Rough Draft

Where one thing ends and another begins.

Hard to tell at times. Until it’s too late. The longer, warmer days have now turned to fall and summer’s long gone. Middle of September and gold drips from the tops of birch, cottonwood, and willow. Those yellowing trees. Their falling leaves taunt me. Urging me to cut and stack wood. Notch logs into walls. And crown this first cabin with a sturdy roof before snow flies.

There’s something elemental and primal about this race against winter—one of the oldest races of all. But I’m also learning that building a cabin, like writing, takes a lot of patience. And humility. It takes me admitting my shortcomings and weaknesses. But I’ll never learn unless I acknowledge that a lot of this stuff is still over my head.

To take criticism and advice. To humble myself.

And leave at least part of my ego at the door. Or else I’m doomed to fail. Which can also be valuable. As long as I’m able to pick myself back up and try again. I’ve learned way more from failure than success. Learned more from pain than comfort. And I hope one day it leads me to perfect something. To be more than a jack-of-many-trades-master-of-none. They say the true expert of a subject is one who has made every mistake possible in a given field.

That’ll be me. I hope.

I’ve worked construction here and there for most of my life. But I never really paid too much attention to what I was doing. The big picture. How it all came together. I just focused on the task at hand. Ripping boards. Pounding nails. Digging holes. Just to make a buck. To get further down the road. Maybe to the next town. Or maybe just blow it all at the nearest bar later that night. Either way, I only worked jobs till I thought I had enough cash in my pocket.

Then I was gone.

Forty one years old and the most I’ve ever spent in my life is eight grand. Just a few weeks ago when I bought my five acres. Marked by a hillside, a nameless creek, and hundreds of square miles of Alaskan wilderness.

Things are different now. I’ve found home again. I’m putting down roots. And now, while swinging hammers, I’m paying attention. Attention to how wide and deep the holes I dig will need to be for my own footings. The best ratio for mixing concrete. The right size posts and joists. What kind of floor to go on top. What kind of walls. And how best to tie it all together so it’s level, plum, and square.

On my few days off I work on my own place. Up the tracks. Each night I write. In the morning I start over again. It’s nonstop.   

My first cabin will eventually be a tool shed or guest cabin. For now, it’s a rough draft. Practice building with log. It can cave in on itself eventually. Rot from the ground up. The logs can shrink and twist until the walls are totally out of whack. Because at some point it’s about shelter. Surviving winter. I’m not out here to raise the pyramids. Or any monument to longevity. Not this first time. And a draft is all about learning. Refining. A bridge to something better. Longer lasting. Something more polished and sturdy.

Anyway, today is different. I’ve taken time off from building. Not sure I can afford to, but I needed a break from the routine. So I’ve hiked up above tree line. Up toward mount Baldy. And the tundra. To scout the country for future caribou hunts. But I’m also here to see the last of the fall colors.

Just one day. To take it all in. Before this new season ends and something else begins.

It’s not long before I spot a distant herd. Out toward the horizon. So far they are only dots when I notice them. But I can tell they’re running and, soon enough, they’ll disappear over a low saddle.

Still, even after they’re gone, I stay as long as I can before dusk drives me back down below timber line. Where my tent waits for me by my building site. I watch the beginning of the sunset and take in the colors. Forgetting, until this moment, just how beautiful death can be. Transition. Change. How necessary it all is.

I look away and back again. And for a split second, as my eyes adjust once more, I am disoriented. Faced with the perfect swirl of red, crimson colors. For this one pure moment I can’t tell where the tundra stops and the sky starts. Where one thing ends. And another begins.

Spruce and Mud

Since when did simple become so complicated?

It’s time to find my center again. Time to go inward. Less traveling for a while and more solitude. More reflection. 

For the last few months, since I got back from Scotland, Turkey, and Israel, I’ve been home in Alaska preparing for my sabbatical. A year of writing. Working two jobs at a time, I’ve been a bellhop this summer, kayak guide, deckhand, and, most recently, a carpenter. Swinging hammers to build other peoples’ cabins. My whole life I’ve been helping others with their dreams. And it’s time to work towards one of my own: Building my cabin in Alaska. I’ve fantasized about it my whole life. Sketching pictures of what it might look like since I was old enough to pick up paper and pencil.

Simplicity.

Why, in this day and age, is it so hard to get back to? To clear enough space and time. To clear a few spruce trees for firewood and log walls. To find my own slice of woods where I can live off the land, focus on my writing, and focus on myself.

Simple. That’s all I want now. A pail full of blueberries. Fire in the woodstove. A sod roof and dirt floor. The murmur of a small, nameless creek flowing, unseen, through the undergrowth nearby. And, after sunset, the northern lights flashing overhead.

I finally bought my own land and cleared a few trees. Off the grid. And pretty much off the map. Seven miles north of Talkeetna and the nearest road. In an old growth birch forest haunted by bears, moose, and the occasional abandoned cabin someone else left behind. Out where I belong. Where the wild things are. Where wolves blow through the woods like smoke.

Land. The first thing I’ve owned that didn’t have four wheels and four forward gears. Or that I couldn't carry on my back at a dead run. 

I’ve been on the run my whole life. A gypsy. Nomad. Bedouin. Something hardwired in my Viking blood pushing me to explore. To lose my bearings and all sense of direction. Only to find my way again. And come back from the other side.

But even a wanderer eventually wants roots. A home. Land, not just to pass through, but to build upon. I started looking as soon as I returned to Alaska. At first I only had a few requirements. The property had to be remote and wild, but not too far from Talkeetna—the only place that’s ever felt like home.

The few real estate agents I dealt with, at first, had never even seen the properties they were trying to sell. Only a handful of people knew where the plots were or roughly how to get to them. And even those people were hard to locate. So, for weeks and weeks, I set out after work to find remote property. Under the midnight sun I explored the country “up the tracks.” The wedge of wilderness between the Susitna River and Clear Creek. Where the road ends in Talkeetna and the railroad continues—up toward Cantwell, Denali, eventually Fairbanks—hundreds of miles away.

But just five miles north of town, beside the tracks, an abandoned gravel pit sits overgrown and choked with fireweed and alders. From there the path forks into three different trails heading east. Away from the tracks. Away from civilization. And deeper into the wilderness. Back into Devil’s Club, Fiddlehead, Birch, and Spruce. An old growth forest that’s never felt the bite of axe or saw.

Back into another era. Back in time.

Some locals call this country “Chase,” after the small railroad town once built along the tracks up here. Now “Chase” is a more general term. Slang, really. Describing a vast slab of Alaska hundreds of square miles in dimension. Other locals refer to this area as “up the tracks,” which characterizes a state of mind as much as anything else.

Those nights after work I used a combination of hiking, mountain biking, four wheeling, even canoeing to find land in Chase. All I found were dead ends at first. Overgrown trails that faded into thicket. Game trails not recommended for human travel. Fresh grizzly tracks and scat. I found dozens of twelve hundred pound bull moose at close range.

Sometimes I lost a little hope along the way.

But I finally found Back Lake. Front Lake. Even Snowflake Lake. Wiggle Creek. Tanner Mountain. A nameless bog that would become an important landmark. I figured out where the Freeman Trail split off from the Clear Creek Trail and where another unmarked path split from there and led back to the Talkeetna River.

I got lost sometimes. This part of Alaska is lush. Thick canopy from the ground level all the way to the tops of the tallest Cottonwoods.

But I never felt lost.

I felt at home. Close, at all times, to that center I was looking for. So close I could sense its edges. Circling it as I had my entire life from greater distances. But close now. I could almost pinpoint it. Possibly here. Or maybe just over there.

Definitely close.

