Western Sunrises

The Tenth Anniversary, The Widening Divide

Wed, 07 Sep 2011 12:39:42 -0400

“We are already one. But we imagine that we are not. And what we have to recover is our original unity. What we have to be is what we are.”

-Thomas Merton

Ten short years have marched into the oblivion of time’s passing. For many, ten years was but a blink in the eye of the universe. For many others, ten years crawled and drudged, and in that slow grind we have trampled and tumbled trying to regain our footing, struggling to wash the mud from our brows with the waters of forgetfulness, consumerism, and, occasionally, blind despair.

Ten years have passed since the events of September 11, and in ten years, we have had platforms and forums to question, challenge, and engage our society – to take time not only for grief, but to contextualize and reflect; to reorient ourselves in a rapidly changing and fearsome world.

And yet, in ten years, we have often lost ourselves in the grip of hatred and isolation, turning our backs on one another, and succumbing to the weight of a terrible burden. The past decade has been tumultuous, and has forced profound reflection on our status as communities of being – personal, national, and global.

While many aspects of our lives are in question, societal cohesion is a central topic. Recent polls have shown that, while the attitude of Americans towards Islam and Muslims is mixed, there is still a brooding distrust and fear of Islam. While September 11 should not be seen as the crux of the narrative of worldwide Muslims and Muslim Americans, the tragedy undoubtedly brought Muslim Americans to the forefront of a wider national public discourse, and Muslims often do not feel welcomed into this conversation. That public discourse has obviously failed in producing a cohesive dialogue and presentation, and our society is still plagued by distrust and misinformation.

And while this profound misunderstanding exists, it should not be viewed as the pinnacle of our failure as a people. Islamophobia serves but as a microcosm of the realities of our societies. Our fears, our staunch resistance to altering the definitions and perceptions we have etched into our schemas and systems of organization, and our inability to, with humility, deal with the growing pangs of the 21^st century, have reduced our ability to communally embrace the differences of the “Other.”

In the ten years that have passed, instead of critically and creatively addressing the rising divisiveness, we have been driven further apart from each other, and while there has been many outreach attempts and positive efforts, such as the work of the interfaith movement, these have not had enough effect to enact the drastic, and needed, societal shift towards unity. We are analyzing our relations through the wrong hermeneutic.

What was must foster once again as a key element of our reality is community. It seems that in the past decade, since the event that changed the course of our lives and the direction of world history and progression, we have lost our sense of what it means to be in community, to be a part of something greater than ourselves, to accept the fear – and wonder – of trusting in others, and in letting us be defined in relation, not in opposition, to those around us. What we are missing is a sense of interpersonal, national, and global communities of consciousness. We must foster these relationships if we are to strive for a sustainable future. Without our commitment to embracing community, we have been unable to address the challenges that the first decade of this century has offered, and without fostering community, we will be destroyed by the rapid changes of succeeding decades.

As the tenth anniversary of the attacks approaches and as another year passes into the frightening, crushing oblivion of a confused past, we must do more than honor and reflect. We must engage. We must question. We must act. We need to begin to take the steps to radically redefine how we approach and value one another. We need to take the time to remember the centrality, the raw necessity, of community in our lives, and the profound sense of failure that will come if we choose to divide ourselves further.

My prayers and deepest love go out to the families and victims of the September 11 attacks, and I pray that the tenth anniversary does not force a remembrance of the deep pain and divide that was experienced on that day and the years that followed, but calls us all to celebrate the energy of life that so tenderly continues to thrive in our world.

Remembering Ramadan

Tue, 02 Aug 2011 14:06:00 -0400

I received strange glances and expressions of doubt when I said that I would be fasting for Ramadan this year. What business does a non-Muslim have in fasting for Ramadan? What is there to gain from depriving yourself of food and water during some of the hottest and longest days of the year? Why should I care?

This month, I will attempt to engage in routine prayer and meditation. I will abstain from food and drink from sunrise to sunset, and a will make an effort to quell violent and hurtful thoughts and speech. I will attempt to read a significant amount of the Qur’an and New Testament and participate in volunteer and charity efforts that benefit the local or global community.

I am presented with an opportunity to grow in my humanity. This past year, I have constantly found myself over-committed and lacking time for proper reflection and growth. I look forward to taking this time to grow consciously – to nourish relationships, reflect on my goals and values, and grow in love, peace, and humility. In starving my senses, I become aware of the beauty of life that surrounds me. Participating in Ramadan is a test of my personal commitment and ability to set aside the year (and years) ahead for long-term and life-long inner transformation.

Ramadan, to me, is not a ritual shrouded in Oriental mystique, but a profound period of spiritual development and ascension that is practiced by dozens of my friends and colleagues, hundreds of Chicagoans, and thousands of Americans. In a society that often sets spirituality in the periphery of life, the chance to engage in a period of reflection and intention is an opportunity not to be missed.

I have been reminded that I am a non-Muslim. Having been raised in the Catholic tradition, I am familiar with periods of reflection and abstention, and have fond moments of looking forward to Lent as a time to grow closer to God. I still look forward to Lent as a time to focus on the spiritual dimensions of life, but as I grow as an interfaith leader and as I grow to recognize the inherent wisdom in the diverse spiritual expressions of humanity, I see the value in reaching beyond faith divisions and embracing those elements that will guide me on my journey to the Divine.

