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Preparing Tables in the Presence of Our Enemies
29 May 2002
By Ryan Beiler
Sunday night, a member of the group expressed doubts as to what hope we could
bring into the hopelessness and violence of the occupation. Around the dinner
table at the Bethlehem Star Hotel we had listened to a Palestinian Christian
friend say that not only did he not see a light at the end of the tunnel, he
didn’t see a tunnel—no way out, no solution.
Monday morning I was awakened by gunshots at 5:45 a.m. I soon fell back asleep,
now a seasoned veteran of Israeli incursions after Saturday night’s brief
incursion by a few tanks and jeeps. I was awakened again at seven a.m. by
Dorothy Jean knocking on my door—breakfast was ready, and we were under curfew
again. Bethlehem was now a “closed military zone.”
[Curfew, for the unfamiliar, is a rather euphemistic term for collective house
arrest. Loudspeakers announce that no one may leave their homes. Sometimes those
found in the street are shot. Sometimes those who come to their windows are
shot. Sometimes those who attempt to recover the bodies are shot.]
We had planned to spend the day working at Christmas Lutheran Church. Rev. Mitri
Raheb was expecting a truckload of furniture for their new conference center
donated by the government of Finland. He called us around nine a.m. at the hotel
and thought he would be able to negotiate with the Israeli commander guarding
the square in front of the church to allow the truck to come and for us to
unload it. He thought this might take an hour and a half.
At about 5:30 p.m., our group finally makes its way to Madbasseh Square, led by
Daryl Ritchie carrying a white flag consisting of a broom handle and a hotel
towel to assure the soldiers that we pose no military threat. At the square,
three armored personnel carriers (APCs) are maneuvering about. The container
truck full of furniture is also there. Most of us are taking as many pictures as
we can of the military hardware. Two APCs leave, but not before dispensing a
small contingent of soldiers to guard the square from stone-throwing Palestinian
pre-teens down the street.
Despite previous arrangements with an IDF commander, the soldiers will not allow
us to unload the truck. The negotiations begin. A gross paraphrase:
Us: Why are you making things difficult for these people?
Them: We’re just doing our job.
Us: You have a choice—you can let us unload the truck. It is obvious that we
pose no security threat. Search the truck if you like.
Them: We don’t have the authority to make that decision—this is the military. We
have our orders.
Us: Could you ask permission from someone who can make that decision?
Them: We already asked and permission was denied.
Us: Could you ask again?
Them: The answer will be the same.
Us: Could you at least try?
Eventually, we are granted permission to unload the truck, but they will not
allow us to move it closer to the church. We will have to carry its entire
contents nearly 100 meters across the square to the church. We insist that they
are being unnecessarily difficult. They have their orders.
Some of the crates require six men to ease off the back of the truck. Daryl
estimates they weigh 800 pounds. Fortunately, a few Palestinian boys offer to
help—and they have a dolly to wheel them across the square. Before long, a
steady stream of boxes and crates trickles from the truck, between the APC and
five or so M16-toting soldiers, and into the church compound.
Then, something unexpected begins to happen. As we pass back and forth between
the soldiers, over and over (and over) again, conversation takes place—often
initiated by them. Little by little, our interactions shift from confrontational
to awkward to joking. We begin to recognize our common humanity. More gross
paraphrases:
Them: Are you against us too?
Us: I am for peace.
Them: So are we. Do you think we like riding around in a metal box all day?
Us: I’ve heard that there are some IDF reservists that have refused to serve in
the Occupied Territories. What do you think about that?
Them: Do you know who won the Lakers-Kings game last night?
Us (while carrying a table): This reminds me of Psalm 23, ‘He preparest a table
for me in the presence of mine enemies’…Not that you’re our enemy.
Us: Only a few more boxes and then we’re done.
Them: I’m getting tired just watching you.
Us: We’ve found a way to keep from getting bored—how about you?
Them: I’m managing.
Us: Thanks for the supervision.
It was a little unsettling to know that we had made nice with the same forces
that routinely destroy the homes and the lives of the Palestinian people. Of
course, later we thought of all of the things we should have said, questions we
should have asked, points we should have made that would have sown, fertilized,
and grown seeds of peace in these young men to turn them all into conscientious
objector activists against the occupation. But we’d have to settle for just
sowing for now.
But given any sense of inadequacy we may have had about bringing hope or peace
to occupied Bethlehem, here was one small thing that could not have been
accomplished without our presence. The most talkative soldier, Elie, reminded us
several times very explicitly that they were making an exception for us—and
especially for the Palestinians that were helping us: “We would never allow them
to walk around like this normally. They are under curfew.”
This was the accompaniment model in action, pure and simple. We’d leveraged our
white American privilege to get the job done. We’d also gone from having a
somewhat exotic experience of “authentic tourism”—listening to gunshots and
tanks from the relative safety of our hotel—to doing something that some members
of our team felt was enough to make the entire trip worthwhile. And it was only
Monday.