The real estate office back in town was a dead end for me. They wanted too much. Their fees way too high. And a friend recommended I attend one of the quarterly Chase community meetings. It was at the gravel pit one Wednesday evening and I showed up not knowing anyone. I’d arrived early after riding in on a borrowed four wheeler. But soon, one by one, the residents of Chase showed up. Crashing through alder thickets on their ATV’s. Armed to the teeth for bears. Maybe people, too. The weapons of choice “up the tracks,” as with all of Bush Alaska, are shotguns slung across the back and high caliber pistols strapped to the chest. A 12 gauge and a .44 or 357. Or, better yet, the legendary Colt .45 “hand cannon.”  

After everyone had shown up—all twelve of them—I introduced myself to the group and said I was looking for land. To my surprise, they were nicer than their reputations suggested. Back in town these hermits were known as standoffish at best, trigger-happy at worst. Some of the signs I’d seen marking their properties implied the latter. But their bark was worse than their bite. They just wanted solitude. Like me. That’s why they lived up here. And they had to put up a tough front to keep Chase from becoming the next popular recreation area for out-of-town ATV and snowmachine enthusiasts. Or weekend warriors from Anchorage and Wasilla.

After the meeting many of them came up to talk to me and some gave me the inside scoop on unlisted land for sale. The good stuff that none of the realtors back on the grid knew anything about.

I ended up buying from Bill Bentley, a retired pipe fitter from Anchorage who’d decided he was too old for the Bush. And had missed the window of youthfulness for building on his remote property. So I bought his five acres on a gentle, north-facing slope of birch, spruce, and underbrush. Beside a nameless creek that drained a nearby bog. The property was one big blueberry patch. But there were cranberries, too. And Fiddlehead Ferns. The first time I saw it I had the intense feeling I’d been there before. Or somehow knew that particular hillside. As if I’d woken to a dream and walked into the thick woods and dappled sunlight of my own imagination.

Five acres. But it might as well be hundreds. For miles in all directions I'd have virtually no neighbors. The whole area essentially mine to hunt and fish. And wander through. And plenty of building material growing right out of the ground.

Spruce and mud. The kind of simplicity I needed.

Over the next few weeks I started exploring the area around my property. A few miles down the trail and past my land I found an abandoned trapper’s cabin to use as a model for my first structure. Dirt floor, sod roof sprouting saplings and wildflowers, a wood stove, and a cot. No windows to steal heat. Next summer I’d build a bigger, more elaborate place but, for now, it was a race against time. A race against winter: late August and already Fall up here—a hint of snow in morning breezes.

A race against age.

Already this summer I’d sprained an ankle. An old running injury that could flare up again at any time and snuff out this life-long dream of mine.

But I can’t think that way now. This is a beginning, not an ending. A year of writing. A year of survival. A return to the center. Simple has to start here. Beside this creek. In this birch forest. On a remote north-facing hillside. Notching spruce logs together for my own shelter. No glue, paint, nails, or metal. It starts here. “Up the tracks,” and beyond. Before winter sets in. Before my body, or anything else, can fail me. Simple. That’s all I want.

And there’s nothing simpler than spruce and mud.

Scraps Others Left Behind

How much money would it take to make a better world?

What’s the price tag on something like that? Can we put a number on it? Have it appraised? What adjustments to make for inflation? Interest gained and lost.

It’s the end of July and I’m back in Alaska, but I can’t stop thinking about Turkey. Or Israel. My recent trip throughout the Middle East. Just last month the Golan Heights. Camping on Galilee. The Dead Sea. Hiking Masada before dawn. And traversing the Ramon Crater.

But what I really keep circling back to is Beit Sahour.

When I close my eyes at night I’m still there. In the present tense. Arriving on the 50th anniversary of the Six Day War. Or The Occupation. From Jerusalem, where I woke up this morning, it’s only a five mile trip. But as soon as I cross the checkpoint, driving through the wall marking the Green Line, the only First World country in the Middle East gives way to Palestine Territories. The road here is a potholed washboard missing stripes and lines and any other kind of delineation. Abandoned cars and trucks line the shoulders. Windows broken. Tires slashed. Others have been burnt down to the metal frames like gray, charcoaled skeletons.

Some of the worst conditions I’ve seen since I left Beirut where I taught creative writing at the American University and volunteered at Borj al Barajneh Refugee Camp. Simply known as Borj by the Palestinians who lived there and sometimes called the Fourth World by outsiders since there was no other category for that kind of poverty and despair.

This is my first trip to the West Bank.

Or Occupied Palestine. Depending on your point of view. I still don’t know how to feel about the Palestinian condition and that’s why I’m here. Because I don’t believe what any media tries to tell me. Liberal or conservative. They’re all biased. Like me. Consciously or unconsciously, we’ve all been conditioned one way or another.

I was raised by my family, my neighborhood, my church, and my government to support the Jewish state. Always. And because the U.S. has always got their back they are, in some ways, the world’s true super power.

Israel. The tail that wags the dog.

No American president has ever defied them. Only one presidential candidate—ironically the first ever Jewish candidate—has publicly debated that their treaties with the West Bank be honored, Israeli settlements halted, and that the annexing of Palestine cease altogether. Just this last election cycle. Not a popular stance. Like many of his beliefs. Needless to say he did not get the nomination.

I grew up wary of anyone outside the Judeo-Christian culture. Which would’ve been easier if my Muslim students in Lebanon hadn’t become some of my favorites. My Muslim friends and colleagues some of the most peace-loving, trustworthy, and generous people I’ve ever known. Not to mention more recently—just weeks ago in Istanbul—Ulvi and his family, who showed me greater hospitality than I’d ever known.

The waters get a little muddy when so much of what your society teaches you turns out to be a little off. Or altogether backwards. The whole time I lived in Lebanon I wasn’t allowed to visit Israel. No Lebanese (or anyone with a Lebanese stamp in their passport) was let in. So I explored Lebanon and the rest of the Middle East as much as possible. And waited for a time when I’d be allowed to visit Israel and Palestine.

That time has finally come.

Israelis. Many of my students, friends, and colleagues in Beirut hated them. Of course, they’d just been bombed by Israel when I showed up and everyone I met had lost loved ones to their bullets, rockets, or bombs.

But I didn’t want to hate Israel.

Not without coming here myself. Talking to as many people as I could. Absorbing as much as possible. I’d just spent a week between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem and every Israeli I’d met so far had treated me well. All likable, fun-loving people. Kind, generous, and open. Some were Palestinian sympathizers. Many were not. But they all seemed like good people. Like anywhere else in the world that I’ve visited, 95 percent of human beings are good-hearted deep down (or not so deep down) and would gladly give you the shirt off their backs. I’m starting to think that the five percent of truly bad people are the ones who find the power they so desire. The political leaders. Most of them, anyway. Those who self-loathe and hate and need to tell others what to do so they can feel better about themselves.

But their power is mostly illusion.

The historical figures who change the world the most are the ones who never hold office, but are truly willing to pay the price for a better world. Ghandi. Martin Luther King. Malala Yusafsa. On and on.

Martyrdom. Most of the time, that’s the true cost.

As I roll through the squalor of Bethlehem, the road winds down a long, steep hill and ends at the village of Beit Sahour. I drive past crumbling, abandoned houses, take a right beside a freshly cultivated field—littered with trash and debris—and left onto George and Najla’s road. Just as they described it. The third house on the left and they’re waiting to greet me when I pull up.

Both small framed, older Palestinians whose exact age is hard to pinpoint. They could be anywhere between fifty or seventy. I’m not sure. At first glance they seem beat down, but resilient. Weathered, but still strong. I get out of the rental car and shake George’s hand.

“Marhaba,” I say.

He smiles and there’s still a spark in his eye. A tired, but welcoming smile. “Marhaba,” he says. “Ahalan wa sahlan, Ifer. Welcome.”

