Some People Have More Stars Than Others (from April 7, 2011)

Renana is our fearless leader for our day in the West Bank. She is Palestinian and went through the Seeking Common Ground Building Bridges for Peace program many years ago. She is featured in the film, My So-Called Enemy. She is the bright-spirited, short-haired, tattooed, outlier who plays basketball, won’t wear a headscarf and blurts out in the film, “Who puts broccoli on pizza? Americans. That’s who!” She is a bright spirit. Did I already say that? She lights up a room when she walks in. She doesn’t take it over or fill it up, but the room always seems to get brighter.

Hasmig and I saw the film the first time at the San Francisco Jewish Film Festival last July before we had decided for certain to work with Seeking Common Ground. Erin (the SCG Executive Director) was in The City for the screening, and agreed to have dinner with us afterward to talk about a potential partnership. I don’t remember why, but Renana was in San Francisco for the screening, too, and joined us for dinner at Café Mediterranee. It was such a pleasure and a relief to meet them both. We were so reassured and confident that working with them, we could pull off something great, that we could pull off…this! I remember I cried at dinner telling them about Kyle. Then a month later, I went to Colorado to observe the Building Bridges 3-week retreat. Renana was staff, and I was able to observe her in action both with the teens in the program, and making a presentation to the SCG Board of Directors. I wrote in my notes that day that Renana told the Board, “The program caused me to make the choice not to be on the side of the road throwing a stone or getting on a bus and exploding it. The program was life changing for me. It saved my life.”

Renana only spent this one day with us on the trip, but she managed to drop in on us a handful of other times over the course of our stay in Jerusalem. She had dinner with us a couple of nights, so by the time we boarded the bus for Ramallah, everyone felt like Renana was part of our group.

In between taking us through the Check Point, looking at the Wall, showing us Arafat’s Tomb, introducing us to Shmuel, hiking 10 miles with us, and convincing two Israeli soldiers with automatic rifles who boarded our bus to let us back through the Check Point into Jerusalem by telling them we had only driven through the West Bank to get to Masada that day, she managed to share with us little pieces of her life and her story. She lives in Beit Hanina, a Palestinian neighborhood in East Jerusalem on the road to Ramallah in the West Bank. Beit Hanina was taken over by Jordan in the 1948 War. The Jordanian government built roads and schools, and a new modern suburb emerged. After the Six Day War of 1967, Israel occupied the West Bank, including Beit Hanina and all of Jerusalem. Many Palestinians left for the United States. Some like Renana’s family, stayed. Renana is officially designated by the Israeli government as a “Temporary Resident,” even though she has lived there her entire life. She is not a citizen of Israel, she is not a citizen of Jordan, and of course, there is no state of Palestine to be a citizen of. She has no passport, only an identity card. Renana showed us her identity card. She said her last one, an older version, stated in the bottom left corner, “Arab.” Each person was designated as either Arab, Christian or Jewish, and rights and privileges were assigned accordingly. I asked, “what if you are a Christian Arab, or worse yet, a Jewish Arab? Or an American Muslim?” Renana just smiled, and raised her eyebrows and shoulders in equal measure. She said the United Nations and some human rights groups challenged the Israeli system for being so much like Apartheid South Africa, not an association Israel likes to have. They collected all the identity cards and re-issued new ones. In place of the three labels, there are now a series of small stars in the same lower left corner. “Some people have more stars than others,” Renana laughs. All the Jews have the same number of stars, all the Arabs have the same number of stars, all the Christians have the same number of stars. As they say in the restaurant business, presentation is everything.

Renana is finishing up her Masters at McGill University. I asked her what she’s planning to do next. She will go on for her PhD. Where, I ask. Hebrew University in Jerusalem, if she can finally get accepted. Wow, I said, what will that be like? She said she isn’t sure. It’s the best University available, and there is a professor there with whom she really wants to work, but it’s a bit of a hassle to get in. “I’ve lived here all my life, but I have to apply as a foreign student.”

Sleepy on the bus ride back to Jerusalem, everyone is quiet, bouncing along. Renana turns around in her seat up front to survey the tired faces. She is smiling. Why is she smiling, I think to myself? From where does that brightness in her eyes come?

The Shire (from Thursday April 7, 2011)

We are walking through the most beautiful, idyllic, pastoral landscape outside Birzeit in the West Bank, led by our gentle, soft spoken Palestinian guide, Schmuel. It feels like we could be walking through oak woodlands in the wine country or the rolling Sierra foothills of California. The hills are that fluorescent, throbbing, California springtime green that only lasts for two or three weeks each year before the first grasses begin to dry out. Unlike in California, though, the “oaks” in this woodland are neatly spaced equidistant from each other. Some are separated by ancient, winding, terraced stone walls that have contours that match those of the hillsides. The walls have profiles so low, and are so integrated into the landscape, you have to look closely to notice that the stones were placed by human hands. The oaks here, of course, are actually olive trees. Hundreds of olive trees, thousands of olive trees. Each bend, each horizon, each vista reveals hundreds more. They seem to stretch forever.

