Driving in Guatemala; aka 'Fear and Trembling'

As you may expect, driving in Guatemala is a little different than in the US.  I thought I had seen harrowing traffic when I lived in Beijing, but it’s nothing compared to Guatemala. 

The city streets are mostly narrow, seemingly one-way streets that go up and down mountain hills and curve around blind corners.  The city streets are mostly made from cobblestone.  When it rains, these streets quickly become rushing creeks – and you better have worn waterproof shoes, because there’s little chance you’ll escape a mad rush of water somewhere in your journey. There is a preponderance of pedestrians on the roads– especially gringos, who magically appear en masse in July to study Spanish.  Sidewalks, however, are not always present, paved, or passable (they are only wide enough to fit one person at a time, and when the curb elevation makes it possible cars are often parked up on the curb, probably because the roads are so narrow).   There aren’t street signs in Xela, but the street names sometimes painted on the side of the building your shoulder is rubbing up against as you use the sidewalk, and you can usually spot it by standing in the middle of the road.  So as a pedestrian, you find yourself alternating between a steep, slim sidewalk and a wet, uneven road – until a rapidly approaching motor or abrupt honk causes you to scatter back onto the sidewalk.   

Mayan men and women transporting goods

In addition to the pedestrians, at any given moment the streets also hold buses, microbuses (a kind of van with the people packed in like sardines and hanging out the sides); cars; pickups – often with a full bed of cargo and/or people; motorcycles, dirt-bikes and scooters carrying at least 3 family members at once (I’ve seen 5 on one cycle – 8 year old kid riding on the gas tank in front of Dad, and two younger kids smashed between he and Mom, who is the caboose); bicycles, street dogs, goats, toddlers, and Mayan women (and men) carrying their load on their heads.  In the smaller towns, there’s also a plethora of tuk-tuks creating havoc through the streets, which are like motorized tricycles with a covered carriage for 2-3 on the back.  They can fit into alleys and maneuver around pedestrians easily, but come careening around corners without much warning.  In towns like San Pedro La Laguna, where most of the ‘streets’ are paved walkways with 90-degree corners (that fit 4 pedestrians across, but are also used by motorcycles and tuk-tuks), these tuk-tuks are especially efficient and alarming at the same time.

 

'Picop' (pickup) full of riders

 The common way to drive in Guatelmala is to accelerate as much as possible until you reach the next intersection, where you are more likely to apply your horn than your brake.  There seem to be essentially no stop signs or yield signs.  A local newsletter counted 41 stoplights in Xela with some malfunction that is in need of repair (it went on to note that the total number of stoplights in Xela is 41).  

There aren’t really bus ‘stops’, but any bus, microbus or pickup is liable to stop at any moment to release or pick up passengers.  The drivers have ‘helpers’ that stand in the door or hang off the side of the vehicle yelling ‘there’s space!’ and looking for new riders (their idea of ‘space’ is a wholly different blog post entirely).  As you can imagine, motorcycles and scooters squeeze into whatever space will fit them, including zipping around slowed traffic or between speeding cars.  No one wears helmets here.  Rules for ‘passing’ actually may not exist – when I rode with my host sister Jessica on the back of her scooter the other day, as we slowed to turn right (and I think she used her signal), a truck barreled past us on the left and then turned right immediately in front of us, giving me a heart attack.

Dogs in the street

Worse yet, speed bumps seem to be the method of choice for controlling speed – which might explain why everyone uses the accelerator like they are in an arcade game - because in just 400 meters, they will have to slow down for the next speed bump.  Some of these ‘tumulos’, as they are called in Spanish, are in fact a problem for something like a scooter, because instead of one continuous hump of concrete, they is a jagged line of smaller, metal humps, which requires a two-wheeled vehicle to come to an almost complete stop to cross without losing balance.  (Yes, it’s freaky from the back of a scooter).  Street dogs are also constantly strolling through the road in front of oncoming traffic, minor roads and highways alike.  Some cars slow for them, some honk, and some consider it a game to see how long it will take the dog to move.  The evidence of this can sometimes be spotted on roadsides like deer.   

