Gaza: As He Prayed

Only a day after an indefinite ceasefire was announced, I made my way into Shejaia, a Hamas-dominated neighborhood, to piece together photos of the wreckage. There was destruction everywhere, 'loss' in a heap, a mess, a reflection the hopelessness. But beyond the rubble, the image that caught the corner of my eye made a lasting impression...

We rounded the corner, coming out from the desecrated-house, my fixer pointed to a man just beyond another pile of debris. He was standing in his socks on his prayer rug, bent at the waist. My fixer whispered, “This, this is good man.”

The prayer-rug itself was not pointed toward the direction of Mecca as custom during the Calls to Prayer, there were no Calls to Prayer ringing out in Gaza at the time, it was not even pointed to Israel as if to curse it. Instead, the man’s prayer-rug was pointed toward his home.

Swallowing hard, I raised my camera.

He tried to prop up his wide shoulders, but I could tell they were heavy. His arms at his side, his eyes focused. He dipped to his knees, fell forward to his hands, slowly and brought his head to the mat, prostate in prayer, he lingered before retreating to his knees, rocking forward then back as he prayed. 

I imagine, for the restoration of his home, for the loss to be rebuilt, for the rubble to be washed away, the man prayed. The small village outside of Gaza City was nothing more than crushed stone, glass and burnt metals strewn through the streets. 

The war is not over for them. For those in Gaza who returned to Shejaia or for those coming out from underneath the piles of debris, the war for survival has only begun.

After weeks of raining bombs and rockets shaking through the windows, after the raging battle is over, there is nothing left but to start from the bottom.

Broken stone into dust is a devastating picture. With so much brokenness around them, they will have to find the strength to keep cleaning, keep working through the mess and ultimately find the strength to rebuild.

What is on the outside reflects the inside of a human being. And the pain of bombardment, an abused existence with captors and the desperation to get out of an open cage play into hopelessness.

Still the man prayed. I can only believe he brought his confusion, his pain to the prayer mat seeking an answer, seeking a way to gain the strength he’ll need to wade through the wreckage. 

No significant gain from the Cairo talks, the Palestinian people must find a way to no longer live defeated - and this man, on his knees knows just that. 

He must find the hope survive, to live, to break through the barriers that have kept him in. When survival is all he knows, grieving seems to never end. Insha'Allah Mercy be upon him. 

Malala - Bravest Girl In the World

The Daily Show

Writing lately seems to come harder than it has in the past. Maybe it's because I feel so uninspired. And last week - the most incredible girl in the world inspired me and now, I just can't seem to put it into words.

You know whom I am speaking of…Malala Yousafzai She came to the US, blowing us all away, only a year after being targeted by the Taliban in Pakistan, nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize (which I believe she should have received). She's recovered, healed and she won't stand down. She keeps speaking out on the importance of education, women and she attributes her own miracle to the heavens above. Malala is truly remarkable. Her young 16-years of life is a testament to the meaning of 'true heroism.'

But I fear many Americans, in particular, are missing her message.

You see, while many praise her efforts, they disregard what she truly represents, what it means to love your enemy as yourself, what it means to believe so strongly in something – that no matter the cost, she’ll keep her head up even when her critics would rather see her dead, what it means to represent her faith and most of all, what it means to be a woman and powerful.

One year ago, she was the target of a terrorist attack. Malala defied them. She survived. She wrote a book. And she would do it again, she says, the Taliban need to be educated too. Despite the moments when she would rather throw a shoe, instead she tells us, "I’ll tell him how important education is, and that I even want education for your children as well. And I would tell him, ‘That’s what I want to tell you, now do what you want."

Her ambition is become the Prime Minister of Pakistan, and the Pakistan People’s Party, the same part that backed Benezir Bhutto, has voiced their support. And I think she’ll do it too.

But while she’s changing hearts and minds, dropping Jon Stewart’s jaw and giving Christiane Amanpour a reason to smile non-stop, I believe there are too many Americans who just missing it.

Malala is faithful to her beliefs, she denounces that extremists are any representation of her faith and she believes women are more powerful than men. Her life is evident of a message Americans brag they live and breathe and believe, but they are yet to practice it.

"Persecution" has become the normal cry here, fear of a belief system, suing for defamation and fussing over which group is the most prejudice, violent or who spews more hatred. Isn’t time we let the 16-year Muslim girl humble us all?

I don't know everything in this world. But this I know, friends, we can no longer spew hatred for our Muslim brothers and sisters. God is proving his purpose and his plan for her life - and one - we all need to emulate. We don't have to agree on theology, that's okay. But if we are to be followers of true freedom and love, then we cannot dismiss the message we claim the Gospels preach. It was truly radical. Friends, are you radical enough?

Are you radical enough to receive those less fortunate than you? Are you radical enough to live with less, believe in more.

I see a woman like Malala take over the world by standing against evil with peace. Just as incredible as she is, her father stands behind her, her cause and what she believes in. He lets her lead the way and gives her the courage she needs to face the days, I guarantee she doubts.

You may hate my words, you may try to tear apart mine with references and scripture. That's unfortunate – because what I'm asking from you is to just stop for a minute, consider this: what message do you really want to live? The one you’re living, criticizing and blaming every faith, race, poor, rich or schmuck with opposing views? Or the one Malala is sharing? – You know, educating others, becoming educated and striving for perfection in peace. It’s worth a shot.  

No, it’s not about being a pacifist; it’s about Malala Yousafzai --a hero. And this week she gave a dumbfounding interviews. She's the definition of humble bravery and she believes educating people will reveal justice, equality and truth. My friends;  Malala is right.

