little shops everywhere, full of scarfs, little trinkets, kippa, and so much more. It was very overwhelming and exiting, there was so much to look at and we had to keep an eye on where the group was going as well. We finally get to the Western Wall, our guide tells us that there is a women's side and a men's side. We look at the wall and as we can see the women's side of the wall is way less than half as big as the men's side. The girls part from the boys as we go to separate sides of the wall. On the women's side it is hard to get close to the wall because there is so little space and there are lots of women close to the wall praying, but we make our way close to the wall. We put the notes from everyone in the wall and touch and look at the wall. We saw many religious places for all kinds of religions, from Muslims to Judaism to Christianity and heard all the different interpretations of all these holy sites from our guide. It was very interesting to hear all the perspectives of the different religions and how the stories matched up and overlapped to how they conflicted and contrasted each other.
After the wall we went to a nice dinner at this beautiful restaurant on the rooftop. Because it had gotten cold we just ordered teas, coffees and hot chocolates and got our dinners to go. We got to rest a bit before we met with this organization called Combatants for Peace. They are a group of Israelis and Palestinians who once played a violent role in the conflict who had decided that violence would not get the country anywhere. They formed together to try to create peace in Israel/Palestine. After we talked about the day and now we are all very tired and it is time for bed. So good-bye for now.

Here's Callie:

Written By Siena

March 31st, 2011
I struggle to grasp that it has been a year. Part of it is that I can so clearly remember March 31st, 2010, that it feels like days ago. Part of it is that the absence of Kyle has been so prominent, so obvious, and so influential, that it feels like it was years ago. Then there's the part that is just simply inconceivable. How is it possible that a 16 year old left so abruptly? How is it possible that Kyle is gone an we are left behind, moving forward and continuing our lives, always searching for ways to honor and to remember the dear friend we lost one year ago on this day.
So here we are in Israel, doing just that. Craig and I talked as we walked back from dinner to our hotel in Central Jerusalem. We talked about what Kyle would be doing if he were here with us. We pictured him walking alongside us, confident, with his head held high in his leather jacket, checking out the Israeli girls we passed along our way, slick, trying to get their attention. We talked and we fantasized, and while Kyle wasn't physically walking beside us, he was there. He was there through the 13 of his classmates, he was there through Craig, and there through Hasmig, and he was there through Israel, there through the land that he loved, the land that he never got to go to, and the land that we walk on today to honor, to remember, and to connect to our friend.
Today we began our quest for clarity, understanding, tranquility, and for closure. To try to, piece by piece, fill some of that hole that was left in our hearts when Kyle died last year, always thinking of our dear boy whom we miss so much, as we take the trip he never got to.
-Siena

Here's Siena

More of Craig's Photos:

Written By Hasmig on the Plane

On Our Way

Ever since I've been the only responsible adult in the house, I have been paranoid about sleeping through alarms. This morning, 12:45am, I set two alarms on my phone, falling asleep to goodnight text messages and checking off boxes in my head:  clean sheets on Sevan's bed, check. Glasses case, check. Passport, check. Note to Sevan, check. Alarm, check. Alarm, check.  Before I know it, it's 4:30 am and Marimba on iphone is chiming me awake. On early mornings, its Dolly Parton who gets me to the bathroom.  I hum my favorite tune from the 80s, "stumble out of bed and into the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition, yawning, stretching trying to come alive...". Mornings alone in the house are calm and unsettling at once.  No one to take care of but myself--a daunting task I'm not very good at.  I'm showered, dressed, hair is braided tightly back, suitcase is zipped and last minute laundry is folded neatly and stowed away for Sevan's return.  I am thinking of my sweet boy as I wait for Jacquey, Steve, and Leib to arrive.  He is stirring by now, no doubt. Maybe knows that I am awake, aware of the departure, a gentle tug on the invisible fishing line that keeps us connected across space.

My phone is unusually quiet.  Half expecting a few texts in the mornings about being late, forgetting passports, or panicked parents with last minute jitters, I carry it around the house with me.  I am imagining the homes of our kids abuzz, jammed zippers, swollen, sleepless fingers fumbling with laces.  Clean, dripping hair.  All of them on their way. 

 It's 5:15, pick up time. Adams St is quiet. It's 5:16 and I am taken back to swim season, 1992, before I could drive.  We were in the pool by 5:30am and would rotate in and out of a carpool of brave parents who would drive us to practice every morning. And every morning, as 5:00 came and went, I would start to get anxious that I had been forgotten. Once, I was forgotten and never made it.  Other times, we were just tardy. But my father's strict on-time training has a drawback.  When others are even one minute late,I wonder, 'have I been forgotten?'.  This morning, the thought never crossed my mind.  If there is one family who would not forget me this morning, it was the Sutcher/Barbers. 5:20. The car is warm, the coffee hot, the muffins are fresh. A first class family.

5:25, we arrive at Craig's.  Leib jumps out to knock on the door while I re-arrange the trunk in my favorite game of Suitcase Tetris  "Guys, I'm worried Craig slept through his alarm."  The adults, all four of us, exchanged quizzical glances.  Nahhh, I thought, Craig wouldn't sleep through.  Not THIS morning. So Leib started a more aggressive knocking campaign, Steve and Jacquey were on their phones, and I started creating a mental blueprint of the back of their house, mapping out our route should we have to climb to the 2nd floor through the yard and wake him.  We four have been an exceptional team this year. For so many things.  This morning would be no different.    And so it has been before, many times in fact, Leib was right.  Craig was fast asleep in his sweet boy's bed, a serendipitous choice, since Kyle's bedroom window is the one facing the front porch.  Had Craig been sleeping on the 2nd floor, back of the house, we would have had to use my mental map and the rope swing that hangs from the Black Walnut in the backyard to retrieve Craig from his slumber. 

6:10, we roll up to Delta's terminal 1 at SFO.  A quick look around tells us we have made a royal entrance, the last to arrive.  They look beautiful these sleep deprived young people. They have listened so carefully. They are on time. Their suitcases are 22 inches.  They have passports. Most of them look clean, or clean enough. They are ready. We are ready.  We take a group photo, families and kids, and get into the check in line. I don't recall seeing the goodbyes between parents and their kids. Parents hug me.  My ear is filled to the brim with "take care of my girl.  take care of my boy.  take care of your flock." Instinctively, I turn to say goodbye to my own loved ones and there are Jacquey and Steve. They have guided this entire process alongside of us, in many ways leading us, and so leaving them behind is counter intuitive.  The hug is tight enough to squeeze the tears who finally break free.  This is a big moment. We all know it.

The kids are way ahead of me and Craig by now. I do a head count...1,2,3,4...that's all I see.  Several snakes in the line ahead, there the rest of them are. Heads bobbing in conversation.  I am the only one looking back over my shoulder and the parents who remain, craning necks, waving hands, subtly dabbing tears. 

What has been a complex journey to organize begins seamlessly.  The piles of paper, stacks of checks, the manila folders full of forms and copies of forms, the check lists and packing lists evaporate with each step.  And when we arrive at the threshold, TSA's arbitrary line between the have's and the have-nots, we are just 15 passports, 15 boarding passes, 15 backpacks, 15 pairs of shoes, and one heart. I look back one last time in search of that shock of silver hair, the final wave, or the universal thumbs up. But they are gone. We are alone, together. We are on our way.