'It's Our Life': Theological Reflection in a Low Time

Our group of Ecumenical Accompaniers has been here now for one half of our three-month period of service. At this time, every group takes a week that is known variously as "Israeli Exposure Week," (because we do intentionally take a listen, as well as a look, at what Israelis and Israeli organizations are thinking and saying and doing about the occupation) and as "Mid-term Evaluation" (because we do -- evaluate, check in, update, etc.)

Part of that week's activity includes a brief presentation by each team (there are six teams, you may recall, each in a different site in the West Bank and Jerusalem) about its placement and the team's experience. It fell to me to conclude our Jayyous team's presentation with a brief theological reflection. I found that to be a harder assignment then I expected. It's not surprising for EAs, I think, to go through some real ups and downs of feeling during their time here, and I have been going through a "down" lately. The pain and the seeming intractability of the occupation have worn me down. I found it hard to bring our presentation to anything like a hopeful conclusion.

So I ended up preparing a "theological reflection for a low time." God knows (and yes, I mean that literally, God knows) that we humans have our low times. I believe God sits patiently with our complaints, not expecting that our faith is supposed to make us constantly cheerful and upbeat in the midst of misery. I believe in a God of low times. So, below, slightly edited for print, my reflection for my low time.

Walking one morning to the Jayyous South Agricultural Gate, whose traffic we monitor a couple times a week, my Norwegian teammate Cecilie and I discovered we’d both been simultaneously thinking about people’s sadness here in Jayyous and in the West Bank. People here live with horrible loss – of identity, of property, of livelihood, of loved ones to prison and to emigration -- compounded by endless uncertainty and constant constriction of movement, opportunity, possibility. I don’t want to stereotype Palestinians as gloomy, still less as self-pitying. We meet daily people who are incredibly resilient, good-natured, humorous, charming, undefeated even when the most mundane activities of daily live are fraught with abuse and humiliation. But there is a palpable sense of loss in the air, and people say almost routinely that “life here is very bad.” Occupation is a spiritual state as well as a military and political one.

I’m impressed by how frequently people tell us a story about themselves and their lives under occupation, and conclude by saying, “It’s our life,” sometimes with a little shrug.

Abed, our favorite taxi driver, father of four, owner of farmland he cannot access because he has no permit… has a history of resistance to occupation as a participant in demonstrations, student and community organizations and other protest activities, as did his father before him, and as Abed expects his adolescent son will soon follow in the family tradition of resistance. Abed has been in prison, has watched his parents and daughter beaten by Israeli soldiers, coaches a prizewinning boys’ volleyball team … “It’s our life….”

Mohammed, the proprietor of the tiny grocery market on our corner where we purchase most of our staples, has more than once told me about sitting alone in his bedroom and weeping because he is unable to give to his children the ordinary things a feels a father must provide: everything from clothing to education, neither of which Mohammed can afford. He used to have a permit to access and work his land, but he no longer can get one, so he supports his family by keeping himself in constant debt for the stock, the rent, the utility bills to keep the store open. “My son asks me for a shirt, and I can’t give it to him. If I can’t pay for a shirt, how can I pay for his university fees? How can a father not give his children the things they need? I don’t know… it’s our life…”

Abdullah, a friend in the next town, has a nine-year-old daughter named Mei, who is brain-damaged; she moves awkwardly, and cannot speak, although she seems to hear normally and understand much of what she is told. “She is damaged because of the occupation. She was exposed to tear gas in utero; my wife was pregnant with her when the Israeli army raided our home… It’s our life…”

"It's our life..."

“I came that you might have life, and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10)

These are the words of Jesus, usually interpreted as a promise to Jesus’ followers. The life of Palestinians living in Jayyous under occupation is the opposite of abundant. Here in northern Palestine, in some of the country’s richest farmland, acres of fruit trees and crops have been destroyed to open the route of the Wall; productive lands are confiscated for the use of Israeli settlers, or simply to provide a buffer of “security” between the settlers and the Palestinians on the other side of the Wall. People’s future possibilities contract along with the income they are unable to earn because they cannot cultivate their lands and have no other job opportunities. The promise seems very far away.

“Lo, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20)

Cecilie and I seem to have what turn out to be theological conversations while we’re monitoring the South Gate. A few weeks after the one that began this reflection, we were talking with each other about the intractability of the Palestinian situation, and how there are those awful moments when it just “gets” to us. Of course, we always feel it – but there are those moments when the frustration, the pain, the seeming stupidity and pettiness, the utter obviousness of the abuse occupation brings, along with our own helplessness in the face of it, just, well… get to us.

“What can we do?” we asked each other. “What’s the point of our being here?”

When it comes to helping someone, I want to do something. I want to know what will make it better and do it, preferably immediately. And I want to see immediate effect. So I remind myself, sometimes with considerable effort, that pastoral care is, essentially, being there. Like every pastor, I have sat beside people on their deathbeds, or with family members waiting for the awful moment when they will be told that the loved one has passed away. What do I do? What’s the point? I am there, trying to be a loving, accepting, comforting presence. Just that.

Yes, occasionally our presence as international observers in the occupied West Bank actually helps someone get a modest amount of better treatment from, say, the army: sometimes a person who was about to be refused entry through the agricultural gate may get through, simply because we are watching, or we make a call to the Humanitarian Hotline or Machsom (Checkpoint) Watch. There are tiny moments of tangible improvement, even if that’s all it is: a tiny moment.

But mostly, we are here, because our presence says to these people, “You are not alone. You are not invisible. You are cared about. We will tell your story.”

I mulled over the following words before saying them to Cecilie, because I don’t want it to sound like I think of pastoral care only as a last resort, or as giving up. But, OK, let me say it: at the moment when it all gets to you, pastoral care may be just what you can do when you can’t do anything else.
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I was sent by the Common Board of Global Ministries of the United Church of Christ (UCC) and the Christian Church, Disciples of Christ, and Church World Service, to participate in the World Council of Churches’ (WCC’s) Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme in Palestine and Israel (EAPPI). The views contained herein are personal and do not necessarily reflect those of the Common Board of Global Ministries, the UCC or the WCC. If you would like to publish the information contained here or disseminate it further, please first contact the EAPPI Coordination (eappi-co@jrol.com) for permission. Thank you.