My decision to fast is also a multi-faceted act of solidarity. In doing so, I am not only standing in solidarity with all the hungry and suffering in the world and with Muslim brothers and sisters. I am standing with all who face persecution based on their religious identities. As we have seen in years passed, Muslims face discrimination and persecution in the United States and elsewhere. As an interfaith leader, I take issue and fight to counter not only this faith-based division, but all acts of faith-based division around the world.

In fasting, I hope to make a conscious commitment to continue my work in the world. Thousands around the world not only suffer from lack of food and water, but from lack of acceptance, love, understanding, and a place to call home. Let us all, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, take time to remember this reality and remember our power to change the world for the better during this month.

The Kalachakra and the Interfaith Movement

Wed, 13 Jul 2011 12:12:45 -0400

Images of bowed monks, throngs of observers, and a devoutly perched Dalai Lama upon a stage filled my head as I watched a live stream of the Kalachakra from Washington, DC. These were beautiful scenes, and the words that the Dalai Lama offered resonated with deep wisdom. Watching through a computer screen, I felt a pervading distance between myself and the ceremony. And yet, woven through these diverse images, there was a thread of unity and sincerity, as if I was absorbed into the scene, the ceremony, the ritual.

This ritual, the Kalachakra for World Peace, is an ancient Tibetan Buddhist ceremony that has been practiced for centuries, and this is the first time it has been brought to the capital of the United States. The ten-day event includes hours of teachings, powerful blessings and prayers, a spiritual initiation for participants, and the creation and destruction of the iconic sand mandala, dedicated to both individual and world peace and balance. The Kalachakra, open to the public, is attended by those who want to positively influence their own state of being and the state of the world through karmic implications.

I truly appreciate this opportunity for our nation to not only bear witness to this sincere and powerful event, but to grow in awareness of the rich wisdom found in the spiritual traditions of the world. A significant focus of the Kalachakra is the imparting of Buddhist wisdom to initiates and the public. The Kakachakra, for this brief week, is a part of the national and public discourse, and shows that interfaith awareness is a reality and ever-increasing need in our society. Public observers, such as Gabriel Riera, note the increasing desire for cross-cultural understanding, and religious understanding is an essential part of this societal thirst.

In this thirst, I sense a longing to break away from the barriers that our communities have established and so staunchly maintained – perceived dichotomies of the “Other.” In opportunities for dialogue through experience and learning, such as the Kalachakra, we slowly tear away at the illusory barriers that so confine our lives. The Kalachakra’s emphasis on unity – unity of self and unity of the world – embodies the integral realization of the interfaith movement. Breaking down the dichotomies of differentiation is not merely a social act but a wholly spiritual act that embodies a desire for effective change in the world. This theme echoes not only in the prayers of the monks and resounding wisdom of the Dalai Lama, but in the work of those who come together from different traditions to make change in their communities.

Washington serves as an auspicious womb for the service, for “His Holiness is conferring the Kalachakra empowerment in a location where local decisions affect multitudes around the world.” Many believe that the karmic energy produced by the Kalachakra will work to affect policymakers and leaders to bring about peace in the world. Many skeptics in my circles immediately condemned these efforts as mere wishful thinking, as another failed effort among a long list of efforts to reform our approach to governance and global relationships. Yet others are wholly drawn to this effort. How do we explain the mixed responses to the Kalachakra?

For those who cynically dismiss the Kalachakra, I would argue that they, like all others, have suffocated under barriers of division. They have established a clear definition of “reality” that does not bear the wasted time of creative solutions. For those who are drawn to this spiritual response to global crises, I would argue that they are acknowledging the changing role of religion and spirituality at this critical juncture in human history, when so much of how we live – how we think, interact, move, and communicate – has been radically transformed. With such strides in the profane world, many are left wondering how such changes will transform how we embrace and express the spiritual dimensions of the human person.

Many decry that faith has lost any “substantial” significance in the world, that faith and spiritual zeal are mere coping mechanisms. I see the Kalachakra and the wide-ranging interest in the ceremony as defying this perception, and it is an example of the way in which spirituality and interfaith engagement may be an asset in the struggle to radically change our world and perceptions. We must employ our spiritual voice as an effective voice in the national and global exchange of ideas and solutions.

Spirituality, in this century, must not be locked behind the closed doors of chapels and temples, in the quiet and soft confines of our living rooms, our buried in choking libraries. It must be taken into the streets and embraced and acknowledged as a catalyst for change. We must allow our faith and philosophical identities to guide us in an uncertain world. This should not be dismissed as mere good will, but seen as the sheer will of those who are weary of a failing world.

As we simultaneously grow strained in maintaining the boundaries of the “Other” in an interdependent world, we must recognize not only the power of spirituality in uniting us beyond our shortcomings, but also our common desire to change our interactions with one another by engaging the spiritual values of humanity.

While the Kalachakra continues into the week, karmic energy will be released into the world. I embrace this event as a hopeful turning point in how we engage spiritual values not only in the public and global discourse, but realize the power of engaging spirituality – the spirituality of our lives and the spirituality of others – as we work to bring peace to the world.

I thank the Dalai Lama for the wisdom he is imparting and for offering us hope in darkening times. The road ahead is long and uncertain. Let us embrace the power of spirituality and interfaith cooperation as a powerful and transformative essence of our time.

For more information on the Dalai Lama’s visit to the United States and on the Kalachakra, please visit - http://www.kalachakra2011.com/.