Oh yeah. Ifer. I almost forgot. There’s no “v” sound in the Arabic language so here I will be Ifer as I was in Lebanon.

I turn to Najla, who is wearing a long gray dress, and wait to see if she offers her hand. I made the mistake of trying to shake orthodox Muslim women’s hands back in Beirut and, trust me, it’s awkward. But, to my surprise, she extends her hand and I shake it.

“Marhaba,” she says. Najla smiles and gestures to me. “Come. Follow.”

I walk behind her into their cluttered house where she opens a door to her left. “This yours,” she says, pointing into a small room with a wooden bed.

In front of us a staircase leads to a second floor but it doesn’t turn out to be part of the tour. Instead, we turn right and they show me their kitchen. I’m shocked to see a crucifix on the wall, but I don’t ask about it yet. Otherwise everything looks like my friends’ houses and apartments back in Beirut. Right down to the Arab décor.

George pulls out a hard plastic chair for me and grabs food from the counter. Next thing I know there’s a plate of sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, and cheese in front of me. With a combination of Arabic and broken English they explain that they’ve already eaten and tell me to go ahead. George and Najla know less English than I expected and I’m struggling to remember the little bit of Arabic I learned while living in Lebanon. So I eat fast. I really just want to go to my room and regroup, but when I’m finished I walk to the sink so that I can at least do the dishes.

“Please,” Najla says. “I do. I do.”

I turn to her, leaving the water running in the sink. “It’s the least I can do,” I say.

“No.” Desperation rises in her voice as she rushes over and turns off the water. I back away from the sink.

Of course. In Borj there were times when water wouldn’t reach camp at all. And the same is true here. Water is only available after Israel takes their share. But as soon as Israel experiences any drought or shortage, as they do more and more these days, the West Bank is cut off altogether. So Najla has learned to wash her dishes with the least amount of water possible. And only when she has company.

No drop spilled. No drop wasted. The cost of survival.

As I unpack my rental car, George walks outside. “Ifer,” he says, pointing at my car. “We need hide.”

“Shoo?” I say. What? Why?

He points at the license plate. “Yellow,” he says. “People come hurt car.”

I think that by hurt he means vandalize but I don’t know why until he explains that my yellow license plates mean my car is from Israel, not the West Bank.

With his directions, I drive around the house and into the backyard, careful not to high center on any roots or rocks. I stop between two clumps of olive trees and get out. George looks around nervously. As I follow him back inside he explains that he hopes none of his neighbors noticed my car before we were able to hide it.

I’m growing more and more stressed. I definitely can’t afford to lose my deposit. Or have to buy a new car as I realize I’m probably not supposed to have it here at all. I’m sure it was part of the fine print I didn’t read when I signed the contract. For a moment, I consider backing out. Making up some excuse as to why I have to leave early. I’m actually shocked that Airbnb doesn’t have rules against renting out homes in quasi war zones.

I could tell George and Najla something’s come up and I need to drive back to Jerusalem. Just tell them I forgot my passport at the last Airbnb. Or my wallet. Anything. I don’t need to be here. These aren’t my problems. There are plenty of problems back home in the U.S. that I may actually be able to do something about.

But I can’t bring myself to back out.

It would be so wrong on so many levels and, if they sensed the lie, so rude and insulting to boot. Besides, I’ve come a long way to see this firsthand. To write about it. And that means sucking it up. Powering through it. And giving thanks that I’m only a tourist in this poverty, hopelessness, and despair. I have the privilege to come and go as I please. The privilege to feel sickened by all this sadness. Depressed—but only temporarily—by all this despair. For a moment I wonder about the price of all my privilege. I wonder what, exactly, is the real cost.

Before George and I leave his backyard I look across the small valley behind his house. There is some kind of sage growing, but not much else. Mostly dirt. The few houses on the facing slope look abandoned and, further up, a half-finished cinder block apartment complex seems to have been halted abruptly. Building material lay scattered around the ground floor but weeds grow through cracks in the lumber and concrete. There is an apocalyptic feel to this place where survivors live off scraps others left behind. Or maybe they’re more like prisoners of an ongoing war. Castaways on an ever-shrinking island as more and more of their territory is annexed by Israel.  

Back inside Najla is putting her shoes on. She says something to George that I don’t understand.

So he turns to me. “It’s time,” he says.

Time for what, I wonder.

“Daughter’s house,” Najla explains.

I’m lost, but turn around and follow them back outside. This time to their 1980’s Honda, parked across the street. We drive up the valley and through the center of town where most of the businesses are boarded up. On the other side of Beit Sahour we ascend a steep hill and arrive at a house similar to George and Najla’s in design but bigger and newer-looking. As we walk in I’m greeted by a dozen Palestinians all eager to shake my hand. Najla introduces me to each in turn. I forget their names almost as soon as she tells me, but try to at least remember how everyone’s related. First Najla’s daughter. I shake her hand. Then her husband and their three children. Her husband’s brother and his family of five.

Next thing I know we’re headed out to the balcony where the sun's setting and plates of bread, hummus, and cheese wait for us. They give me the chair with the best view. Tell me that, beyond the valley, the most distant crimson ridge is Jordan. I gaze into the distance where lanterns flicker on across the darkening landscape. House by house.

Soon everyone is asking where I’m from and what I do for a living and I’m struggling to explain it. After a while they mostly give up trying to include me in conversation and I strain to remember my Arabic, wishing they had some Arak—the Lebanese whiskey that helped loosen me up in situations like these.

Now I’m remembering that part of the Airbnb page, which I’d only scanned, had advertised a real Palestinian meal with a real Palestinian family. As an American who’d never lived in the Middle East, this kind of experience would be once-in-a-lifetime. And way more enjoyable with a spouse or group of friends to talk to. But for me, smiling and nodding when it seems appropriate and avoiding eye contact at all other times, it’s just awkward as Hell.

And it goes on for an hour or two.

So I’m relieved when Najla finally stands up, says something to the group in Arabic, and I gather that the night’s over. After we say our goodbyes and drive back to George and Najla’s I’m exhausted and go to bed right away.

The next morning in the kitchen it’s obvious that they’ve been up for a while keeping breakfast warm for me. As we eat I thank them again for last night. They ask me what I plan to do after I leave Beit Sahour later this week and I smile.

“I’m driving all over to see as much as I can. The Golan Heights. The Sea of Galilee. The Dead Sea. Masada—”

They nod slowly, try to smile, and I realize these are places they may never visit again, even though they were all once part of what they consider their homeland. It’s obvious that I can’t wait to get back to the First World. So I just stare back down at my plate realizing there’s something wrong with my presence here. Something insulting. Not to mention I feel like a traitor to my family and my country for staying with these Palestinians. I was told they were all terrorists. Muslims of the worst kind who want to wipe Israel off the face of the Earth.

Suddenly I remember the crucifix and look back up. I nod to the wall. “So, you’re Christians?” I say.

“Yes.” Najla nods.

“I didn’t know there were Christian Palestinians.”

Najla sighs. “Most people don’t.” 

I wonder if that would change things. If more Americans knew that not all Palestinians were Muslim. Not that that should matter. I want to ask more about it but Najla changes the subject. She asks me what I plan to do for the day and I tell her I want to take a walk and explore. Maybe go up to see the Nativity Church in Bethlehem.

“I drive,” George says. 

“La, shukran,” I tell him. No thanks. “I can walk.”

But he insists. Neither he nor Najla will have it any other way. So I decide to let him. The cost of courtesy. After I pack some water and power bars we walk out to the Honda and head up the hill toward Bethlehem.

During our five minute drive I struggle to make small talk, but how, as a white American man, do you make conversation with people so poor they don’t even have a country of their own?