Camionete parked at left

The common mode of public transportation in Guatemala is the Camionete, which is ‘chicken bus’ in English.  (Last Friday I actually saw a chicken, enveloped in a Mayan cloth and sitting in a basket, on top of the Camionete that passed below my window at school).  These are retired US school buses – the yellow kind that my generation rode in elementary school.  Whereas in my school, there was a max capacity of something like 57 persons (I remember it because it was always posted in the front of the bus), in Guate the seats that used to hold no more than 2 children often hold 3 adults, perhaps with children on their laps or strapped to their back.  In fact, I noticed today, rather than walk to the back of the bus some people seem to prefer sitting as a third with their butt half-off the seat – as long as the seat across also has 3 people and they can balance each other out in the aisle with their shoulders.  But it’s pretty humorous to watch additional passengers push through this human barrier in the aisle.  There doesn’t seem to be any common idea about moving to the back first.

Well, perhaps that’s because the tumulos have taught riders what we all learned in elementary school – that the back of the bus has more bounce after the second wheel.  More on those tumulos – perhaps you thought they were only near intersections or schools or alleys, like they are in Chicago?  Guess again.  Major highways (those rare roads that are not made out of cobblestone) are also covered with tumulos every few kilometers, forcing speeding, cramped and swaying buses and microbuses to come to a near stop constantly on any long journey. For a country that has chosen school buses for their major mode of transportation, I don’t think there could be a more painful way to control traffic.  

Finally, all of this pales in comparison to traveling via Chicken Bus into the mountains.  I’m not a mechanical type of person, but I can’t imagine the type of engine required for this feat.  Drivers doing the aforementioned acceleration technique (which I would call ‘careening’), carrying 50-some adults and cargo, while climbing thousands of meters on a road that snakes around a mountainside like those in San Francisco must be hell on an engine.  It’s certainly hell on my peace of mind!  Having just visited Golf and Games before I left Illinois, I have to say it bears a striking similarity to a go-cart race with buses, sometimes even in competition.  When passing through mountain towns on the way to San Pedro La Laguna, rather than slow, the driver felt it adequate to lay on the horn all the way through the town like our train whistles in rural areas, even though these buses were passing mere feet in front of residential homes!  And let’s not forget the brakes; even though they don’t like to use them, when heading down a 45 degree incline with a bus full of people in a tropical rainstorm on a street that has maybe 1 ½ feet to spare on either side of the bus…you better be sure the brakes are well padded.  On our mountain descent Friday, one curve was so severe that our bus had to do a 5-point turn to get through it.  (This is also a function of the ‘helper’ – to guide.  And to climb up on the roof while the bus is moving to retrieve baggage).

But the best part is when the bus is hurtling around one of the mountain curves, with a wall of earth on the right and nothing but sky on your left, at breakneck speed, only to round the curve and find all traffic stopped in front of you because a mudslide has occupied half of the road after the last rainfall.  Rather than slow, bus drivers move to the left lane, and when that’s occupied, into the lane for oncoming traffic until all available space has been filled like Tetris, regardless of the fact that it is impossible to see what was causing the backup.  On our return to Xela this afternoon, this resulted in a single line of oncoming traffic being forced to use the shoulder, passing us so close that if I had opened the bus window I could have dirtied the side mirrors of all the drivers.

Needless to say, every time I travel in Guatemala I learn fear and gratitude, again.

Bienvenidos a Xela, Guatemala

So I've been studying Spanish in Quetzaltenango (Xela for short) for over 2 weeks, and I don't want to spend too much time writing because that's time I should be spending studying.  But I can't resist posting a little bit...

Xela is in the Western Highlands of Guatemala.  The altitude here is 2,335 meters above sea level at the town level. I only had mild altitude affect - one day of extreme fatigue and hunger at the same time - but some people have it much more seriously.

