Reflections from a Holy Land

As is distinctly evident from my incessant posting of photos on Facebook, I have recently spent time in Israel/Palestine with my family. During our trip I visited an abundance of holy sites: stood on the site where Jesus supposedly ascended to heaven, pressed my face up to the tomb of Mary, and walked in the blistering heat down the Mount of Olives. On top of that I've visited sites sacred to Islam and Judaism too. I think it's fair to say that I have swallowed enough holiness to get me into heaven three times over. There are biblical references at every corner you turn. It was a trip of a lifetime and one that I am fortunate enough to have embarked on with the ever knowledgeable and enthusiastic guidance of Simon Winn. Yet what struck me most poignantly during my time there was not primarily the religious sacredness that the country brims with, but the relentless injustices which punctuate the lives of the Holy Land's indigenous inhabitants: the Palestinian people. 

Many people reading this will have a far greater understanding of the plight facing Palestinians living in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip than I do, and it's worth mentioning that this blog post is not intended to be an expansive history of the Palestinian people (you can find a plethora of great resources regarding this online to educate yourself with, if need be). But I feel compelled to write as a challenge to myself, and my wider group of peers and friends, to reflect on what we are doing to aid other young men and women like us - who share our dreams, aspirations and interests but whose opportunities are restricted by oppressive colonising forces (namely, illegal Israeli settlements and general anti-Arab sentiment). What follows is a personal reflection from time spent in Bethlehem meeting young Palestinian people and discussing the conflict (but also life at large) with them. 

On one of our first days in the country, Dad, Charlie and I passed through Checkpoint 300 (a busy Israeli checkpoint situated between Jerusalem and Bethlehem and guarded by armed soldiers who monitor those entering Israeli territory - ultimately barring many Palestinians from moving freely between towns) to visit Banksy's 'Walled Off Hotel'. The hotel is a project created by the Bristol-born, provocative graffiti artist Banksy. It combines hotel services, an art gallery featuring the work of budding Palestinian artists, and a museum crucially dedicated to bringing a Palestinian voice to the narrative governing the land. The museum is immensely informative - it provides an accessible walk through of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict for those will little grounding in its history. Starting with Britain leaving Palestine in 1948 and the Declaration of the Establishment of the State of Israel, the museum then guides you through the key socio-political events of the area since then - the two intifadas, various wars from 1948 through to the 2014 Gaza conflict, the erection of the separation wall, and the persistent injustices faced by Palestinians such as land confiscation. The conflict is notoriously complex and involves many different groups and ideologies. But one aspect of it that has struck me particularly is the way it has impeded upon the lives of young Palestinians at the same stage of life as myself. 

Last week mum, dad, Charlie and I were fortunate enough to visit Bethlehem University, located in the West Bank in Area A (land governed by Palestinian authorities). Charlie and I were both exhausted from a tiring (but brilliant) few days traipsing around significant sites in the unrelenting Middle Eastern heat, and were somewhat unimpressed that dad wanted us out of bed by 7.30am to visit a university (something which we are both supposed to be on a break from). But what followed was by far the most enriching experience of the trip.

The university's delightful 'guest relations officer', Amjaad, greeted us and gave us a tour of the stunning campus and then proceeded to introduce us to three young Palestinian students from the university - Sera, Donna, and Farah. Sera is in her second year of a business relations degree and has aspirations to study further and embark on her Masters. Donna is also a second year business student hoping to become an accountant in the near future. Farah is a third year biology student and wants to enter a career in either occupational therapy or music therapy – but, like me, he is hit hard by the looming question which the final year of a degree inevitably elicits: "where to from now?" All three are keen musicians; I had little to offer the conversation here, whereas Charlie found common ground with Farah in their love of singing (although worth noting that he was mortified by dad proclaiming that they should all go on YouTube and "look him up" - as though my little brother is already a burgeoning pop star). Spotting my Lorde tote bag (yes, I will shamelessly promote my fav on my international travels) Sera asked me excitedly if I liked her new album and we spent a solid few minutes fan girling hard over the kiwi icon. I'm ashamed to admit that I did not expect to find as ardent a Lorde fan as myself in sun baked Palestine - a culture seemingly far removed from little NZ. Both girls loved my tattoo (Dad closed his ears to our conversation at this point) and Donna and I then laughed a lot about the mutual distaste that our respective Grandmas expressed over our nose piercings. 