The landscape is so beautiful and so wild, it is hard to take in how carefully cultivated and manicured it is. Schmuel tells us that some of the trees are only a hundred years old, but that many are 300 years old, and some are probably 500 years old. They have thick, gnarled, elephantine
trunks, but each tree has been systematically pruned so that there are small green branches with fresh growth topping each one. Our group is spread out in a meandering broken thread of pairs and trios sauntering along the trail. We are walking at an unrushed pace. It is so bright and clear and green, the temperature is so comfortable, that there is a lightness in the group that does not seem to match the gravity of where we are. An hour before, we had driven through the Check Point, stopped to gasp at the Separation Wall, gawk at Yasser Arafat’s tomb and proceed deeper into a land of 2.5 million people torn by Conflict and living under military occupation.

Alex, Gracie, Evan at the Separation Wall

Gemma at Arafat's Tomb

At this moment, though, none of the tension or pain was apparent. We sauntered in t-shirts, talking, laughing, passing the morning in a lovely spot. Gemma, who had been walking 50 meters ahead of me out of sight around a bend, came running back to us. She shouted, “You guys, you guys, you’re not going to believe this! Around the corner, it’s the Shire. It’s totally the Shire!” Someone piped up, “This whole place is the Shire. Which part is up there? Where in the Shire?” Gemma quickly responded, “When he’s riding into the party on the wagon!” We walked forward for a moment in anticipation, and just as we rounded the bend into Gemma’s Shire, the theme music from The Lord of the Rings magically wafted forward from just behind us. Everyone stopped cold, looked around in disbelief, and broke into giggles. Hasmig was just behind us. In Billy The Kid Quick Draw fashion, she had pulled out her iPhone, called up iTunes, found the theme music and timed it to come on just as we rounded the bend. A Disney moment from a teacher accustomed to creating magic for her students.

We hiked for a couple of exquisite hours. We encountered herds of sheep, complete with sheep dogs and a ragged shepherd with a staff. We marveled again and again at the olive trees. Schmuel stopped on a shady slope, and suggested we take a little break for water and a short rest under the trees. Schmuel pointed down into a valley below us at a collection of white, modern buildings a mile or so away that appeared to be a small community. “That was supposed to be a development for engineers to live with their families. It was started several years ago. But it was never finished. See some of the buildings don’t have roofs? The homes were all nearly finished. Seventy-five percent of all the money for the project was already spent. And then the Israeli Army came in and stopped the project. It has been there unfinished for years now.” Someone asked why the Israeli Army shut down the development, and Schmuel said, “That land there, this whole area, is in Area B.” “What is Area B," we asked? “Oh, you don’t know about Area A, Area B and Area C? In the West Bank, all the land is one of those three. Area C is completely under Israeli control, like the Settlements. Area B is mostly run by the Palestinians on the ground, but the Israeli Army has military control and makes all the decisions. There is no Palestinian Police there. Area A is the only part of the West Bank that has Palestinian Police and is really run by the Palestinians. Even in Area A, the Army can come in any time they want to make arrests and we can say nothing, but the Palestinians are mostly in control. Area A makes up about 12% of the West Bank, not so much. And those buildings there, they are in Area B. So, the Israelis shut down the development. Now the Army comes there every so often for training. They come in the middle of the night, make a camp there on the edge and go house to house like they are doing a search and taking control of a village in the dark.”

We stood, looking out quietly over the green hills, the olive trees, the nearly completed buildings. I said, “It’s so beautiful here. It’s hard to imagine that there is so much fighting and unhappiness in a place this beautiful.” I was standing shoulder to shoulder with Schmuel, so I was not looking at his face. Still breathing quickly and just a little sweaty, I might have been projecting my own strong feelings, but I thought I could feel his emotion welling up in him next to me. After just a brief moment to take a breath, Schmuel turned his head just slightly to make eye contact with me and almost in a whisper, said, “Craig, this is what is so sad. There is enough land for everyone.” He raised his right hand, palm open, “Look. There is enough land for everyone, for all of us. This Conflict is not about land. There is plenty of land. This Conflict is not even about religion. My grandparents told me that Jews and Arabs had farms right here next to each other. Their children played together, and they had each other into their homes for dinner. Craig, we do not fight about land or religion. We fight about politics. It is not the people who cannot get along, it is the politicians. This is what makes me sad.”

Faces in the Trees

Guiding Us Through the Flock

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.