“Do you have guests coming to stay after me?” I hear myself say.

“La,” he says. “Not for long time.”

I don’t ask how long till their next paying visitor. The fact that they have to rent their place out is one thing. But to have to put themselves and their family on display for only twenty bucks a night? I’m relieved when we arrive and I can step out of George’s car.

“Shukran,” I tell him. “See you later.” 

After I close the door, he waves as he drives off. I look around and start walking past the church and toward the Green Line—what really interests me most. But just before it, I see a sign—Palestinian Conflict Resolution Center.

I walk underneath the sign and down a set of crumbling concrete stairs to the center. Inside, a Palestinian woman with long dark hair greets me with a smile. I tell her I want to look around and she says Usama, the director of the center, will be back from lunch momentarily. Says he can give me a tour.

I spend the next five minutes admiring the artwork on the walls until Usama shows up. A tall man with tight curly hair.

“Iver,” I say, and shake his hand.     

“He’s here to learn about the center,” the secretary tells him.

“Great,” Usama says. “Follow me.”

He takes me into a dilapidated conference room and I sit at a table while he gets an ancient projector ready. It’s the same kind my grade school teachers used some thirty years ago. Once he’s got it running his presentation lasts ten or fifteen minutes as he shows me maps of how much the West Bank has shrunk since the Occupation, since the first treaties were drawn up.

“I can take you to see some settlements,” he says at the end of it. “And a refugee camp.”

“Wow. Really?” I smile. “That would be great.”

“We could go tomorrow.”

I nod. “How much for a tour like that?”

“One hundred shekel. Usually I take groups for three hundred, but since you’re alone I’ll cut you a deal.”

His English is flawless and I can tell he’s educated. Formally or informally, I don’t know. His price is steep, but it seems fair since I wouldn’t know where to start to try to find these places on my own. And on my own I wouldn’t have Usama’s explanations to accompany the tour.

We shake hands and I agree to meet him back at the Center in the morning at 9:00.

The next day I leave Najla and George’s after breakfast and walk the two miles to the Center after convincing George that I’m in the mood for some exercise. Usama is waiting when I arrive and we have some Turkish coffee together as he tells me about the history of the Center. In operation for over fifteen years, it was founded as a way to educate people on the history of the West Bank. To raise money and awareness for the Palestinian cause. Usama took it over three years ago after the original founder retired.

I follow him out of the Center, back up the stairs, to a rusted Nissan parked on the side of the road. After I slide behind the passenger seat he tells me we need to stop by his place and take his kids to school. Half a mile away we pull up in front of a brokendown house that looks completely abandoned until two skinny boys between seven and ten years old run outside, backpacks slung over their shoulders. When they get in the back seat they are instantly curious about me.

I turn back to them. “Marhaba,” I say. “Kayf halik?"

They laugh at my pronunciation but say hello and tell me they’re fine.

It doesn’t take long to get to the nearby school, which is even more rundown than I’d expected. There is broken glass, empty window panes, and children of all ages, some without shoes, milling around an asphalt lot out front. After the boys get out of the car, Usama tells them goodbye and we’re off.

Our first stop is King Herod’s Mound, some five mile east of Beit Sahour. Herod actually had slaves build the mountain higher so that, from his palace on top, he could see Jerusalem. But now, all that’s left is a visitor center and an amazing view.

But we didn’t come to these ruins for a history lesson. Or the scenery. We came to see the future of the landscape beyond this mountain and those who’ve lived here for generations. From where we park we look toward the distant slopes of a desert valley where two of the newest settlements are under construction. Nokdim and Tekoa. They sprawl east toward the Dead Sea and Jordan. We get out of Usama’s Nissan and stare at the distant earth-moving vehicles leveling the valley.

Usama puts on sunglasses and nods toward the construction. “Two of the newest settlements I was telling you about,” he says.

“Wow. So they just keep building more and more of these?”

“Of course. These will be finished in a matter of weeks. You can already see the new walls. Soon they’ll build roads so Israeli settlers can live here and commute to Jerusalem or even Tel Eviv. They’ll build walls around the roads, too. But, as you can see, there’s no need. Even here, in the middle of our homeland, no one is trying to harm them.”

I nod. It seems he’s right about that. So far, I’ve seen no violence. And, even as an obvious outsider—an American, a Westerner—I haven’t felt threatened at all. And I showed up on the 50th anniversary of the Occupation. What should be one of the most tense, violent times here.

“They spend five billion dollars a year on these walls, Ifer. Think about that. For five billion dollars we could try to build a better world.”

I stare out across the desert and wipe the sweat from my brow. “How do they justify this?”

He sighs. “The Israelis tell us they need to block off part of the West Bank for defense against enemies to the East. To the East is only Jordan and they have always been allies. They tell us this new area in front of us, in this case Area A, is now a restricted area. Then they start building military housing. But really the housing is for civilians. And that’s who ends up living here. Israeli settlers. Then they bomb the cisterns in the nearby desert so even Bedouins can’t survive and the whole area eventually becomes part of Israel. It’s happening everywhere. The map looks more and more like swiss cheese every day. Shrinking islands where we are allowed to live only as refugees. But really as prisoners in what once was our home.”

Swiss cheese is the best way to describe it. That’s exactly what the time lapse images looked like in the presentation Usama had shown me back at the Center.

He takes a deep breath and continues. “I mean, of course there have been some bad Palestinians. Some who have resorted to violence, which is the natural response to harassment and occupation. But it’s the same in any culture. There are always a few bad people. And you can’t hate a whole group of people because of that. Not when there are innocent men among them. Innocent women and children. You can’t put them all on this dwindling piece of land, harass them, arrest them, and starve them for no reason. Make them wait hours to cross borders. Never let them see their families in Lebanon or Syria ever again—

“Look at this subdivision. The most blatant lie of all. Broken promises. Broken treaties. You see it now for yourself. Whatever American media tries to tell you back home, you are seeing it with your own eyes. No Palestinians are retaliating. The Israelis are safe in their illegal settlements. The walls are only there to reinforce fear and hatred. That’s all.” He kicks a rock off the mountainside with a small plume of dust. “The walls are for psychological reasons. To make us all feel different and detached from each other. Nowadays, with DNA testing, they could find out who is more Jewish and who is more Palestinian. But they won’t. Because I could easily have more Jewish blood than many Israelis. And there are plenty of Israelis with more Palestinian blood than they’d like to admit.”

Usama grows quiet. I have so many questions but, for now, we both just stare across the desert toward the settlements.

Finally he turns back to me and lets out a deep exhalation. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go to Aida.”

“Aida?”

“The camp I was telling you about.”

We get in his car and turn back toward Beit Sahour. Across the sweeping desert and, somewhere along the way, Usama stops to show me a wide valley that Israel is gradually building a wall across. We get out of the car so he can better explain the process to me. He shows me where the new part of the wall is being built and which part of this beautiful West Bank valley will soon belong to Israel.

Back in the car it’s not long till we reach Beit Sahour, drive through town and head back up the steep hill to Bethlehem. We pass right by the Center again and this time another block toward the wall. Usama is about to turn left when I stop him.

“Wait,” I say. “Can we pull over here?”

He slows down and parks on the curb. I get out to look at the wall. The Green Line. Tall and covered in graffiti. Much of the spray painted writing, to my surprise, is in English. The corner of the wall has an old watchtower up top that looks medieval. Or futuristic. Or somehow both. Either way, it’s a terrible dystopic scene.

I snap a few photos and take a quick video before getting back in Usama’s Nissan.

“They make a lot of Palestinians who work in Jerusalem wait two or three hours sometimes before they let them through the wall. Every day. Can you imagine? In hot, crowded holding cells.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Because they can. Those who work in Israel have proper papers but they just make us wait. As Palestinians we are always at the end of the line.”