Rekindling the Embers

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 01:10:19 -0400

I had grown disillusioned. All past achievements seemed but a confused flurry. I had barely stepped off the plane in Chicago, returning from three weeks in Israel and Palestine, when I headed to a week-long training with the Interfaith Youth Core. After spending nearly a month in a region of the world marked by years of deep conflict and stark trauma, I had embraced the call of many skeptics. While interfaith cooperation is great, it does not mend the deep fissures in our world. The burning passion I once had for interfaith work was slowly dying.

I have been involved in interfaith work for several years, beginning in high school and most recently as an interfaith leader at DePaul University in Chicago and a student organizer of DePaul’s 2010-2011 Better Together Campaign. Now, I was on my way to be a mentor to hundreds of college students embracing interfaith action on their campuses. I felt as though my ability to be an honest mentor had been crushed by my pessimism. My thoughts drew me far away from the IFYC offices, but the Blue Line drew me ever closer.

Stepping into the hostel that would serve as our home for the week, I was drained by jetlag and doubt, but was soon refreshed when, on our first night as strangers in cramped hostel dorms, my peers and I shared those elements of our lives that constantly drew us to love, faith and cooperation. The flame stayed strong another night.

During our opening training session, the Coaches shared their personal stories of what brought them to the dream of making interfaith action a social norm.

Then it hit me.

I was in the midst of the true energy and face of this movement. This was the voice of a generation weary of our various histories of ignorance and intolerance. This was the voice of a generation ready to embrace the call to changing our world through respect, cooperation and courage. I recalled what drew me to interfaith work as a student, and why, as a spiritual individual, I was called to embrace a vision for the Kingdom of God on Earth. The flame was rekindled.

As a college student and concerned citizen of the world, I see interfaith cooperation – a respect for the diversity of worldviews and foundational belief systems – as not only an integral facet of what is needed for social action and change, but as a necessary aspect of our evolving world. As a Better Together organizer, I felt an energy that had been missing during my involvement in high school. It was a sense of unity, of pertinence, and of acceptance of a blazing call to action. I found this energy fully embodied once more in my fellow Coaches.

By the end of the week, we became not only well-versed in the methodology of mentorship and our roles as Coaches, but grew confident in our place in the movement. The flame that I had personally rekindled was nurtured communally by my peers. We accepted the call to pass this flame on to the organizers that we will mentor throughout the year.

I am excited and proud to serve as one of the ten Better Together Coaches for this year, and I look forward to spreading the call to interfaith cooperation and action. Our minds will be drawn elsewhere over the course of the year, and our hearts will beat to different rhythms as we continue along our path as students of the university and world, but we can be certain that our mutually inspiring presence and support will nurture and sustain the flame of interfaith service that burns in all of us.

This is a photo with Sheik Ibrahim at his Peace Center on the...

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 17:41:08 -0400

This is a photo with Sheik Ibrahim at his Peace Center on the Mt. of Olives. He was one of the most approachable, loved, kind, and respected men I have known. He welcomed me into his home for the night, shared with me his work with the Jerusalem Peacemakers, and took me and other international volunteers to a benefit concert on the outskirts of the Old City.

The End of an Adventure, the Beginning of a Journey

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 13:33:42 -0400

The morning call to prayer had not yet resounded through the walls of the Old City when the Interfaith Peace Builders delegation started to pack luggage bags onto the tour bus and offered final goodbyes to those who were staying behind in Jerusalem.

Under the haze of halted sleep and the glaze of a blank itinerary ahead, I departed from the delegation with which I had shared one of the most emotional experiences of my life. As the bus pulled away, I bid farewell to a second family, and as I stood absorbing the sounds of a stirring East Jerusalem, I asked myself: what is it that I took away from my experience?

For a while, I was not able to fully condense my experience into a few words, and I still believe that I am not able to truly express the fullness of this immersion. I came here with a goal; to see the conflict with my own eyes, to listen to Israelis and Palestinians with my own ears, and feel the rhythms of the pain and suffering in this tiny stretch of land with my own heart. I left successfully imbibed with personal truths and core insights that will undeniably shape my interaction with this conflict, and the world, for the rest of my life.

While I an neither Jewish nor Palestinian, I can not claim that this conflict is a separate reality from my daily life. I am integrally and deeply connected to what happens in Jerusalem, Ramallah, Sderot, Bil’in, Nabi Saleh, and the whole of Israel/Palestine.

I am an American. My tax dollars directly fuel this conflict, and while “aid” is given to both Israel and the Palestinian Authority, the continuance of an unrestricted financial funnel to Israel helps sustain a status quo of failed peace talks and painful Occupation.

I am a Christian. My brothers and sisters in faith, the Palestinian Christian communities, suffer through Israeli Occupation yet receive little support from Christian communities in the United States.

I am a human. I stood by and witnessed the blatant suffering of other beings and saw the pain labeled as a mere political impasse, as a secondhand situation that was the concern of politicians who had enough time and college students shopping for social issues.

As an American, a Christian, and a human, I cannot separate myself from the conflict and continued Occupation.

There is deep pain that exists in the collective ethos and memory of both Israelis and Palestinians, and this pain cannot be ignored, underemphasized, or delegitimized. The mother who lost her daughter in a rocket attack in Sderot is just as broken as the mother who lost her son in a raid in Nabi Saleh. Many Israelis feel deep connections to the memory of the Holocaust and sense that, in one way or another, the pain of the Holocaust is deeply connected to the existence of the State of Israel. The Palestinians feel the deep sorrow of years of exile and hostility from former neighbors and friends. They are continual strangers in continually strange lands, and they cannot return to their homes. This pain must be acknowledged and accepted, and this foundational cooperative recognition has been missing from many political and individual conversations.