Volcano Santa Maria is just south of town.  She feels like my constant companion - the first thing I see when I leave the house in the morning, in view throughout all my classes, visible from everywhere.  

My school, Pop Wuj (pronounced Pope Woo, so named for an ancient, sacred book of the Mayans - Popol Wuj) is a co-operatively owned project that partners with many community efforts.  My teacher (mi maestro) for the last three weeks has been Benedicto (to the right), who is pretty awesome.  We have class every morning from 8 am to 1 pm.  On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday there are volunteer options for students to do in addition or in lieu of class, depending on if you are a morning or afternoon student.  Here, he came with me on the reforestation effort on Thursday morning.  (His shirt says "Solidarity is our Language".)

We were planting 'arbolitas' (little trees) on this woman, Victoria's, private land.  Xela is strongly populated with Mayans, and Victoria is in typical Mayan dress.  Another of our school projects is a Family Support Center, which operates as an after/before school tutoring center and resource for women raising children.  Note the kids in the background - they were on their week-long break during this Thursday morning.

 We planted trees with 10 kids, 3 adults, one hoe and one machete.  First time I've ever used a machete!

On Friday, we took a field trip to the nearby town of Zunil, that is 100% Mayan.  It is a little pueblo in the middle of the mountains.  The major industry is farming, and you can tell.  On the bus into town, the smell of cilantro wafts in the windows, and standing on a balcony above town carries the unmistakable smell of onion. Note on the right, not only do people carry loads on their heads, but many of the workers in Zunil transport multiple sacks of vegetables by strapping cloth over their forehead, under the sacks (see the guy in the very edge of the photo), and running.  It's shocking. All these things end up in the market, and big trucks pull out regularly.   

Weekend trip to Volcan Chiqubal

It looks like a lake at the end of the world, especially given the fog.  In fact, the Mayans may think so - it's a cold lake at the top of a volcano that is fed by natural spring, and sacred for the Mayan people.  Swimming is not allowed in this lake, but offerings of flowers are given. Legend has it that years ago, 3 tourists (from a group of 4) decided to disregard the ban on swimming, and three of them were pulled under by the serious undertow.  The fire department only ever found two of the bodies because the lake is 600 meters deep. 

Do I look tired?  With the altitude, there were times I wondered if I'd make it to the top. After spending about 1 1/2 hours on a, at times, very steep ascent, we descended crazy treacherous jungle stairs to the lake below.

Which was beautiful with mysterious, rolling fog.  When we first arrived, it was clear, then it became completely obtuse.  At right, note the flower offerings of the previous Mayan ceremonies.

Even though the setting was full of beauty, it was muy dificil (very very difficult).  And, suprisingly, the descent is not much easier with the slippery dirt road after a little drizzle, and the steep, steep desent.  Here is Daniella and I making our 'gremlin faces' (the face my sister Kassi makes when she encounters a Gremlin, which scares the daylights out of her) when we realize that we are only 1/2 the way down. 

On Demons and Marathon Bombers

Scripture: Mark 5:1-20

They came to the other side of the lake, to the country of the Gerasenes. And when he had stepped out of the boat, immediately a man out of the tombs with an unclean spirit met him. He lived among the tombs; and no one could restrain him any more, even with a chain; for he had often been restrained with shackles and chains, but the chains he wrenched apart, and the shackles he broke in pieces; and no one had the strength to subdue him. Night and day among the tombs and on the mountains he was always howling and bruising himself with stones. When he saw Jesus from a distance, he ran and bowed down before him; and he shouted at the top of his voice, ‘What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I adjure you by God, do not torment me.’ For he had said to him, ‘Come out of the man, you unclean spirit!’ Then Jesus asked him, ‘What is your name?’ He replied, ‘My name is Legion; for we are many.’ He begged him earnestly not to send them out of the country. Now there on the hillside a great herd of swine was feeding; and the unclean spirits begged him, ‘Send us into the swine; let us enter them.’ So he gave them permission. And the unclean spirits came out and entered the swine; and the herd, numbering about two thousand, rushed down the steep bank into the lake, and were drowned in the lake.

