Defining Truth: Two Sides to Every Wall

Today’s lesson is to try to define truth. The peace-makers often say “my truth” and “your truth,” but can truth also be objective? Depends on who you talk to…

I have crossed the Wall.(Kind of like in Stardust, except sans Robert De Niro in a tutu.) As a non-Israeli citizen, I am allowed to cross into the West Bank at my leisure. (Actually, anyone can cross in – it’s getting back into Israel that’s the issue.) Four of us Ultimate Peace coaches gathered for the first formal practice in the West Bank in about a year. The kids had been practicing on their own for a while, but UP now has a volunteer, Ben, living just outside of Bethlehem to establish more consistent programming. (Incidentally, this guy actually played for my club team’s rival based out of Atlanta. Small world!) On the drive in, my fellow coach and new friend Johanna and I tried to recap the West Bank’s history – piecing together which Intifada did what and elected whom and was recognized by which countries and how all that relates to the current political state of Palestine. It was a lengthy, convoluted conversation against the backdrop of a simple city – hotels, restaurants, supply stores, couches and dresses for sale on the sidewalk, etc. As we waited for our caravan on the side of the road, I felt a small, cold slap against the back of my head and something drop down between my lower back and the seat.
Cringing, I turned to find half of an orange slice. I have no idea how it got in through the crack in the window or if its thrower had malicious intent or just thought it would be funny to throw fruit at the white girls. I showed Johanna, who has been working in the West Bank for a number of years, and she laughed at me. This was the extent of hostility (or bizarre coincidences mistaken for hostility) that I would encounter in my time there.

Despite my love for unraveling the entanglements of geo-socio-economic-political-ecclesiastical-hormonal social constructs, I’ve found no greater joy while living here than the simple act of cheering on exuberant ankle-biters whose language I can’t speak. For many years, I have avowed that I am terrified of children. And yet, I continue to insert myself into their inner sanctums – school yards, tutoring sessions, frisbee fields. And I keep coming away from the experience bleary-eyed and marveling at how revitalizing their spirits can be for those of us who are sloshing through the real world, sodden in self-importance. With children and with ultimate, the rules are clear and unassuming. Practice comprised of drills, laughter, sweat, frustration, compromise, high fives, and a bit of horsing around. We did a cutting drill and then asked the kids to scrimmage. Every time we transitioned to a new activity, they would take the opportunity to throw hammers (an upside-down throw) into the basketball hoop from the other side of the court. I made it on the first try (thank you very much), after which I decided to retire and donate my millions to establishing a nonprofit for the Replacement of all Nuclear Missiles with Oranges (J-RNMO!).

Ben invited us over for a beer afterwards, during which Johanna and another coach named Jez tried to explain Hebron to me. It is the only Zone A where Israelis have created a settlement. They dressed like Swiss tourists and squatted there until they became established, at which point the military was legally bound to go in and protect them. So now there’s a settlement in Zone A, divided into H1 and H2 to further delineate who can go where. Jez and Johanna argued about these details for a while without any clear conclusion, so I guess I’ll just have to go see for myself to fully understand what they were talking about. On the drive back, Johanna offered to stop by the wall and show me some of the artwork. The wall is peppered with paint – mostly messages of peaceful dissent: “Love Wins.” “This division will not stand. Free Palestine.” Pictures of families and mothers crying and doves and trees and of Banksy's infamous irony in a small girl searching a soldier. There was a giant paintball splatter covering up the window of the lookout tower about 30 feet above my head. Johanna pointed to a place just past the gas station where a 15-year-old boy was killed because a soldier thought he had something suspicious in his hand, and his warning shot missed. “What I don’t understand and cannot sympathize with,” she said “is that Israelis have huge guns behind an eight-meter wall. Even if this kid did have something on him, what is the imminent threat to them? There is no threat.” We passed through the crossing checkpoint without even flashing our passports. The guard asked Johanna where she was from and took his small window of opportunity to flirt with her before waving us through.

Later that evening, I met up with a new friend whom I’d met at a tu bishvat seder (the festival for the new year of the trees). He was playing music at the ritzy mall just outside of the Old City. He selected the fanciest café on the strip and we went up for pizza and a cappuccino. Redesigned to reflect a European promenade, Mamilla is one of the most affluent parts of town. We sat on the patio on the second floor - not far from the strings of lights that swoop over the open walkway – and watched the covered heads of the Jews shopping below us. Upon hearing that I was involved in an interfaith organization, my new friend immediately started telling me how he was interested in interfaith work - that Hashem actually wants all people to live in peace. “But it’s hard to do,” he said, “with such animosity all around us. We Jews are the world’s scapegoat.” He told me how the wall was a good thing because of all of the bus bombings and terrorist organizations. I said that it breaks relationships and creates fear. He told me that if he ever went into Jericho, he would get his head chopped off. That even in East Jerusalem, it is so dangerous for Jews: at least once a year, someone gets stabbed. I didn’t comment on the article I’d just seen citing American metropolises with more murders than days of the year in 2013.

I’m not saying that those once-a-year tragedies are any less significant, but it seems that the numbers do not reflect the terror that people have with regard to the Other. How could you ever know your neighbor or create a positive image of a mysterious entity if the government is building a huge wall between you and the media is telling you that you have something to fear? However, I have not lived through the bus bombings and the Intifadas and the realities of this fear. So I kept my mouth shut for most of the conversation, trying to absorb his perspective as well. But when he said there were no killings beyond the wall, I had to speak up about what Johanna had told me earlier that day and the tragedies that her husband sees on a weekly basis through his work at refugee camps. He responded with “that sucks” and then moved on to explain how the world is using Palestine as a vehicle for scapegoating Israel. While Israel could be doing many things better, no one is pointing a finger at Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, or Iran, and saying hey guys – why don’t you take in these refugees from the land that was legally recognized as the land of Israel for the Jews? My friend explained that as prophesied in the Torah, the Jews are condemned to oppression by outsiders. Therefore it is divinely mandated that the Palestinian conflict will be another means for the world to reject the Jews. We don’t get up in arms about Sudan or Somalia or Tibet, so why is the West freaking out about Palestinian suffering?

Every human story is based off of an archetype, he said. You have an oppressor and an oppressee. But the world isn’t used to having both and doesn’t know how to stuff this complex narrative into its traditional story box. It doesn’t know how to process a story with multiple oppressors and victims; it is not Darth Vader vs. Luke Skywalker or Bob Ewell in To Kill a Mockingbird. It is forever gray.

I think we both heard a bit of what the other was saying. On the way out, as we were talking about archetypes, we were diverted from the end of the mall where a bag had been left unattended. The police had roped off the area and called in the bomb squad’s tiny Jetsons-meets-Star Wars robots to shoot up the bag. I’m not sure what happens if it blows up, but we didn’t hear any onomatopoeiatic affirmations of malice from our detoured route, so I’m guessing it was a false alarm.

And the layers of truth continue to melt into one another.