He shifts into first and we continue down a narrow road at the base of the wall until we reach Aida Refugee Camp. The front entrance is crowned with a huge metal key.

“This,” Usama says, “symbolizes what Israelis told refugees when they first dragged them from their homes and brought them here. ‘Only take your house key with you,’ they said. ‘Leave the rest of your belongings. You’ll be back home in a matter of days.’ That was fifty years ago and still they’re here. Not home. Those who haven’t already died gripping those same keys.” He shakes his head. “Their homes have all been destroyed anyway. There’s nothing to return to.”  

We get out of the car and I snap more photos. Next to the Key Entrance is a long wall of names. Usama explains that this is the Wall of Martyrs. Palestinians who died resisting the Israelis. Or have since died in Israeli prisons.

“The truth is less than one percent of Palestinians have ever been violent. But those are the ones you see on the news. And many times they’ve been deliberately provoked. Sometimes Israeli soldiers come here and harass people until they resist. Then they arrest them, take them into custody, and torture them. They make them confess to something they didn’t do. Like an act of terrorism. Or some violent crime. I mean, if you have no food or water for days on end—no sleep—and you’re out of your mind with delirium, hunger, and pain you’ll confess to anything.”

From the Wall of Martyrs we walk two blocks to an abandoned apartment building and climb to the rooftop where we have an extensive view of the West Bank. We can see much of Bethlehem and even parts of Beit Sahour in the distance. At the base of the nearby wall is Aida’s dump where Palestinian children rummage through trash for food or anything else they can salvage.

From up here we’re higher than the wall marking the Green Line and can see beyond it, back into Israel and the First World. Neatly manicured fields and olive groves stretch into the distance where the modern buildings of Jerusalem rise above the horizon.

The contrast is stark. Beyond bleak. The cost of war, oppression, and segregation.

Usama clears his throat. “Like I said, with DNA testing they could figure it out. Figure out that we are mostly the same. But they won’t. They want our land. They want more walls. Five billion dollars for all the walls they put up just this year. The Bible does say that this is the homeland of the Jews. But it also says that the time for them to take back their homeland is up to God to decide. Not man.”

Usama goes silent again. And as I stare out across the wall into Israel I wonder where the answers lie. Where are the solutions? I certainly have none. In fact, I feel more confused than when I first came to the Middle East eight years ago. But I do believe treaties should be honored once they’re in place. And people, especially women and children, should be treated humanely by all sides. There may even be some good reasons for this occupation. This displacement of Palestinians.

But I don’t know.

And I won’t decide till I learn more about the situation. Even though I know I’ll get a different story depending on who I ask. Different points of views from different sides of the walls and borders. Israel. Palestine. Lebanon. The U.S. It’ all so complicated. A million different sides to each argument. Each conflict. All I know is that Usama is not a terrorist. Nor are his children. George and Najla certainly aren't terrorists either. They’re good people. Like the rest of their family. Like so many Palestinians living in Bethlehem, Beit Sahour, and the rest of the West Bank.

All these questions will haunt me for some time to come. Probably keep me guessing for the rest of my life. But for now, up on this rooftop, I can only shake my head and listen to Usama wonder aloud about how his children will grow up in a world where they will always have less and less. Always be harassed. Always live in fear of imprisonment or death.

“I’ve studied this situation my whole life,” he says. “There were moments of hope when leaders seemed to be coming together to work towards resolutions. Maybe a two state solution. Maybe a nation for Palestine. But it never happened. And more and more the leaders on both sides are less inclined to work toward peace. The Palestinian leaders are beat down.” He turns to me, his face full of worry. “I hate to say it, Ifer, but I think it’s game over for us in the West Bank. This is still the land of miracles, but come on. We’ve lost this fight for good.” He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. “All I can focus on now is keeping my people optimistic and trying to keep them safe. Just trying to find the best path forward for my wife and kids.”

He turns from me and gazes back toward the wall with its graffiti, razor wire, and watchtowers. Maybe he is looking beyond it. To Israel. Olive groves and green valleys stretching toward Jerusalem and the distant horizon.

He shakes his head one last time. “Five billion dollars,” he says. “Five billion. For that kind of money we could try to make a better world.”

Ugliness Elsewhere

To work together. To realize it's a choice we can make.

Early June and I am walking the streets of Istanbul with my new friend Ulvi—one of the most generous, hospitable men I’ve ever known. And I can’t believe I was raised to hate Turks.

To fear and distrust them.

The Hakimis were the only Turkish family in our neighborhood. And they had a rough go of it. More than the Asian or Black families on our block, the Hakimis were not to be trusted and even now I don’t understand the political motives behind that fear. But the first Cold War was raging and Turkey’s ties to Russia probably had something to do with it. Their status as a Muslim country certainly didn’t help either. And some neighbors didn’t need religious or political reasons to hate them. Skin color was more than enough.

But first, let me back up.

My parents—and some of the other parents on the block—were not this way. And would never condone intolerance, racism, or hatred. But there was ugliness elsewhere. Friends’ houses. School. T.V. Suspicion found its way into my unconscious and, before I learned to think for myself, that ignorance gained a dangerous foothold.

We pass a mangy dog curled up beside a stoop and Ulvi stops. He reaches into his pack, pulls out his bag of dog food, and scratches the dog’s head while he feeds him.

“I want to let him to survive,” Ulvi says, looking back up at me. He stands and we start walking again.

This is Ulvi’s thing. He loves animals more than most people and cares for as many stray dogs as he can. He used to spend close to 4,000 lira a month on dog food alone. Delivering it to a dozen key spots around his neighborhood where he knew strays hung out. But he had to scale back when he started having trouble paying his own bills. Now he’s down to 2,000 lira a month and only a half dozen packs of dogs.

“I can’t let them all to survive,” he laments. “But I wish I could.”

I’ve only known Ulvi two weeks but it feels like much longer. My friend, Salim, happens to be one of his sons. He introduced me to his family one of my first days in Turkey and they instantly took me in. Gave me my own room in their house and, since then, I haven’t seen the inside of another hostel this entire trip.

I’ve wanted to come here for years—since my twenties—when I started unlearning the horrible things media had taught me and began realizing what a beautiful place Turkey was. Ulvi and his wife, Sükran, are the nicest people I’ve ever met. Despite the language barrier, or any cultural differences, I’m already at ease with this family as if they were my own.

“Iver,” Ulvi said during one of our first conversations, “we don’t care what religion or nationality you are. As long as you are good people that’s all that matters.”

Turning the next corner we enter Taksim. I’ve heard a lot about this neighborhood and it instantly lives up to its reputation. It’s still early afternoon and people of all ages walk the wide cobblestone main street. So many that we have to keep dodging women with strollers, young couples holding hands, and groups of carousing teenagers. Every other doorway leads to a hip bookstore, a bar or club already playing live music, or some fantastic fusion restaurant. Side streets and alleys branch off of this main artery and Ulvi assures me that there’s even better food, drink, and music off the beaten path. 

But you don’t have to go inside to hear it. In Taksim, music is everywhere. Street performers playing anything from traditional Turkish tunes to blues, rock and roll, or grunge. With everything from kavals and bağlamas to harmonicas and electric guitars. I resist the urge to stop and listen to each one. But I know Ulvi has a lot to show me today.

“Wow,” I tell him. “I’ve never seen a place like this.”

He nods but frowns at the same time. “It was nicer before, when we had a…how you call—?” He points down to a train track, half covered by patches of cement.

“Train?” I say. “Trolley?”

“Yes, trolley.”

Since I was introduced to him, Ulvi’s been dying to show me Istanbul. When we first met he’d laughed and called this his "classical tour.” The one he gives anyone new to Turkey.