The swineherds ran off and told it in the city and in the country. Then people came to see what it was that had happened. They came to Jesus and saw the demoniac sitting there, clothed and in his right mind, the very man who had had the legion; and they were afraid. Those who had seen what had happened to the demoniac and to the swine reported it. Then they began to beg Jesus to leave their neighborhood. As he was getting into the boat, the man who had been possessed by demons begged him that he might be with him. But Jesus refused, and said to him, ‘Go home to your friends, and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and what mercy he has shown you.’ And he went away and began to proclaim in the Decapolis how much Jesus had done for him; and everyone was amazed.

Years ago my younger sister visited me in Chicago during her college break.  She flew into Midway, tried her hand at our ‘El’, successfully mastering the orange line to meet me.  What ensued from there has become one of my favorite stories to tell about Chicago. We got onto a crowded, Friday night rush hour Red Line, luckily grabbing seats against the wall.  The first oddity we met was Jesus, in the flesh, dressed in sheets and sandals and carrying a life-sized cross with dramatic pause through the train car.  (As we watched, we were amused to see him uncharacteristically sprint the distance between train cars to catch the next open doors.)  That was interesting.  But in fact, perhaps it was a premonition – a sign of what was to come.

In the midst of our chatting about the sudden Incarnation of Jesus, I noticed a guy offer the person next to him a paper hat folded out of newsprint.  This was not a small paper hat like you might see a chef wear – it was a tall, cuffed, wizard-like hood of newsprint that could in no way be mistook for fashion.  The woman next him declined, and I saw him refocus on the stack of newsprint on his lap.  Next time I looked up, the two kids across the aisle from him were both wearing these paper hats.  His seatmate was reluctantly putting one on, while laughing, and he was hard at work folding the next one.  He had my full attention now.  A hat got passed back to us, and I tried to get my sister put it on but – cool college junior as she was – she wouldn’t do it.  So I did. 

There was something hilarious in having that ridiculous hat on my head.  I found it hard to stop smiling out of chagrin for how uncool I must have looked. In a train car where everyone does their best to mind their own business, avoid eye contact, and assume an unoffensive stare out the window or at the overhead ads…I was breaking the unspoken code of nonchalance and anonymity.  But the thing is, I wasn’t alone. The hats had spread like wildfire throughout the train car. Newcomers on the train started asking me where I got my hat, and how they could get one.  Even my sister put one on, eventually. 

I leaned over to ask the man what was behind his making of the paper hats – but his seatmate told me that he wouldn’t talk.  She had also asked, but he had written down for her that he was unable to speak. 

In the meantime, the entire atmosphere in the train car was transformed.  The normally stone-faced strangers were laughing, initiating conversation, snapping pictures and swapping numbers.  We were all fully amused at ourselves – and perhaps doubly amused at how easy it was to become amused rather than recalcitrant and aloof during our train ride.  It was one of those moments when you feel wholly and totally at home and comfortable with the entire human race – and it was manufactured by a single man making paper hats without explanation. …, inviting people to participate in silliness.

That sister, Kassi, now lives in a suburb outside of Boston, with my other sister and her family. Last year during my visit, we went to watch a leg of the Boston Marathon. As I marveled at the runners pushing their bodies to the very brink of exhaustion, my 6 year old niece Elliot held a sign that said, “Keep Going”.

The surprise for me, in this last public tragedy, was that my overarching emotion wasn’t heartbreak or sadness, but anger.   Is nothing sacred?  Is no human endeavor safe?  The ego of someone – or someones – choose this event, this celebration of the human spirit of endurance and health – how dare they pollute this event with blood spilled, trauma, and fear incarnate?  How dare they rob people of this memory…how dare they rob a woman athlete of her legs.  It just made me so angry.

