Boston to Jaffa Port: Running Against the Wave

I ran with Boston in mind. I needed to clear my head, but I felt a strong connection in the exercise. There was more pressing. The heavy physical exertion had a subtle solidarity. 

So as it started, and my shoes hit the pavement  - down the street - up and down the stairs, I thought about how their race turned into one for their lives. And 3 were lost. The people were brave. They faced terror with so much strength; Freedom wins again. We came together.

Now, as I turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, my shoes landed on the dock, the Port at Jaffa. As I passed the boats, I closed my eyes for just a moment: nothing but the sound of the Sea reached my ears...and my soul.

I pushed my body, jumped over the dock benches and took a deep breath. The clouds sprinkled fresh rain, the waves rushed and lapped together - it was harmony, peace, perfection.

There was no music to listen to on this run, phone turned off and in my sleave, laptop left behind. The morning was dreary and the only people out were fisherman and restaurant staff. I broke a sweat and released daily stress, mental and physical tensions.

When I came to another set of stairs, leading down to the beach, I raced them up and down avoiding the thought of trying to be Rocky, and focused on the task of pushing myself as hard as I could, because my brothers and sisters did it only a day before - even in the face of an attack.

I climbed up a stone platform - looked over the Sea and bowed with a nod of Namaste. For the next 25 minutes, I formed, positioned myself and challenged the high sea to a duel. Fierce yoga versus the swallowing waves. A battle of soulful recognition and gracious acceptance. The waves showed me power and I showed them strength.

When I finished, I ran up the stairs, back down the dock, through the streets and finished satisfied.

Lost in the 'Promised Land'

Courtesy of Google Map & Pixlr App

Israel can do better than this, he said.

I'm broken today, my friends. I was saddened when I left a meeting with a contact.

I learned when Africans come to Israel, they have no where else to go. This is there last stop, the refugees flee hoping each place they go will be better and Israel, they are often stuck. They are not easily offered status and more often when they arrive, they are literally dumped on a sidewalk with nothing but the clothes on their back.

Government, society will not deal with them. If they are able to avoid detention and gain a place in the country, it is only won through the courts and only if the presiding judge is compassionate enough. Many of them have fled hostile countries, others trafficked into the country - all rejected - and it breeds deep racism from their Israeli counterparts, rejection and many of them turn to crime or end up in hopeless situations.

The organization here relies heavily on outside donations and cannot keep more than about 50 people in their shelter at any given time. They work with community leaders to help provide jobs, training, status, physical and mental healthcare for the refugees. But many of them, if the they can help with relocation and help them set up, it is not in Israel, the success is often found in international relocation.

The contact I spoke with said while he believes what he does is important, it is difficult. Having been a refugee, detained, participated in a hunger strike and opened the first NGO to assist with African refugees and focus on their needs; the challenges are complicated and frustrating. His eyes were sad. But he holds on, he must hope change can be made. Small steps at a time. He's passionate.

I left heavy - as I begin approaching the stories of people here who so desperately need to be heard, I don't know how much of a dent it will make, but like my new friend - I have to think; if one person's life can be improved in anyway by one story, then maybe humanity still exists in Western Backed Ideals. It's important. It's necessary humility.

Electricity Fizzing Flat

Dear Reader:

It is time again I tell you a story, and I must say, you’ve been painfully patient. If I could give you all a cookie, I would. Oreos, in fact.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, a story. 

Well you see, it all started the morning I was to leave a couch surfing couple and head on to a flat. Like any other morning without sleep, I sat up, awake and my hair in dishevel. The apartment manager sent a text, ‘Can you meet me at the flat now?’

I flew out of bed and avoided telling him what I really wanted to say, ‘Shut up, I’m going back to bed. It’s is too early.’

But I knew better and frankly, I wouldn’t have slept another minute. There was a Dog. And the Dog obviously made sure I never slept. Between midnight barks, knurling at his foot and frequent scratches in the corner – he would look me in the eye; he knew what he was doing. The moment I made it to my feet, exhausted and grumpy, he followed. The Dog headed for the door, blocked my way and barked as loud as possible. I skirted around trying to calm him down. It never worked. Hadn’t worked in days, why should I place any hope on a Sunday morning? I shouldn’t  - so I didn’t. I finally flung myself from the door, dragging my luggage and tripping forward onto the sidewalk, again.

Not a great start. But, enough. I headed in the direction to the rooftop flat and after a series of turns, getting lost, walking only four blocks away, I was exhausted. How did I talk myself into 3 bags on this trip? Really.

7-flights up, all the way to the top, old building, and no elevator – whew - I made it. After quick instructions and a mini tour; the guy finally handed me the key.

The first moment alone in days; I just wanted to lie on my back...on the bed. I dared not fall asleep; I knew how much I needed to get done, even on a Sunday. But just for a moment I enjoyed sheer silence. The rooftop-flat had one simple purpose: marveling over the city of Tel Aviv.