It was a wonderful few hours of discussion and cultural exchange. But in reflection of the lived realities of young Palestinians, the conversation transcended niceties and mutual interest in pop culture to take a more serious turn. When Charlie asked why the university is made up of 80% women and only 20% men, Donna explained how many young men have been arrested by Israeli forces by the time they have reached university age – often from either throwing stones at watchtowers in protest of the callous treatment they experience at the hands of Israeli governance, or for posting politically potent material online. She went on to say that there were other contributing factors to the starkly unequal statistic: often an adherence to traditional gender roles dictates that boys feel pressure to provide financially for the family, so in order to fulfil this role they start work rather than studying. Moreover, some more families feel it would be safer for their sons to emigrate overseas rather than continue to live in Palestine. Life is restrictive for young Palestinians, and despite the glowing lust for life embodied by Sera, Donna, and Farah the reality still remains that their experiences as young adults are devoid of much of the opportunity that we kiwi and British young people have access to.

After laughing about how she would rather hang around at the uni campus for hours on end with her friends than going home in her spare time, Donna’s expression grew grave as she began to speak of the ways in which her experience of youth differs distinctly from mine. “To get to a movie theatre”, she explained, “you either have to travel to Jerusalem or go to Ramallah.” It is not possible for either Sera or Donna to travel to Jerusalem without permits, as they are Green Cards (there are differing levels of Palestinian citizenship status; being Green Cards mean they have to go through the administratively heavy process of applying for a permit, which may well be denied, in order to enter Israel. So, they’re pretty much bound to staying in Palestine), and Ramallah is a lengthy trip by public transport. Freedom of movement is not a right extended to many young Palestinians. It struck me during my conversation with Sera, when I excitedly told her I was seeing Lorde live later on this year in Glasgow, that this quintessentially youthful experience (the sweaty euphoria of large scale music concerts) is something she does not have access to in the same way I do. For Sera, as a Green Card, she is not permitted to travel from Israel’s main airport: Ben Gurion. Instead, her only way of travelling internationally is by flying from the airport of neighbouring Arab nation, Jordan, in its capital city Amman. But travel from Bethlehem to Amman is not easy - it takes two days and is costly both financially and administratively. Travellers who take this route must pass through three checkpoints: Palestinian, Israeli and Jordanian. Palestinians once roamed this country – their home – freely. Yet now they are forcibly alienated from their land and family by the separation barrier, their olive groves (which provide economic sustenance) are ripped from the earth to make way for illegal Israeli settlements, and their freedom of movement is severely restricted. Many of us intuitively know that this is the situation for Palestinians – we’ve read about it in the news. But realising that a student like Sera (with spookily similar interests and desires for the future as me) is unable to embrace the very youthful experiences which I take entirely for granted gave me a renewed emotional understanding of this blatant injustice.

As all three students shared more with us, it became clear that these practical and physical injustices are bolstered by an arguably more sinister form of persecution: personal aggression and intolerance shown towards them. Settler violence committed against Palestinians is common. But as well as this, Donna shared with us that even in reconciliation programmes – like one she was part of which focused on bringing young Israeli and Palestinians together to work on technological projects – objection by some of the Israeli participants to Palestinian existence obscured any potential progress. 

Farah was quick to interject and clarify that amicable Israelis whom they get on well with do exist. He knew an Israeli girl through musical endeavours who became his friend and they would spend time together. But this inter-cultural connection was not straightforward. He continued on to tell us that once he hung out with her wider friend group and felt discomfort at the tangible fear her friends felt of him. “It wasn’t nice, so I stopped hanging out with them”, he reflected. Farah’s facial expressions became illuminated as he spoke about the cruel ramifications of stereotyping. Upon asking what we, as young kiwi Brits could do to aid their situation, Farah, impassioned, urged us to challenge the stereotyping of Arabs. He asked us to view the image that Western media outlets spout about Arab nations with a critical lens. That all Palestinians are terrorists, and that the West Bank is an area ravaged by unrelenting violence are two inextricably erroneous and damaging generalisations which frequently permeate Western narratives. In fact, as I saw, the West Bank is a vibrant place full of people peacefully going about their lives. It is bustling with markets and home to some of the most exceptionally gracious, intelligent, and ambitious young people that I have been fortunate enough to meet. But as they shared with us, life isn’t straightforward for them. Relations with their Israeli neighbours are complex. Donna lightheartedly joked that she asked an Israeli girl (a friend met during her time spent at the technology initiative) whether she would see her at a checkpoint sometime in the near future. I found myself imagining the irony of a situation in which Donna’s new friend, as part of her mandatory service to the Israeli army – the IDF, would be the stony-faced officer checking Donna’s documents and potentially restricting her travel. And anyway, even if they wanted to maintain a friendship with their Israeli peers, Donna pointed out that is near impossible due to the enormous difficulty of trying to attain a permit for travel to Israel. From the other end too, it’s practically impossible as Israelis are banned from entering Palestine by the Israeli government due to its perceived constant threat of terrorism. The stories of these three reminded me that even if intolerance is not explicitly proclaimed (although, it often is in their cases), it is something that can still be felt acutely.