Jesus’s cure of the Demoniac at Gerasene has always conjured ideas for me of addiction and mental illness.  But last week it held entirely new meaning.  With all the rage I was feeling…I was the Demonaic.  This raging lunatic lived in the cemetery – not willing, I suddenly imagined, to leave the graveside of his stolen loved ones.  He is heard day and night, howling at the stars about these deaths.  He is strong enough to break through chains and shatter the shackles, but only known to bruise him self with stones. “My name is Legion,” he says, “for we are many.”  And all I could think of was, how many deaths?  How many people are similarly robbed of their loved ones, and rage all day and all night with the pain and grief of that injustice?  Of course it wasn’t confined to Boston.  Palestinians jumped to mind. Afganis and Iraqis.  The parents in Newtown, CT, and the parents on the Southside of Chicago.  How many of these people rage into the night, wanting only to retreat to the graveside of the person they miss so much?

The 26^th mile of the Boston Marathon this year was dedicated to the 26 families of Newtown, CT.  Many of them were in attendance.  Their faces were fresh in my mind, as just recently I watched the 60 Minutes episode featuring their struggle to grieve and channel their pain into something productive.  So many of them related how they were only emerging from the fog of loss, and fighting for gun legislation gave them purpose so they didn’t retreat into despair. 

My mind flashes to my niece Elliot and her sign saying, “Keep Going.” 

I know most of us wanted to retreat this last week.  From life and limb lost at the Marathon, to political failure in Washington, to then, worries about Islamophobia, and the inevitable struggle against scapegoating, so clearly on display during the Boston manhunt, I really just wanted to head into the tombs, howl, and beat my head against the stones.  

“What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? By God, do not torment me.  Leave me alone in my misery.  Do not make me do more.”

But Jesus whispers, “Keep Going”.

Sometimes, you can run towards healing and yet pull back.  The Demonaic runs to Jesus, flaunts his pain and rage, but then asks to stay in his misery.  Man, do I know how that feels.  I know how it feels to deliver that behavior, and I know how it feels to receive it.  That friend who shows you how much hurting underlies their attitude, but when you try offering a hand, your friend retreats back into the tombs with the chains and the howling and the bitterness and the self-punishment. They are not able, or not ready, to lean into the hope of a new dawn.  Yet, somehow, we need to give them the rope to trust that they can ‘keep going’.

I was so moved by Dr. Laurel Schneider’s admission the other day, during our Anti-Racism Colloquium, that she needed to learn to face anger in order to be a good friend to Dr. Butler.  I found so much truth in that statement – because I, too, am uncomfortable with conflict and confrontation, but also because if we can’t endure someone else’s emotions – what are we really doing here?  True, it’s hard.  When you feel that hot breath of anger or raw hurt, the human condition is to retreat. Back away from the fire.  Stop causing upset to someone.  This kind of pain  - the raw grief of Newtown, the shock of Boston, the rage of the Demoniac - this kind of pain is scary. 

But Jesus doesn’t retreat from the demons, nor let the demoniac live in his misery.  Jesus ‘leans in’ to the situation, demanding, what is your name?  And then he breaks through their hold on the man from Gerasene.  What will it take for us to break through our desire to retreat with our demons?  How do we lean in to someone’s hurt – or worse yet, or own – to succeed in evicting the demons?

I often think about that newspaper-paper-hat-maker on the train.  I am convinced, almost completely, that it was a stunt designed by a sociology or psychology grad student, to time how long it would take average people to break out of their routine anonymity.  And I wonder if this was the first time he tried the paper hat trick, or if he had to work up the courage to do it.  Had he prepared himself for those first few paper-hat deniers?  Was he certain that he was going to keep going with his plan, searching for willing takers regardless of how many suspicious looks he received?