“It’ll be long day,” he’d told me. “But we can see much important places in full day. Don’t worry,” he said. “It only lasts as long as you keep smiling. When you stop smiling, that’s when the classical tour ends.”

There are flags everywhere. Turkish people, I’m learning, love their flags. There are also photos. Big banners hanging from windowsills and store fronts. Some of Erdoğan, Turkey’s current leader. And some in black and white of a man I don’t recognize. But, since I arrived, I keep seeing him memorialized everywhere.

“Ulvi,” I say, pointing to one of the banners, “who is this man?”

“Ah,” he says, and smiles proudly. “This is Atatürk.”

“Atatürk?” It sounds so familiar. Then I realize why. “Like the airport I flew into?”

He nods. “Named for him.”

“Who was he?”

“Our founding father. The man who helped end the Ottoman rule and bring democracy to Turkey. He make sure everyone vote and all people treated equal despite religion or background. He welcomed refugees and turned Santa Sofia into a public sanctuary.”

“Santa Sofia?”

“You’ll see. We’ll be there later today.” Ulvi shakes his head and stares at the ground. “We all loved him. And still do. He was great leader who loved his people.”

Ulvi goes on to explain that Atatürk served as the first president in 1923. A radical. A progressive. And a secularist. He made education free and mandatory and gave Turkish women equal rights. In fact, because of him, Turkey was one of the first nations to give women the right to vote.

His birthname, Ali Rıza oğlu Mustafa, was eventually changed by Turkish Parliament, who granted him the surname Atatürk:

Father of the Turks.

But before all of that, he was a war hero. An important leader in the fight against the Ottomans. He’d spent time in jail for his anti-monarchist activities. He also played an important role in the Young Turk Revolution and helped seize power from Sultan Abdulhamid II. Atatürk loved art and science and developed a new alphabet so his people could communicate better with the Western World.

Ulvi frowns, pulls out his handkerchief, and wipes the sweat from the side of his face. He keeps staring down at the street. “After all that. All that we fought for. All the people who died for Turks to be free. Now we have Erdoğan…”

I nod. Erdoğan. Unlike Atatürk, this is a name I’ve heard. I know that only a few months ago he held a controversial referendum that led to giving himself more power and his people less. He went from president or prime minister to, essentially, a dictator overnight. I’d also heard of a coup attempt against him a year ago. But that’s really all I knew.

We reach Ulvi’s favorite restaurant, Mikla—a hole in the wall down a Taksim side street—and find a table outside, underneath a tattered red awning. The waiter brings bread and rice-stuffed muscles fresh from the Bosphorus and instantly we are swarmed by stray cats. As if they sense Ulvi’s kindness. Before long birds start swooping, too. Landing on empty chairs nearby. Or the cobblestone at our feet. Ulvi is already picking apart his bread. Giving it all away to the birds. When more appetizers of cheese, cucumber, and tomato come he starts tearing the cheese into smaller pieces and feeding the scraps to the cats.

One thing I’ve learned in this life is that people who abuse or mistreat animals are the worst. Pure evil. But those who truly love animals, the way Ulvi does, have the biggest hearts in the world. Another reason he’s one of my new favorite people.

Ulvi looks out across the crowded streets of Taksim. “The trolley,” he says. “So nice. One of most important symbols in Istanbul. Erdoğan make it stop. He said it would start back up again one day, but how can it? He’s filled in the tracks with cement.”

Ulvi grew up in a large Sunni-Muslim family from Izmir and moved to Istanbul after marrying Sükran thirty years ago. In that time he’s seen the city grow from 7 to nearly 20 million people. He’s also seen Erdoğan’s rise to power. From mayor to prime minister to president. And now to his most recent role as dictator with unlimited power. Erdoğan’s even eradicated the term limit for leaders. Now he can go on changing existing rules, making up new ones, and continuing to take away his peoples’ rights till the day he dies.

“Erdoğan is opposite Atatürk,” Ulvi says. “In the center of Taksim he’s tearing down arts center to build another mosque. He keep demolishing city parks to build shopping malls. He’s a business man. Not a leader. He uses his political power to make himself richer. More importantly he demolishes public spaces to stop people from gathering. From organizing or protesting. To take away our voices.”

But Ulvi’s mood lightens a bit as he remembers some good news. “We have not been completely silenced,” he says, feeding cheese to a skeletal gray cat whose climbed up into his lap. “When Erdoğan tried to demolish Gezi Park in Taksim Square even his own supporters protested. People from all over Turkey came and camped in the park for days. Some of them for weeks. And still he—” Ulvi looks up to the sky as if the words will come from above. “He spray them..?”

“Spray?” I say, almost laughing. I am imagining Erdoğan pissing on his own people. Something he seems more than capable of doing.

“Not spray—“ Ulvi says, looking frustrated. “Uh—” He pretends to hold a hose like a machine gun.

I shake my head. “Gas, maybe?”

Ulvi throws his hands down and nods excitedly.

“Tear gas?” I say.

“Yes. He tear gas them. Can you imagine? Babies in strollers. Cats. Dogs. Children. All sprayed. For trying to save one of the most important places in Istanbul. What kind of man do that? To his own people. Even his supporters were angry. Then came the Standing Man.”

“The who?” I say.

“Standing Man. He was, how you call—?”

"The last straw?"

“Yes.”

I’m still confused. “Because he stood?” I ask.

“In middle of Square. Where no one was supposed to protest. Unarmed, of course. Non-violent. Peaceful. Still, they aimed their guns at him. Other protestors stood by the guards and read Atatürk’s books to them. About how Turkey was founded on free speech, the right to assemble. The need to share public space.

"Soon another protestor stood by the Standing Man. Then another. And another. The small group grew and grew until thousands of Turks stood peacefully defying Erdoğan. And now, because of it, we still have our square.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “It was a good day. And still we lost the referendum. Not by a true majority, of course. Erdoğan said some Turks who voted didn’t have the “proper” stamps on their voting cards, so of course their votes couldn’t be counted.”

Ulvi is turning pale. He looks really sad for the first time since I’ve known him. “If he hadn’t cheated in the election he wouldn’t have gotten away with it and this country would be different place. Maybe even headed back in the right direction. Like the days of Atatürk.”

I sigh. “I don’t get it. Why would anyone vote to have a leader stay in power for a lifetime? Especially him? Why would anyone vote to lose their right to vote?”

Ulvi takes a deep breath and frowns. “Fundamentalists. Muslims who misinterpret the Qur'an. They think everything Erdoğan does is somehow good for them. And they don’t want free thinkers to vote. They don’t want freedom of religion, for one thing. Or secularism—Atatürk’s main principle. What you call separation—” He’s grasping for words again.

“Church and State?” I say.

“Exactly.”

“They build walls. They don’t want diversity of faith or background. They don’t want refugees or immigrants. They want everyone to think and be the same. And Erdoğan represents that hate and fear. So they want him to have more and more power. They’re happy to give up their own votes, their own rights, if it means the rest of us can’t fight for equality and freedom.”

He’s almost shaking now. I can tell Ulvi’s done talking politics and so am I. We’re finished with lunch anyway and the check seems to arrive on cue. I reach for the bill but as usual Ulvi won’t let me pay. Though he speaks to the waitress in Turkish I know he’s telling her to put it all on his tab.

So we start walking again. Continuing Ulvi’s classical tour downhill a few blocks to where a bunch of mid-sized boats are docked. For twenty lira each the boat taxi will take us, and a handful of other sightseers, across the Bosphorus to the Asian side of Istanbul. To eventually loop back to Sultanahmet Square and Santa Sofia. As I step on the boat the sky above is deep blue and the Bosphorus a turquoise, almost glacial shade.