More than in any other situation, how terms such as “Zionist,” “Occupation,” and “Resistance” are used takes on the vitality of a brutal murder. There are many definitions for these terms; some true, some false, and there are many associations that accompany such words and ideas. How terms are framed and defined in the context of a particular situation is critical, and a taboo has developed around such words due to the malleability and range of potential associations. Likewise, this malleability contributes to the anxiety and fear of discussing the issue of Occupation. Such open-ended arguments deter those who know little about the situation from pursuing further understanding.

There is a deep and powerful human element of this conflict that is not covered or shared by the media. My most powerful experiences came when sharing a simple meal, drink or game with a young man, a family, or a child. I met both Israelis and Palestinians that I would consider good friends, and while our political opinions were not always aligned, we shared the simple gift of human company. The presence of such humanity serves as a painful paradox. Discerning any potential political solution becomes significantly more challenging, while common human bonds establish a foundation that seems to make the solution as clear as ever.

There is a foundational misunderstanding regarding the “other” among both Israelis and Palestinians. A general and common characteristic among Israelis is a deep-seated existential fear and a constant weariness of the Arab “other,” a general mistrust of the Palestinians that inhabit the land only a few miles from their homes. They are so frozen in fear that no answer seems reasonable other than control and occupation, and any discussion regarding the Palestinians is avoided and snuffed. Likewise, the Palestinians often perceive all Israelis as oppressors, but they do not hear about the efforts of Israeli activists to end the Occupation and fight for the human rights of the Palestinian people.

In any case, a lack of dialogue, caused by both the restrictiveness of the Occupation and a general lack of foundational trust in one another, has contributed to the extended absence of cooperative efforts. While these may be generalizations, and while many may agree with me, these reflect my own personal experience in Israel/Palestine.

There is an obvious disparity of force in the conflict that cannot be ignored or denied. Israel has far more military capability and geographic control than the Palestinian people, and the force exerted from nonviolent or violent Palestinian protestors, Hamas attacks, or rebel extremists is not met equally by the unstoppable Israeli military machine. Nonviolent protests are often met with a hail of teargas, Palestinian children’s sense of safety is breached by night raids and security screenings, and farmers’ lives are halted by denied building permits and unjustifiable road blocks. The Palestinian people are domesticated within their own homeland, and they are not allowed to travel freely even in the entirety of the West Bank. There is disproportionate force, and there are actions Israel executes that cannot be justified for security or safety, but instead, for greed and fear.

The “Occupation” can no longer be thought of as a buzzword or political phrase, but as a reality that is affecting the lives of millions of people and claiming human lives, not political points, as its fodder. This calls for a dramatic reevaluation for the repercussions of the continued reality of the Israeli Occupation.

While people staunchly claim that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is a strictly secular conflict, we cannot ignore the profound influence that religious ideals and organizations can have in the lives of these people. Faith is not alien to Israelis or Palestinians, and these elements cannot be ignored as potential catalyzing agents for peace and social action.

Most importantly, I came to this experience hoping to learn more about the tools for dialogue and building bridges. While this was not a direct result of this delegation, and while I plan to continue to work to build bridges and to establish those foundational conversations that have been lacking in our approaches and evaluations, I learned a great deal about opposition to traditional dialogue.

Dialogue assumes an equal footing when coming to the discussion. Dialogue assumes that both parties are equal participants engaging in a discussion where the outcome may be contingent on this equality. For many opposed to traditional dialogue, Israelis and Palestinians are not assumed to be on equal footing. Dialogue assumes equality of circumstances, and the whole call to dialogue, from many parties, fails to fully embrace the reality that there is a stark inequality.

Similarly, dialogue encourages the process of normalization in which a false sense of security and identity is created and the issues are ignored, as if attempting to paint a portrait over a chipped and cracked slab of aging drywall. The only dialogue that some will accept is a dialogue that is based in the common value of ending the Occupation and ending the human suffering that is a direct result of the Occupation. This insight was new and fresh, and I could fully empathize with this, but as an interfaith leader and as a student committed to fostering dialogue, where was I to go from here?

While I learned and experienced a great deal during the delegation, there were also questions that fatefully developed and brooded over time and continue to do so.

A big concern of mine involves communities of faith. What role do faith-based institutions play in this conflict, and what role should the Christian community play in this situation? As a Catholic and as someone deeply moved by the social justice advocacy of St Vincent DePaul and the Vincentians, how do I advocate for my faith community to take a firmer stance and have a stronger opinion in opposition to the Occupation?

As an interfaith leader, I have grown concerned with the usefulness of interfaith efforts in the conflict. What role should interfaith cooperation and interfaith social justice initiatives play in the conflict, if any? What role would it have in the community and the community ethos? At what point does dialogue turn into advocacy, and advocacy into selfless action?

As a young person, I see great potential in the global connectivity of the youth and the energy of the Arab youth strengthened by the continuing Arab Spring. What role will American youth serve in the alleviation of this conflict? In what ways can we urge the Palestinians and Israelis to peace, to establishing a foundation that only they can construct with their own hands and hearts and words? How can we fully and effectively support Palestinian youth in nonviolent resistance efforts?

Lastly, is dialogue possible? I am returning to campus hoping to spur a long-overdue dialogue around this issue. This is something that has been missing on campus, as indicated by the recent lack of honest exchange in DePaul University’s Sabra Campaign, and has not addressed the real issues and deep core of the argument, as indicated by the dissatisfaction of many students with past efforts. Can an honest, powerful dialogue exist, and can college students and campuses embrace this call to truthful awareness and dialogue that goes beyond simple understanding but seeks to mutually and creatively address, acknowledge, and mend the deep cracks at the core of who we are as beings?