You see, because he did something amazing.  He changed that day, and maybe that week, for all of us on that train.  He changed our understanding of ourselves, and our capacity to have joy with complete strangers.  The Marathon bombers, the tragedy and the manhunt brought out the demons that we already know are there – the demons that we always retreat to.  Blame.  Anger. Suspicion. Rage.  They also brought out the hero of the human spirit, and that one-ness of purpose so common after a tragedy.  But the paper-hat maker – he caused us to surprise ourselves.  He was able to bring about that spontaneous public joviality – the kind that we see during holidays, or certain elections, or yes, when the bombing suspect was captured alive.  But he did it with hats.

At the end of the story, the villagers beg Jesus to leave, fearful of his power, fearful of hope – but the demoniac begs to stay with Jesus.  He wants to remain where hope is incarnate, and spontaneous displays of love and joy are not looked at suspiciously.  But Jesus refuses, commanding him to return to his friends and attest to his transformation, to bring this miracle into the heart of his community.  He must keep going , re-enter his community, with testimony to this in-breaking of the divine, this joy.  I think Jesus is saying, don’t retreat.  If you just keep going, you will find a way out of the tombs.  And we will be here to weather your grief and your rage, and help you find joy…perhaps with silliness.  I’m ready to keep going, but sometimes I’d just like a paper hat.

In Boston yesterday, someone decided to give away free hugs.  The newspaper said, “After a week of terror, confusion and sorrow, people in the Boston area needed a hug.  At 10 a.m. on April 21, a group of people wearing shirts asking “Do you need a hug?” and “I (heart) Boston” gathered at the Public Garden, offering hugs to any and all who wanted comfort. Davis Square resident Zachary Sciuto said,  “I just held my arms open and looked at people and said ‘Do you want a hug?’ And they just came gave me a hug,” he recalled. “It didn’t feel weird or anything, I don’t know how to explain it. It just felt natural, it felt really good.”

Israel Day 9 – Tuesday – Galilee

Tuesday was election day, which meant that our favorite guide Jared had to return home to vote, and as a result we heard from Yisrael, a different voice about Israel with a focus on security measures.  It was a day spent with the sacred waters of Israel, and deep reflection, with an oddly militaristic bent.

We had pulled into the city of Tiberius in the dark, but we awoke to a beautiful sunrise over the Kinneret (known to us as the Sea of Galilee) from our hotel.  The Sea of Galilee is neither a sea, nor is it in Galilee technically. Galil in Hebrew means ‘rolling waves’, like the rolling waves of mountains and hills that we would see later in the day.  The ‘Sea of Galilee’ is actually in the Jordan River Valley.  It is, however, the lowest freshwater body on earth (the Dead Sea is the lowest non-freshwater body), and situated near a fissure in the techtonic plates.  There are 17 hot springs surrounding the Western side of the Kinneret, with water as hot as 140 degrees F and several types of minerals present.  The area has been used for healing baths for centuries, and some posit that this is why Jesus centered his ministry in this area - where there were the most sick people in need of healing.   

Kim and Nilsa testing the hot spring

We visited Hamat Tiberius, the location of one of the oldest synagogues in Israel and now a national park.  (Hamat means ‘hot’ in Hebrew).  The synagogue was discovered in 1921 during road construction.  There were several synagogues built over the centuries in the same place, but the second one is notable because the mosaic floor features both the symbols of Judaism - the Holy Ark, the Shofar, and 2 Menorahs - and a circular image of the Greek God Helios with the astrological signs encircling it.  Four women adorn the corners representative of the seasons. The idolatrous symbols trespass Jewish law in a synagogue, which leads one to think that the rules may have been relaxed in a time of coexistence with the Hellenistic populations of the time.  There is Hebrew labeling the names of the astrological symbols, but some are misspelled or upside-down, perhaps indicating the Jewish population having some fun with the Roman belief system.

