The City of David

Last week I was fortunate enough to accompany Andy and his classmates on another tiyul (trip).  This time, we went to Ir David (City of David), a large archeological park that researchers believe to be the location of King David’s palace, and the ancient Jerusalem referred to in the Bible.  This site is also the location of Hezikayah’s Tunnel—the attraction that allows tourists to walk through a tiny ancient underground tunnel in complete darkness, in water up to their waists.  It shouldn’t come as a surprise to any of you that when I was offered the opportunity to participate in this insanity during my Pilgrimage trip when I was 16, I faked sick and opted out.  Luckily, on the tiyul with Andy’s class, we took the dry route out of the tunnel.

We spent a lot of time exploring the ruins, and learning about what ancient life might have been like.  Our tour guide had brought with him passages from the Tanach (Hebrew Bible) which mention the very location where we were standing.  I’m sure for the people who understood the passages and knew what they were looking at, it was pretty cool.  But I’m not a rabbinical student, and although I thought the old stuff was pretty cool, ever since I went to Rome, I’m just slightly less impressed.  I was more interested in the politics around the location, and the juxtaposition of the old and the new.  Me, interested in politics?  I know, weird.

Since people believe that this is where ancient Jerusalem stood, many Jews try to settle in the area.  It really is a tourist site right underneath a residential area.  One of the hardships with that, however, is the fact that the site is located in a bustling East Jerusalem town that is home to Arab families.  Our tour guide explained that the two religions live in peace, and in tension.  I think that pretty much makes sense for any city in Israel.  The site itself is privately run by an organization known for shady practices aimed at buying the Arabs out, and putting the Jews back in.

While at Ir David, we walked through many underground tunnels, and squeezed through narrow pathways.  When we finally resurfaced, I had forgotten what daylight looked like.  We had gathered in an area, waiting for the rest of our group to catch up, and giving everyone a chance to catch their breaths, when we heard (and saw) a few gun shots fired from the nearby town.  We all looked around at each other, wondering what was going on, and I’m sure my face betrayed my fear.  After all, we were a group of Jews walking around a political hotbed in East Jerusalem.  A number of students, more culturally versed than I am, explained that it is a tradition in some Arab families to fire rifles into the air in celebration of a wedding.  Suddenly, the gun shots weren’t scary so much as they were joyous.  It’s sort of amazing the way we assign meaning to different actions.  Throughout this discussion, however, our tour guide remained silent, even though I felt that he might have been able to elaborate a little more.

A few meters up the hill (yes, I measure things in meters now), we stopped to discuss an inscription taken out of the tunnel and displayed on a wall outside.  About halfway into the tour guide’s explanation, the village just behind us began to echo with the Muslim call to prayer.  There must have been at least 5 different calls sounding, each with their own unique tune and voice.  The results were astounding—each of the calls to prayer echoing each other and filling the valley with a very public display of faith and religiosity.  It was the type of thing that a bunch of rabbinical students could surely find interesting.  It’s the type of thing I would love to have listened to for the duration of the 5 or 10 minutes that it lasted.  At the very least, a moment of silence would have been appropriate out of respect for another’s faith.

But our tour guide kept talking—right through the call to prayer—and kept talking even after it was finished.  He never addressed it, but instead acted like nothing had happened.  Maybe it was a political statement (I’m coming to realize that everything is a political statement in this country whether you intend it to be or not).  But the truth is, no one benefited from his ignoring of a beautiful ritual of another religion.  I, for one, am not ashamed to admit that I completely tuned out the tour guide and instead focused on the sounds filling the air of the village next to us.  They were overwhelming and awe-inspiring.  And I know that I am not the only one who stopped listening to the tour guide.  As for the students who continued to listen to the tour guide, it must have been difficult for them to hear and pay attention.  No one benefitted from the tour guide’s actions—the students who wanted to listen to the call to prayer and maybe do some thinking on their own could not focus because of the tour guide’s talking, and the students who wanted to hear what the tour guide had to say could not focus because of the call to prayer.  It resulted in wasted breath on the tour guide’s behalf and loss of information on the students’ behalf.

And I am disappointed.  I would have thought that a tour guide, who is intimately familiar with the land and its significance, would have at least acknowledged the amazing religious ritual we had all unintentionally become a part of.  We were standing in the alleged ancient city of Jerusalem, and witnessing an ancient religious practice that had continued through to today—linking the old and the new with the rope of religion.  I always talk about the oneness of human kind—how we are all connected, searching for the same things.  I was upset that our tour guide could not have been bothered to take a few minutes to catch his breath and acknowledge the intimate way we are all linked, while standing on such holy land.  I think it’s important for acceptance and education not to waste opportunities like that.

