Tzipiyah.com

Last month I spent a day in the hometown of today’s murderer.

I was in East Jerusalem on an organized trip in which Jewish men and women explore and experience the Israeli-Palestinian conflict through interaction and dialogue with those of the latter group.

On the most basic level I can say that the trip was intense and meaningful; and yet I have been unsure as to what I want to say about it. I have been contemplating and procrastinating and waiting. Time passes and truths change and old experiences must be adapted to new realities.

And, thus, the reality of today’s horrific terrorist attack certainly demands careful reconsideration.

East Jerusalem was foreign to me. It was a Jerusalem I didn’t know existed and it was a Jerusalem that belied the “Unified Jerusalem” signs that hung amongst the streets of my Jerusalem. It was a Jerusalem that revealed contradiction and complicated the simplicity of what I always believed.

We toured the area with Ashraf Khatib, a field officer for the Negotiations Support Unit, and I walked along the “security fence” and I touched it and felt the paradox of physical manifestations as means of solving deep social conflict. We listened to an impressive presentation delivered by Walid Salem, of the Center for Democracy and Community Development and we sat in intimate conversation with Palestinian East Jerusalem residents.

The visual representation of the nature of the conflict was awfully powerful. Much of the value of the situation lay in the essence of the encounter. The ability and willingness to listen to the other provides great meaning.

There were moments, however, when speaking with Ashraf and Walim, that I realized the complexity of the situation: we are dealing with professionals who, despite genuine motives, eventually resort to formal rhetoric. When a Jewish participant inquired about the possibility of improvement of interpersonal relationships between the Palestinians and the Israelis, Ashraf, almost mechanically, responded that the solution to this issue is for the Israeli government to comply with the demands of the British Mandate.

Instead of remaining on the level of the micro, Ashraf resorted to the micro: he defines the personal question of relationships in terms of land and borders and thus obscures the essence of the conflict. It is a dynamic conflict involving people and feelings rather than technicalities of land and borders and straight lines. It is the question of rhetoric versus relationships.

With all the apparent paradox, though, the conversation and games with the Palestinian residents provided genuine dialogue. I heard the Palestinian narrative; I heard an underrepresented view. It was a moment in which stereotypes were shed; labels removed; and a sense of unity and humanistic empathy created. My most basic sensitivity to the plight of another human being and the understanding of human experience was aroused. They spoke of family, of friends, and of community; for a moment we shared a language.

The content of the dialogue was intense and complex: the definition of peace itself was unclear; and yet the mere ability and willingness to listen and appreciate the other weaved a delicate sense of togetherness.

I returned to West Jerusalem with appreciation and hope.

And yet:

It was late and I went to pick up my bike which I had left locked in a park. And yet, when I arrived at the park my bike was gone. Stolen.

There was a police officer nearby. He saw what had happened: “Why’d you leave your bike here? It was an Arab who stole it—obviously. It always happens.”

And without a moment for me to react, he drove away.

And then:

A Palestinian construction work plows his bulldozer into a bus and pedestrians and cars in the center of Jerusalem. He deliberately murders Israelis and wounds at least forty others. He crushed them; he crushed us—all of us.

What do they want? And who are They, anyway? Because They told me they wanted peace and claimed support for non-violence conflict resolution and yet They want to steal and kill and disturb the social order.

And truthfully, I believe both of Them. I truly believed those Palestinians when they smiled and we sat in the confines of the American Colony Hotel and they told me of pain and aggravation and hope.

But then I returned the mundane happenings of life; and as much as I wanted to yell at the police officer for the-matter-of-fact manner with which he asserted a Palestinian had stolen my bike, inside I believed it as well. And a month later, I believe that murderer today, whose hometown I had visited, when he brutally killed three human-beings and caused me pain and aggravation and told me he doesn’t want peace.

My hope, though, I’m unsure about: I’m not sure what’s left of it; I’m not sure what will be of it; and I’m not sure who’s in control of it.