Below the statue it reads, "Feed My Sheep"

I overheard our professors telling the guide that with our particular group and religious focus, that a visit to the Sea of Galilee is more meaningful than most of the holy sites we saw in Jerusalem, and I couldn’t agree more.  The ideology of the kibbutz - the sacredness inherent in growing your own food and working ‘holy’ land - echoed in my head as we arrived at the Galilean shore.  Here is where Jesus fed people.  Here is where he multiplied the bread and fishes to feed 5000 (Matthew 14). The road to Emmaus, where Jesus appeared after crucifixion to two strangers but only became recognizable after breaking bread with them, is near Tiberias (Luke 24).  It’s on the Sea of Tiberias (another name for the Kinneret) where Jesus appears for the third time to seven disciples and has them cast a net that overflows with fish, and joins them for breakfast (John 21).  Over and over again, we see that it was only in eating together that the disciples recognized Jesus.   

We visited the water at the Church of Primacy, where the Franciscans planted a church in the 4th Century to commemorate the spot where Jesus reinstated Peter chief of the Apostles (a central theme is Apostolic succession of the Pope). And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter [Greek, Petros], and upon this rock [Greek, petra] I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. (Matthew 16:18).  Regardless of my feelings on Apostolic succession, the current Church of the Primacy (built c. 1933) was a place of subdued beauty and peacefulness for our meditation at the Sea of Galilee.  Also in the 4th Century, Byzantine Christians planted a church on the site of the Sermon on the Mount, now known as the Church of the Beatitudes.  It is a gorgeous structure situated overlooking the sea.  The church is octagaonal, symbolizing the 8 beatitudes, which are referenced in latin within the sanctuary.  Many people pilgrimage there for deep prayer, as the nuns on the microphone continually reminded us to ‘be quiet!’  

After lunch we drove through the Golan Heights to the Tel Dan Reserve. The Golan Heights provides beautiful sights, but we did not stop at any point because the area is riddled with landmines.  There are signs all along the roadway announcing in three languages for people to keep out. The Golan Heights borders Israel, Lebanon, Syria and Jordan (technically it is still recognized as Syria under international law).  When the border was drawn after the 1948, the Syrian Golan Heights overlooked the valley below, that was part of Israel.  Throughout the 20 years between the 1948 and 67 war, the ceasefire line was a sight of violent exchanges from both sides, but Syria had the topographical advantage of firing from the heights into the valley.  In the 1967 war (the 6-day war) which involved alliances of the surrounding Arab nations, Israel first repelled the Egyptian forces and captured the Sinai desert in the first few days. As a secondary initiative, they launched forces up the mountains in the Golan in order to take the highlands and secure the safety of the villages below (at least, this is how our Isreali guide told it), and it was secured in only 48 hours.  In the 1973 Yom Kippur war, Syrians entered the country through the Golan and it was a major fighting front.  Some of the landmines were planted during the fighting by both sides; many more were placed by Israel in 1974-75 to prevent another border crossing from Syria. 


A quick internet search reveals claims that landmines are not only planted in security areas but around civilian (Arab) homes and villages, and casualties from these landmines are still occurring.  Some of the landmines are old, corroded, and occasionally wash up to the surface during the rainy season.  An Israeli politician launched an initiative for landmine removal in 2010, but another source said additional landmines are being placed as of 2011.  

We stop at a public park overlook because we are so close that we can see the border with Syria. Yisrael directs our attention to the peak of Mt. Hermon, another strategic point occupied by Israel, and the road to Damascus (site of Pauls' ephiphany?) apparent from the post. UN guards are patrolling the site, and Yisrael comments that the UN is only effective in border patrol when both countries want peace. Later, in the Tel Dan, we’ll be able to see the border with Lebanon. Yisrael, our guide, points out the military outposts at the top of each peak, as well as the army barracks along the route. In lessons learned from the 1973 Yom Kippur war, Israel does not intend allow itself to be caught unawares by an invasion through the Golan, since it would take 2-3 days to call up the national guard and transport them to the front.  Instead, it holds onto the highlands with constant surveillance and a military population at the ready. This was echoed in our last event of the night, a visit with Channa Manne, a social worker to deals with PTSD in the Israeli population of the villages in the valley below the Golan Heights.  Channa said that when people had reached their limit with the conflict, they would move to a location out of reach of the rockets.  But recent conflicts have proven that there is no place out of reach of the warfare of bordering Arab countries.  Which led me to ask, Is there peace potential in knowing there’s no place that’s out of range of rocketfire?  Does that increase the incentive for more justice and peace on the part of Israeli citizens?  Or is it too late?  When does hopefulness become naivete?