As we cruise across the strait I’m ecstatic. Istanbul is even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. Especially from open water. The only city in the world to straddle two continents. The East and the West. The modern and the ancient. Because of its unique location it’s always been an important conduit, welcoming outsiders with new and different ideas. Because places like these bring different parts of the world together they are like hybrid cultures. With the best music and food. The most progressive innovations and contributions to art, architecture, science, and philosophy. Istanbul reminds us that when different cultures, races, and religions collaborate, human possibility is limitless. 

As the boat starts its wide sweep to the right, to return to the European side, melancholy rises inside me again. Thinking about Erdoğan and how this, the most incredible city on Earth, could be somehow slipping backwards in so many ways. Losing the very elements and ideals that have always made it so great.

Imagine it. If you can. Living in one of the greatest democracies on Earth and watching its civil liberties erode. Imagine watching it barrel—undeterred—toward dictatorship and tyranny, ruled by madmen who use political power for their own gain. Lunatics who care more for money than the people they’re supposed to govern and take care of. Imagine leaders who rig their own elections and rise to power without even securing a majority of their citizens' votes. Imagine it. And now be glad you don’t live in a country like that.

Or do you?

When the boat docks again we get off and start walking uphill toward Sultanahmet Square. “But what about the coup attempt?" I ask Ulvi. “There’s obviously a strong resistance to Erdoğan. Maybe he’ll be overthrown.”

Ulvi takes hi handkerchief back out of his pocket and wipes his forehead. “That coup was staged,” he says. “By Erdoğan himself. So he could demonstrate his so-called power. So he could increase people’s fear and better control them. I mean, who plans a coup--as he did--for the middle of the day, if they really want the coup to succeed?

“It’s a joke,” he says. “They even renamed the bridge where the coup was attempted. Martyr’s Bridge.” He turns and pretends to spit in disgust. “Just to glorify Erdoğan. To remind people they must live in fear. After all, that's the best way to control people. Fear and hatred.”

Ulvi stares back down at the ground and I am thinking of ways to change the subject. But luckily I don’t have to. A moment later we reach the top of a rise and Ulvi turns and smiles.

“We made it,” he says. "This is it."

And it’s true. I suddenly realize we are standing in the middle of Sulltanahmet Square. I see the famous Blue Mosque in all its glory, the ancient pillars gifted from Egypt eons ago. Everywhere exotic flowers and shrubs burst from gardens. This place puts any botanical garden I've ever seen to shame.

Ulvi points behind me and I turn. The most beautiful sight so far. And I don’t even have to ask. This is Santa Sofia.

Ulvi smiles. We start walking towards it and I can’t look away the whole time. Huge pillars. Ornate carvings. Everything about it so beautiful. Everything pure art.

At the door we are asked to pay a steep entry fee. Forty lira. “Used to be free,” Ulvi tells me. “The way Atatürk wanted it. But Erdoğan recently changed all of that.”

Still our mood is light as we walk in, smiling, staring up at the vast dome ceilings, laced with gold and decorated with the most striking art work you can imagine. Diamond chandeliers hang everywhere. For centuries this sacred space has remained open for Christians, Muslims, and all faiths. There are murals of Jesus, Mohammed, saints, and prophets everywhere. Religious leaders who wanted harmony and love.

Not terrorism, fear, or hatred.

As we tour Santa Sofia I want to go back in time. To my old neighborhood. I want the younger me to knock on the Hakimi's door. Introduce myself. Get to know them. Ask them about this amazing country they come from. And sit and listen to all of their incredible stories. 

But they are long gone. And so am I.

In the middle of Santa Sofia's main hall stands a beautiful marble basin for worshippers to wash their feet and hands. Grooves circle the basin where, for eons, holy water has carved rivulets into the marble. And I want to stay in this space longer. But I know the classical tour is almost over. Soon we have to catch our train and, more importantly, Sükran will have dinner waiting for us back home.

Still, before Ulvi pulls me away, I linger as long as I can. Trying to take it all in. To process the possibilities. Wondering how we insure that places like Santa Sofia keep teaching us how to live on this planet together.

A church and a mosque, a museum and public space, Santa Sofia symbolizes it all for me. This is what Tolerance looks like. This is Beauty. And Art.

This is what’s possible when we choose to work together.

January

I am waiting for the hateful to unclench the tight fists of their hearts. Waiting for all of us to stop yelling at each other.

And to start listening.

These days both sides, Republican and Democrat, seem to take less pleasure in winning elections than in watching the other side lose. Instead of collaborating toward similar goals, common Americans are at each other’s throats—the way the elite have always preferred it. At a time when slaves started to working together to empower themselves, slave-owners figured out how to keep them in competition. Lighter skinned blacks against darker skinned blacks. Household slaves against field-working slaves. Male verse female. Dividing families was part of the strategy until they were all split into hostile hierarchies rather than rising up in resistance together.

Another strategy was to convince poor whites that they were valued and that they should support the wealthy slave owners’ interests. Over half the beneficiaries of the Affordable Health Care Act are Trump supporters who just voted to eliminate the health care they need and deserve. And I want to ask them why.

I want to listen.

The Democratic Party, which used to be the working-class party, has effectively alienated blue collar America while attracting over-educated academics. Many of them entitled, arrogant, and annoying. The Republicans continue to equate any kind of social programs with Communism by preying on the masculine sensibilities of Middle Americans. I’ve spent half my life farming and ranching and I know that if you’re a Democrat you’re weak. Real men don’t need things like health care or unions. Better to support the elite—who keep empowering corrupt CEO’s with tax breaks—than to admit you can’t take whatever they throw your way.

We all seem more interested in being right than finding the best way forward. More concerned with what we believe than why we believe it. Instead of living in ways that justify our beliefs, we find beliefs that justify the ways in which we live. It’s more convenient that way.

But we can no longer afford convenience.

It’s time to admit our mistakes. Time to open to new ideas and hear what the other side has to say. Maybe it’s time for a new kind of masculinity. One in which a real man values tolerance and understanding over anger and violence. Real men don’t ridicule the disabled, disadvantaged, or the weak. A new kind of masculinity in which a real man honors war heroes and respects women.

We are all voting against our interests, it seems. Voting against each other without realizing most Americans have similar values and needs. We have to stop talking over one another. And start really listening. The only way forward is through understanding. And working together. Which party you support, or don’t support, shouldn’t matter. Instead, maybe we could focus on the things we agree on. And maybe we can start by agreeing that our leaders should actually care about our country? That whoever the president (Republican or Democrat) they should want the best for Americans and want more than to just make themselves richer at the cost of everyone else. Meanwhile maybe the rest of us could be more concerned with reality than reality TV.

It’s now clear that Trump is only interested in his personal gain as evidenced by his cabinet of billionaires who mostly have the same conflicts of interest he has. The proposed travel ban is only for Muslim countries where Trump has no business partners. And, ironically, the Muslim countries he doesn’t want to ban are those whose citizens have actually killed Americans in the last forty years. Like Saudi Arabia. Or Egypt.

Forget the first hundred days in office. How do we feel about the first two weeks? We’re alienating our long-time allies around the world. Banning refugees, which seems uniquely un-American, and pushing to make peaceful protesting a felony. Pipeline construction is resuming on sacred burial grounds while treaties continue to be broken.

Before the vulgarity, misogyny, and racism became so obvious I liked the idea of Trump in the sense that, like Bernie Sanders, it seemed he could not be bought by lobbyists, big business, or corporations. Not because he didn’t have ties. Just that he had so much money. How could he be interested in more? How could that level of greed exist?

Clearly, I underestimated him.

And as my cousin’s six year old daughter said the other day: “Trump never wanted to be president. He just wanted to be in charge.” He doesn’t care about leading a country to greatness (ironically), or taking care of its citizens. He cares about making himself more money. And at garnering himself more attention, positive or negative, like the reality TV star he was born to be.