While our government is recovering from a ridiculous shut down and we're debating whether or not the ACA is biblical - let's stop for a minute to consider Malala's life, her story - let's stop extremism by not being extremists, let's change the world.

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.

Stone and Relic

Jerusalem: filled with relics of old, stone walls and ancient stories in which monotheistic faith has been derived. As the great walls stand tall and the holy places are revered by those who live here; so the tourists flock as if tomorrow is the end and their pilgrimage here is the will be adorned in the afterlife.

After I walked through the loosely monitored security gate of the Western Wall yesterday, I saw exactly this: hundreds of people, at any given time moving as one embodiment to and from the Wall with prayers on their lips and awe in their eyes.

Did it feel spiritual?

No, not to me, as callous as this may sound; There was no tingling in my fingertips, no emotional response my from my eyes. When I saw it, I saw a wall, connected to rest of Old City, a wall with grasses growing out of it and people desperate to touch. I saw a men’s side and a women’s side separated by dividers. I saw tourists taking pictures from the walkway above and I saw security guards everywhere.  I don’t mean to sound irreverent. But what people make the wall to be – I just didn’t see.

The Western Wall, to me, was just that, a wall. A man made alter no different than a church or a synagogue. It was a site for praying tourists and priests and orthodox believers. I just didn’t feel anything as others might. It was a wall. And perhaps the political discord surrounding its existence has taken away from any ‘holy’ feeling I am supposed to have; nevertheless, it was interesting site and nothing more.

Though the Western Wall did not impress me, I DID find the Tower of David Museum (another wall) to be most fascinating.

Perhaps it is because of history.

Once upon a time, a King walked these walls, troubled by how he might lead a nation, raw with every move he made, even in his faltering. This truly captures my attention.

King David was a man who ran with rebels, prayed for his enemies and not just for his sake, but also for theirs. After serving a King who wanted him dead, he took care of the King’s family. He was humiliated, he tried to have a woman’s husband killed, his own heir despised him. David was human and carried the weight of a restless people on his shoulders. Walking along the walls – which are believed to have been his castle, what did he see? What did he pray? What did he know?

The view was remarkable and extends along the edge of Old City. The view and the place I stood birthed more reverence. True, the Museum (the walls) has been rebuilt, torn down and rebuilt over and again. But to know a King wept and rejoiced along the same path. To know a great example of humanity and spirit was ever more inspiring.

I wonder, as the thousands come to the Old City this week to admire the old relics, does history provide renewal as much as the knowledge & wisdom of here…and now?

Photo Essay: (Turkey) Haiga Sophia

Notes: The Haiga Sophia, also known as the Saint Sophia was once an Orthodox Christian Church under Constantine who had it built and it was an important monument during the Byzantine Empire and later it became a Mosque after Ottoman Turks conquered the region. It was incredibly fascinating to see such exquisite design and the additions that were seamlessly made. I was often amused at the obvious influences by the Catholic on the Orthodox structure of the Church - but in all my observance during the self guided tour, I kept thinking, What actually happened here? Was there bloodshed? God, were you here? Perhaps strange to some, but it was an awe satisfying experience. Stained glass windows, Arabic script, alters and pathways - even burial sites. It was Holy ground that welcomed more than just one group of people. And though it is run as a tourist museum, it had an essence that reminded people - this was a place of worship and prayer, perserved for centuries. The European had been met with the Arabian - and the remnants  to me, were quite extraordinary. 

Moments of the Sacred: Part I

The Call to Prayer, it happens 5-times a day in the Muslim world. And at least that many times, on each and every day is a call to acknowledge the Sacred. 

I have often woken up in the morning to the sound of the Mu'adhin calling out - it's the noon call, the Mosque in Buyukdere is only a few blocks from where I stayed. They call out on intercoms that are attached to the Minuets. There have been days where the gentleman sounds like he has something stuck in his throat and has to clear it before continuing. Though amusing, in it's own form, he is dedicated to a call for Prayer, Holiness, reflection,...at this, many Muslims will drop to their knees - facing the most holy place they know and seek Heaven. 

I remember the first time I heard it, a cup of coffee in hand, waking up, standing in a garden in my favorite sweats, the cool morning air and the Call itself beckoned my own prayer, my own thankful surrender to God. The moment demanded my attention, compelled my mind to hold still - just for a moment. And so on I went. 

I imagine, like any other human, the Muslim believers ask for help, they ask for blessings, they pray away their sins, they ask for direction, they look find what else they can do live a better life. Are they so far from anyone else? No. Five times a day, they pause for a moment, they look to Reverence and ask for better.

How often, in the Christian world is this done? On Sundays? During a Bible study once a week or a holiday? How often is it done anywhere else - among those with or without any kind of faith? Yes, it begins to sound like a ritual, a regulation of the Religion. But I have found, watching, in only 2-weeks, that this call is precious. The ground they stand on, for so many Muslims, immediately becomes an alter. There is nothing else that matters or makes more sense than that moment. This, truly, is fascinating. It is so because it is necessary. 

How often do we each focus what is truly important? Those from the West and more specifically, the US are always in such a rush to be satisfied and right and right now, ahead of the game and above all else, there is no surrender, God is not *really* factored into the equation, only human worthiness and who is in or who is out of the "Club." Religion is on a fast track, it has become a self-righteous *political* statement and the practice of cleansing isn't even a recognized. There is no meditation or focus on the pause that needs its moment, the quietness of Soul and Spirit. 

This is the beauty in the Call to Prayer. It is, like the word "Islam" itself, a call...to genuine surrender.