As one can see by the number of questions I pose to myself and the larger universe, I have not become an expert on the conflict by spending three weeks in that corner of the globe. While I have become more informed, more engaged, and more aware and critical, I have not solved, nor do I intend to single-handedly solve, the conflict. What I experienced was deeply personal but reflects several deep realities of the situation in Israel/Palestine.

I now transition back into my life back home in Chicago. While I may fall into the lull of a summer job and while the encroaching academic quarters may loom over me from afar, I know that I will never be the same. The suffering is too real, the complacency, too blatant. I intend to continually improve and shape my own understanding of current events and the ever-malleable future of the region, and I invite you all to be co-adventurers, and co-writers, in and of this profound journey.

Peter Dziedzic

Saturday, June 11, 2011 – Chicago

DePaul's Sabra Campaign - A Failed Opportunity for Dialogue

Sun, 26 Jun 2011 12:31:36 -0400

https://www.cairchicago.org/2011/06/23/controversy-demands-discourse-not-dismissal-the-case-with-israel-and-palestine/

Alice Walker: Why I'm joining the Freedom Flotilla to Gaza

Sun, 26 Jun 2011 12:28:26 -0400

Alice Walker: Why I'm joining the Freedom Flotilla to Gaza

Israel’s military begins moving Bil’in security fence

Sun, 26 Jun 2011 12:27:19 -0400

Israel’s military begins moving Bil’in security fence

The 2011-2012 Better Together Coaches, working to make...

Fri, 17 Jun 2011 11:37:28 -0400

The 2011-2012 Better Together Coaches, working to make interfaith action a priority in the United States.

Catholics and Muslims in America

Fri, 17 Jun 2011 11:23:01 -0400

Catholics and Muslims in America

The Dying Heart of the World

Fri, 17 Jun 2011 01:06:00 -0400

It has taken me a while to sit down and write this entry. I feel as though words will only take away from the experience I have had, and yet, I feel that it is necessary to articulate this reality in some way. Today, as we journeyed through the city of Hebron, a large city in the southern West Bank, I not only felt as though I was continuing on my journey of profound emotional transformation. I also felt as though I had entered a deeply significant area – an axis mundi of world conflict, a dim-lit stage for human failure, a clogged Heart of the World.

Hebron is divided into two areas, respectively controlled by Israeli and Palestinian authorities, and we entered through the Israeli territory in order to visit a deeply spiritual site for all three of the Abrahamic traditions, the Tomb of the Patriarchs. A mosque and a synagogue share the complex, and one must go through heavy security to access both sanctuaries. While the perimeter was dominated by security guards, metal detectors, and barbed wire, the interiors of both the synagogue and mosque were serene, vibrant, as if the deep conflict could permeate all else but these ancient stone walls.

Both sanctuaries look upon the same representational tombs (the actual proposed tombs are underground), and Muslims and Jews will often have the opportunity of a quick glance at the other past the bars and tombs. It is as if the Prophets still continue their work by inviting both Jews and Muslims to look upon the face of the “other” which has become demonized, a profound reality and forced schism in this conflict.

After our visit to the Tomb of the Patriarchs, our delegation took a tour of Hebron. We began by walking through the now desolate downtown Hebron, which used to be an area of heavy traffic and many businesses. However, after Israeli occupation, many Arabs were forced out of their homes and respective businesses, and the shops were closed. Now, when walking down the streets, one finds only one or two shops open. Downtown Hebron is now a wasteland, a dried artery, and homes that once belonged to Arab families was now in the possession of Israeli settlers or left empty.

Next, we continued on through the city and passed through streets and alleys that were now more populated, but scarred by a laced shadow from above. Peering up, I noticed a canopy. Our guide explained that the canopy catches the trash thrown out the windows by Israeli settlers above. There are stories of Palestinians being drenched in wastewater and settlers throwing dangerous objects such as glass and knifes that injure and sometimes kill pedestrians below.

We then made our way to the checkpoint that lead to the Israeli-controlled zone of the city, which was reached only after passing through an invasive checkpoint and a thorough questioning by Israeli forces. As the guard spent a few minutes checking over my passport and reaffirming my American identity a few times, I noticed his heavy armor and top-end rifle, one of the most menacing pieces of weaponry I had seen.

I also looked above, and noticed soldiers and snipers overlooking the Palestinians – young boys playing football and hustling mothers, mostly – below. The soldier waved me through with an indifferent glance, and yet, I did not feel that same indifference permeated the city.

We climbed up a narrow alley to reach our guide’s old house, a weathered edifice. The home was confiscated by Israelis and occupied for many years by an Israeli family but reclaimed after a long string of court cases. Making our way through the house and to the balcony, we looked beyond a long mire of barbed wire and fencing to the adjacent building – another home occupied by Israeli settlers. The settler looked at us, displaying his polished rifle. By his side was his young son, occupying himself with the warm summer day. This time, however, there was no indifference in his eyes.

There was hate.

Hebron is a city beyond division and segregation, but a city saturated with injustice and insecurity. Walking through the streets, seeing the closed shops, speaking to the residents, and witnessing Israeli existential anxiety manifested in hidden cameras, well-stocked soldiers, impenetrable walls and humiliating checkpoints, I felt as thought Hebron was the epicenter and microcosm of my entire journey.