Oh—our tour guide did say one thing about the call to prayer: “I guess it’s time for Mincha (the Jewish afternoon prayer service)”.  We never did daven Mincha.

Why ENP?

I’ve been writing grants and doing grant research for the Ethiopian National Project for a few months now (admittedly with little success).  One question that has been on my mind for a while now is how to really convince American philanthropists to invest in the quality of education and educational opportunities for Ethiopian-Israeli students who live on the other side of the world.  Seemingly, there are philanthropists interested in educational reform, and investing in equal education for all—but they could simply donate to an education-based nonprofit in the United States, closer to home and to their heart- and purse- strings.  Why, exactly, should they be investing in the education of a group of people about whom they know nothing and with whom they have no connection?

This question has been plaguing me for some time, and though I have searched intently for an answer, I have been hard pressed to find one.  I’m committed to the cause, but I am here in this community and I have a particular interest in the social services industry in the State of Israel, given my role as a social worker and as a Zionist Jew. 

Meanwhile, in my personal life, I have become increasingly dismayed with the negative attention given to people with various dietary allergies, intolerances, sensitivities, and disorders.  I have taken to affectionately calling this group of people, with whom I identify strongly, the “dietarily different”.  I have also begun to explore the possibility of a “dietary privilege” which allows those without allergies to hold a certain place of power in society, while those of us with religious, medical, or personal dietary restrictions are alienated and mistreated.

In social work school, we discuss the idea of power, privilege, and oppression frequently.  We address racial privilege, privilege based on sexual orientation, sex/gender privilege, and economic privilege.  In my two years in social work school, we did not even come close to addressing religious privilege, and I imagine that many of my classmates—now colleagues—would look at “dietary privilege” and laugh, as if it had no place in the crusade to address privileges in our society.  And I wouldn’t necessarily blame them—it’s a rite-of-passage through which all new ideas must travel.  So in addition to wondering how to convince American philanthropists to address the educational necessities of Ethiopian-Israeli students, I also began to wonder how to legitimize this new privilege I’m pretty sure exists.

If we as social workers, as human beings, are truly dedicated to addressing the dynamics of power and privilege, and ending oppression, then we must be dedicated to addressing power and privilege in all of its forms, wherever it exists—including those forms or locations which may be new or uncomfortable for us.  This includes Christian or religious privilege (particularly in the United States) and dietary privilege, as well as other separations that I may not even be aware of (I recently discussed with Andy the possibility that there may be privilege inherent in the type of hair color we have—do people take brunettes more seriously, but think blondes are more attractive?  And how about the way we treat redheads?).  I am constantly reminding myself that “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”  So perhaps we identify with one form of privilege or oppression over another, but that does not negate the existence of other forms of privilege or oppression, nor does it negate the importance of recognizing it, addressing it, and hopefully changing it.

Although the two issues are seemingly unrelated, it was through my extensive thought about the idea of dietary privilege that I was able to begin to understand why educational opportunities for Ethiopian-Israeli students should be considered an important cause for others outside the State of Israel to address.  Today, we are citizens of the world.  We are constantly becoming involved with and championing causes from other nations.  If we are truly concerned about the next generation of leaders, then we ought to be investing in the opportunities that will allow them to grow and flourish to their fullest potential.  This includes leaders around the world—not just in our home communities.  We are dedicated to addressing oppression and inequality on the home front, but if we have the opportunity to address the same issues in another community, we are obligated to follow those opportunities, to ensure that every child, everywhere, is ready for the bright and successful future that lies ahead of them.

There are a million and one causes to invest in—and we are lucky that there seem to be just as many people willing to do the investing.  Each day that I research potential grant opportunities, I am baffled not only by the wealth of resources available to the global community, but also by the large spread of interests of those in possession of these resources.  Some people find their calling working to end the many genocides of the world, while others choose to invest in institutions of higher education to ensure a brighter future for tomorrow.  Still others are dedicated to addressing woman’s issues, to ending racial oppression or poverty, or to funding new and innovative research opportunities, in their hometown, or abroad.  There are those people who find their calling in improving the education of young students, of investing in not just the future of these students lives, but in the future of the world.  They wish to ensure equal educational opportunities for all, regardless of race, economic class, political background, or country of origin.  Everyone is ultimately investing in the same thing—a better world, and a better tomorrow.  Each person is taking his/her own path, but ultimately, we will all meet up again at the finish line.

So why invest in the education of an underprivileged student population halfway around the world?  Because if the need is there, then it needs to be addressed.  There are many needs in the world—including this one—and one by one, they should be addressed by those with the resources and opportunities to make a difference in order to ensure a brighter global future.  Everyone can make a difference—it’s a matter of fighting a fight you are not only passionate about, but also dedicated to resolving.