From Standing Rock to the Million Woman March I’ve seen a lot of anger in the last two months. A lot of tension and misunderstandings. But I’ve also seen a lot of love. And peace. And unity of purpose. Most Americans want other Americans to do well. To prosper. To pursue happiness. To have clean water, protect and care for their dead. To have sovereignty over their own bodies. Civil liberties and equal opportunities. Basic human rights and respect. To keep their jobs in fields and factories. And to keep the government out of our business.

In the last few months I’ve seen women praying on the Backwater Bridge in front of armed guards and tanks. I’ve seen hundreds of thousands of concerned Americans flood the streets of our capitol and I am confident that we will make America great again. Not Trump. As long as we don’t let him, or anyone else, divide us. As long as we stay positive and keep the faith.

And so I’m telling the greedy and the hateful and the intolerant to loosen their death grips on the weak, the under-privileged, and the poor. To uncoil. And recoil. To finally relax the tight fists of their hearts. I am telling us all to stop yelling over each other. To come together.

And to listen.

November

Eid                                                         عيد الفطر

The sharpened tip of the butcher’s knife rested on Isaac’s chest. Its blade would soon split his skin, slice between ribs, and dismantle his heart. As it plunged downward the knife would also puncture Isaac’s left lung and continue tearing through muscle and sinew before exiting the back of the body and grinding to a halt against the same stone slab he was tied to. 

Earlier that day, as he prepared for the sacrifice, Abraham and his wife, Hajar, had been tempted by the Devil, who said he could dissolve the deal Abraham had made with God. If Abraham and Hajar simply submitted to Satan, their only son’s life would be spared.

But they didn’t submit. Instead, Hajar and Isaac had thrown rocks and stones at the Devil until they eventually drove him away.        

The Prophet Abraham and his family came from the land of Canaan where they’d lived happily for many years. One day God had asked Abraham to move his family to the valley of Mecca, an uninhabited wasteland of sand dunes and swirling dust. Abraham would leave them there in Arabia and return to Canaan alone. This, the first of many commandments God would give the prophet. And Abraham, eager to obey, gathered his small family and led them south toward Mecca. 

A week’s journey and as they walked, Abraham tried to imagine how he would explain the second part of God’s commandment: That he leave Isaac and Hajar alone in the middle of Arabia and return to Canaan by himself.

After their arrival in Mecca, Abraham began pacing nervously. His wife asked him what was wrong. 

“I have to leave you here,” he said, turning his gaze to the north.

“Why!?”

“I just have to go.”

Hajar grabbed Abraham’s shoulder and he turned to her. 

“Why are you doing this?” she said.

The prophet sighed and peered down at the ground. He raised his eyes to meet her stare. “Because God told me to.” 

Hajar nodded slowly. “Then God will not forget us,” she said. And after a long pause, “You can go.”

So Abraham said goodbye to Isaac. He hugged Hajar a long time, turned northward, and set out for Canaan, leaving his wife and only son alone in the desert.    

This is how Ali explains the Old Testament story of Abraham and Issac. And it’s pretty much the way I remember it from Sunday school. The only difference is that for Muslims, like Ali, Abraham translates to Ibrahim, Isaac becomes Ismael, and God is called by His Arabic name, Allah. 

It’s my first Thanksgiving in Lebanon and this year the American holiday falls on the eve of Eid. My neighbor, Cynthia, has prepared a feast tonight. A week earlier she told me to invite any Americans from my department to join her and her Lebanese friends for dinner and a party commemorating both Thanksgiving and Eid. 

Cynthia’s father, a successful engineer, took a job in the U.S. during the Lebanese Civil War, moving his family to Michigan. She spent the next twelve years in the States before returning to Beirut to attend the University of Lebanon and study Finance. Like so many in Beirut she speaks Arabic and English fluently and loves both Lebanese and American culture. Her family celebrates Ramadan, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, the Lebanese Independence Day, and the Fourth of July. When I arrived tonight, Cynthia introduced me to her cousin, Ali—a tall, thin Arab man with wire-rimmed glasses. We struck up a conversation and I’ve been talking to him ever since.

“It’s a little embarrassing,” I tell him. “But I really didn’t know anything about Eid before coming here tonight. And I still know next to nothing. But I grew up Lutheran and I remember learning about Abraham and Isaac during confirmation.”

Ali smiles. “That’s really all Eid is. A celebration of the same story. Ibrihim’s obedience to Allah and Allah’s offering of a sacrificial lamb.”

In Christianity, Islam, the Druze faith, and Judaism this is where the story usually begins: Ismael tied to a stone slab, his father’s knife poised above the boy’s chest. Ibrahim, moments away from plunging the blade into his son’s heart, squeezes his eyes shut one last time, bracing himself for what he’s about to do when Allah speaks to him, telling him he doesn’t have to kill Ismael. Instead, the Lord himself, will sacrifice a lamb.

I realize Eid’s not only similar to Christian tradition, but the celebration of it’s actually a lot like Thanksgiving, which is probably why both holidays can be memorialized together so seamlessly. I talk to Ali a while longer, but I am starting to wonder about my colleagues from the university. This is their first time meeting my Lebanese friends and I realize I’ve been neglecting them, so I say goodbye to Ali and walk across the room where a cluster of my coworkers are talking with some of Cynthia’s friends. But before I can enter the discussion, we hear Cynthia’s voice from the kitchen. “Time to eat!”

In typical Lebanese fashion, it’s almost 10:00 pm as we gather for dinner. Seven years from now I’ll remember this incredible night and blog about it. Donald Trump will have just been elected president after proposing a ban on Muslims entering the U.S. and a registry for those already living in the States.

And I will be home for Thanksgiving.

In North Dakota. About to deliver firewood to the Lakota protestors of Standing Rock who, by that point, will be assaulted day and night with tear gas and firehoses from a militant group of police. Overseas, Isis will be growing more and more violent. More and more widespread. And never in my lifetime (including the first Cold War) will the world seem so close to a nuclear holocaust.

Before sitting down, Cynthia has us stand in a circle, holding hands, heads bowed, each offering our own thanks in turn. 

Mohamed, who is thankful for Obama’s recent election, sees him as one of the most benevolent, intelligent, and tolerant American presidents. One who will not be so quick to make war in the Middle East. Ali is happy his mother has recovered from by-pass surgery. I am thankful for my new friends and Cynthia is glad she could host us tonight. Especially the Americans from the university. Like everyone here, she’s gone out of her way to make us feel welcome.

Later, after dinner, we’ll all countdown to Eid and when the clock strikes midnight Cynthia’s small apartment will swell with shouts and cheers—everyone hugging and raising their glasses.

But for now, we continue giving thanks.

Grateful that today Lebanon is not at war with itself or anyone else. Grateful to be making connections and celebrating new holidays. And yet, in the middle of it, explosions erupt outside and everyone flinches. A shock wave of nerves rippling around our circle, passing from one hand to the next in successive jolts of fear. It sounds like a car bomb followed by machine gun fire.

But, instead, outside Cynthia’s windows, the sky above Beirut opens up with brilliant spiders of red, blue, and purple, leaving temporary imprints on the blackness, then vanishing altogether. Only to be replaced by more fireworks as we run out to the balcony to watch.  

Beirut is beautiful tonight.

The silhouette of high rises glowing orange in the strobe light of fireworks. Shadows dancing. The whole city pulsing and throbbing. The Mediterranean’s dark waters stretching out toward the Atlantic and beyond. To the East Coast of the U.S.

Somewhere out there.

Where the sun is now rising. Sending up its own fireworks of red, orange, and yellow. Sending up its light.

Toward the heavens above.