And yet, I felt it went even beyond this. Here, where injustice was so deeply embedded in the daily reality of the Palestinians and insecurity so deeply ingrained into the Israelis, I felt as though I was at the center of our failure as human beings. Here, humanity has failed at every turn, and here, hatred and injustice thrives. I was at the Heart of the World, and it was this heart that has known the thousands of years of pain, suffering and injustice as we have attempted to understand, define, and empower, and transcend ourselves.

And while the heart beats from Sudan and Tibet and Colombia and from all corners of the world where humanity has failed to stop the dominance of injustice and hate, it was here, on this day, that I felt the pulse emanate from the littered streets, glinting hilts, and stone barriers of Hebron.

Peter Dziedzic

Wednesday, June 1, 2011 – Hebron

The rest of my Israel/Palestine blogs are on their way - right now I’m attending a one-week...

Wed, 15 Jun 2011 14:21:14 -0400

The rest of my Israel/Palestine blogs are on their way - right now I’m attending a one-week intensive training with the Interfaith Youth Core for Better Together Coach training and summer internship preparation. We’re working to make interfaith cooperation a social norm in the United States. More to come (from Israel/Palestine and from my Better Together training) soon!

In Sderot, near the Gaza Strip, parts of the playground also...

Tue, 14 Jun 2011 01:16:00 -0400

In Sderot, near the Gaza Strip, parts of the playground also serve as bomb shelters.

Ruins of the destroyed Arab village of Damoun in the Galilee...

Tue, 14 Jun 2011 00:55:00 -0400

Ruins of the destroyed Arab village of Damoun in the Galilee region.

I was in Bil’in a few days before it happened, and I spent...

Tue, 14 Jun 2011 00:50:35 -0400

I was in Bil’in a few days before it happened, and I spent a night at the home of a Bil’in family, which was mere meters from this site.

"The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger..."

Tue, 14 Jun 2011 00:47:10 -0400

““The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.””

- Frederick Buechner

The Lost Humanity - Discovery in Deheisheh and Bil'in

Tue, 14 Jun 2011 00:44:07 -0400

These past three days have been more powerful than I could have ever imagined, and I feel as though any experience I had cannot be fully and justly conveyed in words. This weekend, my heart was both crushed and fortified, my spirit, drowned and revived.

After spending most of our nights at the Holy Land Hotel in East Jerusalem, we were excited to be able spend three nights in a different setting. We were to spend one night at the Deheisheh Refugee Camp, one night in a Nazareth Hostel, and another in homestays in the Palestinian village of Bil’in. We left uncertain of how the weekend would turn out, and it was this uncertainty that kept us united as a conscious community in pursuit of the facets of this conflict and as eager individuals ready to further immerse ourselves in Palestinian society. Friday morning, we toured Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Memorial in West Jerusalem, and in the afternoon we participated in a protest organized by Women in Black, an Israeli organization that works to end the Occupation. After spending the early morning in West Jerusalem, we made our way for Deheisheh Camp near Bethlehem.

As soon as we got to Deheisheh Camp, we were welcomed with great hospitality at the Phoenix Center, a community center and hub of cultural, civil, and education activities and opportunities for the refugees of Deheisheh Camp. After dropping off our bags at the guesthouse, we were given a tour of the camp. Stepping through piles of rubble and trash and seeking shade among the shadows of unfinished and damaged buildings, the warmth and smiles of the people contrasted with the starkness of the vast sea of crumbled concrete and the odor of sewage and trash. As we walked, children and families waved from above while others shyly ducked inside.

Our guide offered his insight into Israeli presence in Deheisheh. IDF soldiers come to the village at least two times a week, searching and often damaging houses and arresting young men with little or no explanation. Most of the young men in Deheisheh have been imprisoned by the IDF at least once (many, more than once), and there is little economic opportunity due to restricted travel within the West Bank. Many have never been to Jerusalem, a matter of minutes away, because of the Apartheid/Security Wall and the checkpoints. The guide offered another example of the effects of Israeli occupation that focused on water access. According to the guide, near Dheisheh, there is a sizeable aquifer, but the citizens are allowed access to water for only one week each month (while the Israeli settlements a few miles away are allowed unlimited access), and the water is stored in infamous large black basins on rooftops.

After finishing our tour, we met with the proprietors of the Phoenix Center, Suhair and Naji. Naji, a dedicated man, shared the great success of the community center as a place for cultural exchange and dissemination, learning, and the arts. Suhair, Naji’s wife, shared her anxiety as a mother, and constantly fears for the safety and future of her children in Deheisheh, where there are few opportunities for personal or professional growth. A few of us spent the night in the community, where we got to meet with local youth, who shared similar concerns – Due to the Occupation, people cannot travel to Jerusalem freely, cannot travel to other parts of the West Bank for work, and are stuck in detrimental economic situations. I spent several hours talking with a young man by the name of Mohammed who, after sharing a passionate plea to share his story back home, invited us into his house, where we were greeted warmly by a large family and endless cups of tea and coffee. Mohammed’s sudden change from frustration and hopelessness to life and hospitality, which seemed so natural and welcoming, was so very heartbreaking to me. Mohammed has asked that I share his story and the story of Deheisheh with all of you.

After our time in Deheisheh, we spent a day in Nazareth, a predominantly Arab town and the main stop for many Christian pilgrimage groups. We met with several NGOs, and the next morning, we made our way to Nabi Salih, a village of around 600 in the central West Bank, where the presenters opened their home to us and showed us several affects of IDF responses to protests both physically in the home and through home videos of clashes with protesters.