Reflection: Power

We spent time on the Mount in group discussion about ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ - and what it means to create peace.  We had been advised to pay close attention to the word ‘peace’ while in Israel and the different meanings behind it depending on the speaker. (Is it just the status quo with no violence, or does it involve justice for the Palestinian people?) Then Dr. Thistlethwaite brought up Dietrich Bonhoeffer and posed a question about the cost of discipleship. (Bonhoeffer was a German Lutheran pastor from Nazi Germany. He looked to the church to oppose the policy of the Nazis, specifically the seminaries, but found compliance.  So he founded a dissenting church, the Confessing Church. He also traveled to the US during this era, but felt he must return to Germany to do his part against the Third Reich. Ultimately, he orchestrated a failed assassination attempt on Hitler, and was executed.)  

In view of the grand church built with support from the Italian Government under Benedito Mussolini from 1936-38, we contemplated what should be the ideal of tolerance, and what do we have the power to oppose? As liberals, we aspire for a society of tolerance, but how far does that tolerance go?  What is our responsibility to stand up to evil or interrupt injustice?  I’d like to believe that, had I been alive in the rise of the Third Reich, I would have taken a stand against the anti-semitism as much as I try to use my power to be in solidarity with other oppressed people like immigrants in the US or Palestinians in Israel. But the truth is, I’m not sure any of us know what we would have done in the face of such evil. During our layover in Amsterdam, I visited the Hollandsche Schouwberg, a theater located in the heart of the Jewish Quarter. Initially a popular location for shows, it became restricted to Jewish performers and attendees only under Nazi occupation, and eventually became a place where Jews reported for deportation. The museum of course displayed pictures and items from the nearly 100,000 Dutch Jews that perished in the Holocaust. They also documented some of the underground initiatives working against the regime, including the creation of false documents, an underground newspaper, and the kindergarten across the street that smuggled Jewish children out of Holland while hosting a school.  

I asked the curator, with a point of Dutch pride (my ancestry), why it seems like there was greater resistance to the Nazis in the Netherlands than anywhere else.  (After all, I’ve heard the story of Anne Frank, hidden by the Dutch, since I was a child).  She frowned at my naivete, and said while there were 4 groups of resistance in Holland during the Nazi occupation, there were plenty who did nothing, and others who collaborated with the Nazis for profit. (The award in Holland for turning in a Jew was seven guilder). The thing unique to Holland was the sheer number of Jews living there - over 100,000 - a number equaled only in the Eastern bloc countries.  And unfortunately, the Dutch tendency to be extremely orderly and organized meant that the Jewish population was documented on file before the Nazis ever arrived, making deportation easier in Holland than other locales. Again, it’s a case of which narrative is chosen and promoted.  History is written by the victors, those who end up with power. The Dutch have chosen to portray themselves as a people of tolerance and integrity, but it’s only part of the story. I have the incredible urge to ask my parents about everything they ever heard from their parents about the Holocaust.

In this current conflict, Israel has the ability to broadcast their narrative about the Palestinian intransigence much more so than the underdeveloped, un-Western Palestinian nation can broadcast their abuses. Shared culture, technology, language, and religious heritage all makes Western countries more receptive to listening to the narrative from the Israel perspective. The Palestinians feel that the world has forgotten about them, or doesn’t care. Our (conservative) narratives about Arab cultural differences, muslim jihad, and ‘their’ indifference to violence further buffets the power of the Israel-as-victim narrative. And the Palestinians are stuck with very little power.