The situation here isn't black and white - and I'm overtly aware of the dangers of oversimplifying a conflict which spans decades and is drenched in intricacies. But what I do know is that sitting below the discord between Palestinian and Israeli authorities, amongst both the violence and the peace, are three twenty-year old Palestinians who feel the heavy burden of this conflict on a daily basis. They are the ones paying the price. I'm reminded now more than ever that life is not an even playing field. Why should I get to attend a Lorde concert but not Sera? Why should I get to live without fear of imminent hostility but not they? Why do I not have to worry about my university being bombed during times of heightened conflict, but they do? And what the hell is my feminism worth if it is not advocating for young women like Sera and Donna (and men like Farah) alongside my peers in NZ and the UK? Nothing, is the answer - that is not a rhetorical question.

Perfect Places has begun to play, signifying that Melodrama (the album I have been listening to religiously whilst writing this) is drawing to a close – prompting me to wrap up my thoughts. As ever, the wondrous lyrics of Lorde align with my innermost sentiments, and now is no exception. "What the f**k are perfect places, anyway?" This place, regarded as perfect by many – steeped in glorious history and ancient spirituality, is plagued by deep-seated injustices which serve to oppress Palestinians everyday.

While no simple solution to resolving this conflict exists, it is clear to me that there are palpable and practical steps we can be actively taking to stand in solidarity with our Palestinian peers. Challenging derogatory stereotyping and maintaining a critical awareness of the existence of multiple dialogues within the conflict is a good start. Advocacy and activism naturally follow. I think that ultimately empathy has to be at the core of our solidarity. Call me an idealist, but I firmly believe social change is made possible through empathy. Realising our shared humanity with others is a powerful force for meaningful connection and positive change. But as my dear friend Max reminded me - the issue with this situation is not over how we develop empathy with our Palestinian sisters and brothers, but rather, how do we sustain such a level that will compel us to work ardently towards transformative social change? For me, the question becomes: how I am going to extend my intuitive and emotional empathy into praxis? Empathy is of immense importance, but it is only the first step. So let's embrace our shared humanity and harness this empathy with our Palestinian sisters and brothers to level out the playing field. Let's broaden our feminisms and work towards equal opportunities for young people like (or equally unlike) ourselves across the world. As Daoud Nassar of Palestinian organisation Tent of Nations has said, "We don't need outsiders who come and tell us what to do. We need friends who come and join us in our struggle and vision. They help us keep the hope alive." 

(For your interest - Bethlehem University is a tertiary institution committed to facilitating cultural unity and enriching the lives of young Palestinians. You can uncover more about its valuable presence as a bastion of higher education in the West Bank in this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQeqtFl4JrY )

A useful image which depicts illegal Israeli encroachment into Palestinian land post 1946:

Bethlehem University's motto reads 

"Remain Undivided"

(Charlie, Sera, me, Donna, Farah)

Let Us Rage

“Do not go gently into that good night. Rage, rage.”

For many of us, women especially, it feels like we are entering a void where nothing but despair dwells.

The election result seems to have shattered any notion of universally held values which privilege goodness and kindness. It feels hopeless. It feels bleak.

I don’t need to reiterate what this result represents – we already know, some of us far too well. It represents a manifestation of fierce hatred. Hatred for women, Muslims, gay people, trans people, Latino people, black people, people with disabilities… the list goes on. In my heart I never truly believed that a campaign built on such ferociously violent rhetoric would succeed. I genuinely (naively) thought that human empathy would overcome hostility, and light would overcome darkness.

I’ve spent today in a slump. Completely and utterly consumed by this overwhelming sense of darkness. Terrified of the immense suffering that is being felt by people of minorities in particular. Terrified that bigots everywhere have been validated in their malice. Terrified of the social regression this symbolises.

I keep seeing quotes pop up which read, ‘Don’t mourn – organise.’ Bullshit. Let me mourn. Let us mourn. Our grief is valid and our tears fall for a reason. The pain is still raw. Mourning is part of the process; it is healthy and it is natural. Nothing productive will come from burying our hurt.

But as we mourn, I urge us to rage too. Rage for the lives of our Muslim, gay, trans, black, Latino, disabled sisters and brothers. And turn that rage into action. Let us not descend into the comfort of normalcy. This is not normal. In the election of Trump, hatred has prevailed and my deepest fear is that that very hatred becomes normalised. Normalcy leads to complacency and right now, complacency is the most dangerous prospect there is.