After a shower and a little organization, I decided to plug in my Mac and get started. Seemed simple enough, until I plugged into the outlet of a freshly turned on electrical signal and my right hand surged with sparks which shook my forearm and threw me back on the bed. A loud whispered squeal escaped my vocal chords. I had electrocuted myself and felt like a cartoon.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my hand visibly shaking and thought, ‘What the hell was that?!’

Slowly I got up, fumbled for a chair and climbed up to the electrical box to reset. I had also blown the fuse. Nice.

The rest of the day proved uneventful. Shocks and shakes through my arm lasted a few hours, I worked, I napped, I spoke to a friend, I took a walk. Nevertheless, the when sunset came, there was nothing more satisfying than to look out over the city and take it in. No thoughts or words, just Tel Aviv - for a moment, even if it never came again. 

Until Next Time, 

Yours Truly. 

Rooftops & Wires

The Next Installment: Rooftops & Wires was written as a guest spot on http://denofthelioness.com. 

Click the following LINK to read more. 

Photo Essay: SlutWalk 2013 - Tel Aviv

The SlutWalk was initiated in April 2011 in Toronto after a police official commented women would be safer against predators if they didn't "dress like sluts." Women took to the streets and the protests grew around the world. Events were held in India, Australia, the US and Israel. Tel Aviv's march was its 2nd and a few hundred women, children and men turned out for the event. While I was able to obtain many great photos, here's just a taste of the characters who joined the event including a woman who also protested in solidarity with the Palestinians this week. 

The Resurrection of Stone & Relic (Part II)

Walking through the maze of the market on the way to Latin Mass wasn't what I expected. There was a large group of people following the procession and I was at the end of it and also probably the shortest person in the group. Easter Sunday morning in Old City Jerusalem. 9.30AM.

All the bells and whistles and incense followed. If I felt lost, it wasn't long before I was found again, keeping the aroma of the priests and nuns in front of me. As I entered the courtyard to the Church of the Sepulchre, security guards were motioning guests and tourists to enter through the other side of the gate, which was only on the other side of the police barrier which divided the walkway into two lines. 

The Faithful filled the pews which had been set up for the event. The mass was set to run through various stages and last several hours. I stayed for the first two. Though I didn't understand most of the service proceedings, the call and response was familiar and the choirs sang from above the main sanctuary. Priests filled the halls and watched on as the benediction was given. 

After some time, I slipped away to view the other relics of the Holy Site. 

The alter in the opening of the church sits in the place 'they' say Jesus was crucified. There are candles burning above, holy water lightly puddled on the alter and drips of oil from the lanterns. Guests flocked the stone, laying their candles, scarves and bowing their foreheads as if to atone or to earn their blessings by their pilgrimage. I knelt down, just for a moment, reached my fingertips to the stone and prayed, "Is this, is this where your cross stood? Is this where you were when the weight of the world with you?" While it was a fascinating site, I kept wondering, is it the Godly humanity that brings them? Or, the draw of what the Catholics built? 

True, the dedication is…quite something. The gold mosaic on the walls is exquisite art. The centuries of standing stone - the history of the land underneath it. The tomb in the middle of the main sanctuary is said to be Joseph of Arimathea, a Pharisee who asked for Jesus' body. The mass itself was a ritual. Done rarely in Latin anymore, it was a ceremonial - created to give the visitors a traditional Catholic service. Ironically, in all the distraction of cameras flashing and choir hymns and the bustle of priests taking part in the mass; it was as if the room stopped for just a moment, silent, like the movie had paused and I was the only one standing in the scene. It was a moment of reverent reflection and the slow motion left me realizing the pomp & jewels didn't matter, just the ground, the dirt, the heavenly humility. 

Next stop: The Mount of Olives. 

I planned on walking (hiking) as far as a I could go before hailing a cab or a bus - mostly because it's largely recommend one enjoy the Mount of Olives from the top down, that is, walk (hike) only one way because it can be strenuous and tedious going through the village to get there. But I was stopped by two young Arabs - who looked to be in their late 20s and claimed they had connections with the taxis (apparently one guy's father owned the local company) and they would escort me for free. So they did and acted as my tour guides, body guards and introduced me to all their friends who live near the top - including 'Obama' the Camel. 

As jovial as the visit was and their knowledge of the Holy sites, they were kind enough to give me moments to myself to reflect the view over Jerusalem. 

I could see the Dome of the Rock, now a Mosque, contested land where they say King Solomon's first temple was built. The Mount itself has numerous Biblical references spanning form David to Jesus. The cemeteries below were split among the Jews, Christians and Muslims. The Garden of Gethsemane sat next to a church built by the French, was quartered off by a fence and the Olive trees were blooming. The road back down to the Old City, they later told me, was believed to be the path Jesus took on the donkey when he came into Jerusalem. 

Easter Sunday was filled with remnants of religious history, interesting people and breathtaking oversight. In a place like Jerusalem, no Bunnies or Eggs or Candy colored marshmallows, just rock and stone reminding each person that passes, the Faithful, the non-Faithful and simply, even the Curious - sacred things still exist. 

The sacred is what keeps us in check. Holy is ground is everywhere, if we choose to pay attention.