We left Nabi Salih and arrived in Bil’in, a small Palestinian village that has received media attention due to their legal cases against the Wall, the Israeli confiscation of farmers’ land, and regular protests. While I had the chance to review several articles on Bil’in before arrival, I was not prepared for witnessing the reality of the situation. Bil’in protesters are often met with tear gas and skunk water, pungent fluid sprayed on protesters which forces them to disperse. Meeting the rancid stench of the water, which had soaked into the grass and dirt, and seeing the hundreds upon hundreds of empty tear gas canisters made my stomach churn with anxiety, uncertainty, and anger.

One of the highlights of the Bil’in experience was the opportunity to stay with a family. I, along with four other delegates, were assigned to a large family that lived in an apartment above a convenience store – a middle-age couple and their four children. While the family spoke very little English and the first hour was consumed by an awkward silence and separation, this was slowly broken. The family’s balcony opens up to an incomplete building story, which, due to funding constraints, was transformed from a soon-to-be apartment to a field of crumbled concrete and trash. We decided to sleep here, embracing the cool night and the open space to play with the kids. While we had little verbal communication opportunities beyond an impromptu Arabic lesion from the kids, we soon connected over a near-universal element in our modern world – football. The boys brought out a weathered soccer ball, and the hours passed as we were entertained and sharing in this simple pleasure.

The boys went to bed late, having to wake up for school early the next day, and we were left to sleep on the concrete platform with the cacophony of the night and the silence of the stars. I now had time to reflect, to make sense of the flurry of thoughts and emotions running through me. This was the moment where I was faced with the deep human element of the conflict. The facts and opinions had been obliterated, the stories and headlines, gone in a wisp of smoke, leaving only the empty tear gas canisters, the confused labyrinths of barbed wire, the laughter of the young boys, and the half-deflated soccer ball to stand as beacons in the night. What had these boys done to deserve this kind of fear and threat? Do the attacks of others justify the lack of opportunities and life for these children? What will be the fate of this family, who can barely move around their own country while we Americans can skip through freely? Even below these concerns lay an even subtler realization – even in the face of the Occupation, before the grave and real threat of suffocated life, the life and love of these people and families has not been shattered. My experience with Sami Awad’s speech came to mind, and here too I realized that the Palestinians have not lost hope.

But what should my role be in ensuring that these sturdy flames of hope and life remain? As Americans, we play a profound role in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and as such, it is our duty to raise consciousness within our communities back home. When we read the headlines, do we consider the human element? Do we consider that beyond the dry ink and frail page there exists a deep, struggling humanity? After this experience, I felt not only humble and a sense of profound love, but also a duty to make others aware of the humanity at stake in this conflict. This is not a struggle for mere land, resources, and righteousness. This is a struggle for the soul of humanity, nestled in the womb of this land, fractured and worn like broken glass, and begging for acceptance and justice.

We left the homestay knowing that, more than likely, this would be a final goodbye. While we will each fade into the memory of the other, it will be hard to forget the experience I had here in Bil’in, where a welcoming father, a smiling mother, and four young, energetic boys revealed to me the soul of humanity. Exchanging goodbyes and gifts, we left once again for Jerusalem.

Peter Dziedzic

Sunday, May 29, 2011 – East Jerusalem

One Day In Bethlehem

Tue, 14 Jun 2011 00:27:24 -0400

Normally, I walk away from meetings and presentations informed, not inspired, and I leave with facts, not a glow in my eyes. Our day in Bethlehem was not a normal day, and I was left enthralled.

After our meeting with the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs in Jerusalem, which offered insight into the humanitarian situations in the Gaza Strip and West Bank, and before our meeting with the Badil Center, which advocates for the legal rights of Palestinian refugees within and outside of the Israel/Palestinian territory, we met with the Holy Land Trust, a Bethlehem-based NGO that advocates and nurtures the Palestinian nonviolence movement.

As we arranged ourselves in a circle in a cozy room in the Trust’s office, Awad walked in, introduced himself, and began his story. He shared with us his childhood memories, his growth through adulthood, the family influences and life experiences that inspired him to pursue his work, and many other tidbits a speaker would often offer. Awad, however, left us with something the other presentations did not – hope. While the other meetings shared with us the facts and details of the occupation as it stands today and the development of the occupation over the past few decades, Awad focused only on the future – on the energy sweeping the world, the powerful yearning of the Palestinian people, and the projected victory of the nonviolent struggle for human rights in Palestine.

Nonviolent resistance is being pursued not only by Awad and the Holy Land Trust, but by Palestinians across the Territories and the world, and while mainstream media refuses to focus on the powerful efforts and strides of the organizations and individuals that stand peacefully in the face of the suffocating effects of the Occupation, this is the present reality and future arc of the destiny of the Palestinian people. And while I still believe this to be true, what Awad shared next transformed my understanding.

“The Palestinian people will not be free until the Israeli people are free.”

There will be no end to the current conflict until Israelis, facing deep existential fears, are assured their continued and mutual survival, and the Occupation will not end without Israeli cooperation. Nonviolent peacebuilding is not possible solely on the Palestinian front. Israelis cannot be absent from any societal and foundational, human accord (the only kind of agreement that while suffice in this conflict), and Israelis must willingly be a part of the transformative process, a deep, foundational understanding and acceptance that goes beyond the current fears and anxieties both Israelis and Palestinians face. It is a process that will not yield results today or tomorrow, but is an integral aspect of the long journey towards a just resolution to this conflict and towards Palestinian self-determination. Freedom is not exclusive, it is communal, and safety is not built by walls and isolation, but by healing and acceptance.