Let us look for ways to tangibly challenge this vitriol of hatred that Trump so doggedly spouts.

Joining your local Thursdays In Black group is a good place to start. Grassroots movements that hold those in positions of power accountable are urgently needed, now more than ever. By its very existence Thursdays In Black challenges the poisonous endorsement of rape culture by the president-elect. I urge you to start wearing black on Thursdays – join a worldwide movement in taking a visceral and symbolic stand against sexual violence. Let’s make it loud and clear to Trump and his supporters that we refuse to allow the dehumanisation of women and we refuse to let vic­tims of sexual assault be silenced.

So let’s not delegitimise each other’s grief at this awful, awful situation. Let’s be kind to ourselves – and to others.

And let us rage.

(If you would like to learn more about Thursdays In Black, follow this link http://www.thursdaysinblack.org.nz/ and/or message me.)

Here's To Kicking Sexism Out Of The Game

As the final whistle blew on the 2-1, Japan vs England, Women's World Cup Semi-Final, I (like many other long-suffering English football fans) sat silently, uninvited tears streaking my cheeks. The 2015 Women's World Cup has seen an historic and glorious run of play from the English side. Unlike the pathetically incompetent men's side who didn't make it past the Group Stages of the 2014 Men's World Cup, the women showed England how football should be played - with an aching hunger for victory, not with woeful resignation to defeat. 

The match had the cruellest of conclusions. As English defender, Laura Bassett attempted to whip Japan's cross out of the danger zone in the 92nd minute, her momentum meant the ball was lofted back towards the England goal and over the head of keeper, Karen Bardsley. A minute later the final whistle blew and England's memorable World Cup journey came to a harsh ending. The images of a distraught Laura Bassett lying on the pitch, weeping inconsolably were incredibly difficult to witness. But the subsequent reactions of team members holding Bassett in their arms and then manager Mark Sampson's wise response to a reporter's probing question gave evidence of the existence of honour and compassion in Women’s football.

“What did you sat to Laura?”

“I told her it’s okay to cry… she’s been courageous, strong… she kept this group together. She didn’t deserve that. But I think she’ll be looked upon as a hero. An absolute hero.”

Honour and compassion – traits that I believe make England’s female footballers the most worthy of role models.

Whilst the hope of World Cup victory is over for England Women, the ongoing battle of the precedence of women’s sport in English and most other societies alike is not; I hope that Steph Houghton and her team continue to push for sporting equality with their male counterparts.

During the 2015 Women’s World Cup I grew exceptionally exasperated with misogynistic comments comparing the women’s play to that seen in the Premier League or men’s World Cups. I am sick and tired of the constant running commentaries from my male peers on various social mediums about how, “If this was the Premier League, she would’ve been red carded for that diving!”, or their ever so intelligent insights into how they, “watched women’s football… it’s not really football though is it?!” To those boys and men who believe that simply by virtue of having a penis they are awarded the right to ridicule and critique women’s professional football, ideally I would respond with a lengthy string of expletives. However, instead I shall try to articulate a more eloquent and less irrational response.

So this is my response:

You are the privileged ones.

When you were a feisty and athletic nine year old, you were not denied the opportunity to play for your school’s football team, but told that instead you must join the girls playing netball.

During the playground games of primary school football, your (frequent) goals were not met with a cry of surprise and dismay due to your gender.

As you grew up and developed a passionate love for the sport, you did not spend time wondering why there was such a distinct lack of female footballing heroes whom you could look up and relate to.

Whilst attending a local Championship League match with your best friend, his dad and uncle, you were not fighting back prickly tears as the men joked about how, “women’s football is fierce – there’s a lot of hair pulling and bitching!”

As you dreamed at night of a footballing career, playing for Manchester United or Arsenal and eventually captaining England, you were thinking of the £13,000,000 per annum salary that Wayne Rooney (captain of England men) and his comrades earn. Not the measly £16,000 per annum that Steph Houghton (captain of England women) and her professional female footballing peers earn.

When you search ‘England Football Team’ into google, your heart does not sink every time endless results about the men’s side pop up – concluding that the internet deems men’s football, just ‘football’, whilst women’s football must always be ‘women’s football’. Because women shouldn’t try to claim the game they play is proper football – that would be deplorable, right?!