Peter Dziedzic

Wednesday, May 25, 2011 – Bethlehem

The Same Hands

Mon, 13 Jun 2011 23:41:21 -0400

Today was a day to banish barriers; to dispel fears, calm nerves, and go beyond myself and embrace the larger journey and narrative that I can no longer avoid. Today was a day to remember how powerful hands – extended in love, mangled in prayer, or raised for vengeance – really can be. Today turned out to be such a day.

Monday night, I joined two of my fellow delegates on a journey from Palestinian EastJerusalem into Israeli West Jerusalem. Walking the hushed and darkened streets of East Jerusalem, our home for the next few days, I did not expect to finds much variation among the limestone spires that suffocated these ancient avenues. However, as we crossedHaShalom Road, the old border between Israel and Jordan, we noticed a stark difference as we traversed roads that soon turned into a brightly lit network of roads that appeared to be the heart of the New City, West Jerusalem. The well-kempt roads, vibrating with the clatter and tunes from nearby pubs and nightclubs and wafting with the incense of falafel stands and burger stops, bore the birthmark of a Western capital, not a Middle Eastern metropolis.Western Jerusalem is as eclectic as it is energetic, with Orthodox communities blending into obviously secular Jewish communities without a blink. Far more obvious, however, was the blatant and sudden disparity between East and West Jerusalem, areas sectioned offer by a few meters of pavement. This disparity seemed to set the prelude for our journey, and hardened me for the day ahead.

Tuesday began with a morning tour of Jerusalem, a city that often begged my imagination over the years and served as foundational myth in my understanding of the world. Here was the city that inspired my interest in interfaith work. Here was the city that was the goal, grave, and gathering of the centuries, and here was the city that was seemingly offered to me as a three-hour stop on a tourist circuit. This was not how I wanted to be introduced to the city that had tantalized my thoughts for years, but ultimately, I accepted the fact. With the throngs of tour groups and queues, I feared that commercialism and desensitization had engulfed the city. I found welcoming nuances. The crowds and cameras are hard to miss, butJerusalem, the spiritual capital of the world, still whispers the primordial songs of the centuries. The resounding azan, the cacophony of the winding stone closes, the mutters of praying priests and prying boys, and the soft euphoria of offering a prayer at the Wailing Wall during the call for noon prayer offer a sensory window into this microcosm of the world.

And yet, I found obvious marks of conflict. Jewish settlements established in the Muslim and Christian quarters of the city seemed to have angered some residents. Security was necessary to enter major holy sites. The political conflict among Christians caused (and still causes) deep division among the various administrative denominations. Amongst the wafting incense and whispered prayers, conflict and uncertainty were as regular as the calls to prayer.

In the afternoon and evening, we had a presentation and tour with a representative from the Israeli Coalition Against House Demolitions (ICAHD – http://www.icahd.org/). The discussion itself offered mostly well-known information and offered several interesting visual aids, but the tour that followed was unsettling. We drove southeast of Jerusalem past East Telpiot and to a hill that overlooks the villages and settlements east of Jerusalem. We saw how East Jerusalem, the hopeful capitol of any potential Palestinian state, was slowly being cut off by the Apartheid/Security Wall and growing settlements that are expanded by encroaching into Palestinian villages. We then drove through the valley between the overlook and the Mount of Olives, passing through settlements and villages and noticing the stark contrast between the poverty and underdevelopment of the villages and the clean and well-established settlement communities. Most surprising, however, was the fact that these communities existed side-by-side, making a sudden and defined transition. These are not only physical barriers, but psychological and emotional barriers, established where none should naturally exist.

As we drove through the Palestinian communities, we passed a variety of people. We encountered a warm and humble Palestinian family that, while picking grapes, called us over to share (or buy) their harvest. A block later, we encountered a group of young boys who, though initially cheery, offered jeers as we passed. A few moments later, a stone hit the side of the bus. This was a powerful moment for many people in the group and realizing how out of place we were in the community forced us to reflect not only on our social locations, but our presence in the local community.

Our tour ended in a very well-established settlement, Ma’alae Admoin, which boasts thousands of residents, tamed foliage and lawns, and a high-end shopping mall that would rival anything back home. Ma’alae Admoin could not be distinguished from a gated community in Orange County. And yet, it existed at the edges of the disputed Palestinian territories and faced a Palestinian community that was just across the valley, slated to be sectioned off by the Apartheid/Security Wall.

During our group discussion at night, we talked about how to face such systems of oppression. Who are we to blame? Where does individual responsibility end and system condemnation begin? What will work to challenge such systems of oppression? This is an on-going conversation here, among our tiny delegation, and in communities back home and around the world. It is a conversation that is not only organic, but transformative.

This is a picture of a young boy sitting on a rooftop patio, offering a friendly and excited wave from behind the barred gate. This was not only one of the most beautiful pictures, but also one of the saddest. Here was a picture that summarized my day as we passed through warm and welcoming communities that were slowly being suffocated by social, physical, and psychological bars. Will we be able reach beyond the bars and embrace and fight for that common humanity, or will we connect only through these brief and fading pictures snatched in the moment. From my experience so far, the latter seems far from unimaginable. It is impossible in the face of this reality and in possession of these empty, trembling and outreached hands.

Peter Dziedzic

Tuesday, May 24, 2011 – East Jerusalem