Every time you make a belittling and sexist comment about women in sport, you reinforce the archaic societal systems in place which prevent young girls from pursuing their sporting dreams; you reinforce the systems which deny professional female athletes the same salary as their male counterparts; you reinforce the systems which put less funding into girls’ school sport than into boys’. You reinforce the systems that ultimately tell girls and women across the world that they will never, ever be treated as equals.

So here’s to the courageous, professional, female footballers everywhere. Here’s to their valiant efforts to kick sexism out of the game. The likes of Rachel Yankey, Kelly Smith and Karen Carney encouraged my 8 year old self to join my local team and today their legacy lives on in the form of Steph Houghton, Eniola Aluko and Jodie Taylor. These women are inspiring young girls across England to thump footballs around their gardens, and if that’s not a victory - I don’t know what is.

Amongst The Mess Of My Mind

Over the past three months I have visited fifteen towns, cities and villages. I have shared a home with a multitude of family and friends - old and young (stayed with eighteen families and individuals). It's been one hell of a journey to say the least. When I left NZ I thought the hardest part about this year would be the inevitably saddening pangs of loneliness I'd feel when missing those closest to my heart back in Wellington - my family and Jess. And of course it's hard, so, so hard being away from the people I love most on this planet. But as I said, that was inevitable. What I never factored into this trip was the emotional toil and exhaustion I would feel as a result of the ever frequent changing of company, home and town.

I've spent the past week at Soul Survivor, a christian youth camp in the Somerset countryside with eight-thousand other young people and during the week one thing in particular stuck with me. Mike Pilavachi spoke of the book, The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams, and how the subject of 'realness' is touched on in this (seemingly profound?!) children's book.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

Realness is something that happens to you. I've laughed and cried on this adventure too many times to keep tally of. And despite the tears I've shed and pain I've felt at leaving the people I have grown to know and love so dearly over the past three months, I feel incredibly grateful. I feel grateful for both the height of joy and depth of sorrow I've felt. And I feel grateful because I feel alive. I feel real.

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

I feel like my life is starting to take off and I'm beginning to haphazardly forge my own path in this precious life I've been given. And it's you - the people who have shared this journey with me that have made this season of my life so special, so important and so valued. It is you who boiled eggs for me, slipped me twenty quid when you knew I was short, giggled over red wine or champagne with me, prayed with me, taken me for long, ambling walks through the sleepy English countryside, chanted along to 'I Predict A Riot' among a crowd of 85,000 with me, dived under rolling waves in the grey Atlantic ocean with me, kicked a ball around with me, let me have the first shower, sat in a field and talked with me about life, faith and the mystery of the two, comforted me when I felt fragile - it is you who have touched my heart and left your mark on my somewhat irrelevant life. Whether you've known me since the day I was born or I met you last week, I thank God for each and every one of you.

As I try to articulate the mess of my mind I know one thing for certain. This trip has taught me that deep human relationships are the greatest gift on this topsy turvy planet. My heart is now invested so many places that I don't know how I will ever manage to settle in just one.

I'm no good at goodbyes, I despise them, their fleeting and frequent nature, their inevitability and their inability to ever reflect the significance of the time spent with that person/those people. I'm not good at goodbyes. I'm more eloquent in writing than I am in person, so this is my written goodbye to you all, every person who I have spent time with over the past three months. It truly breaks my heart that the future is so ambiguous and I don't know when I'll see you again. But I hope and pray that our paths will cross again, soon. I really do.

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

- Maya Angelou

An Unexpected Joy

I thought I knew myself inside out - who I, Harriet Ruth Winn was. I thought I knew my likes, dislikes, passions, interests and values definitely. I was sure about it – I’m a pretty stubborn person, I know what I want and what I don’t. So when this thing happened which made me take a step back and re-evaluate everything I thought I knew about myself, it was a bit unsettling (understatement of the century). It blew everything out of the water. I spent many a sleepless night questioning, questioning, questioning what the heck was going on. This ‘thing’ that had happened seemed in contradiction with the plan I had written out for my life as a child, it seemed in contradiction with some of my beliefs and utterly confused me but simultaneously confirmed many of the inklings I’d had during my life to date – inklings which I’d dismissed, ignored, put out of my mind. But finally, at the age of 18 (flipping heck how am I an adult, this is unreal), I’ve got to a stage where I’ve got a handle on this bubbling pot of emotion, feeling and turbulence. I’ve got to a place where I can look at myself, and at my life and say – “Yeah that’s me, and I’m allgood with it. In fact I’m more than allgood. I’m delighted and proud that I can embrace who I am and present myself openly and honestly to myself and to the people in my life who I love and cherish.” That thing that happened was meeting and falling in love with a girl. But this isn’t just any girl. She’s the most incredibly compassionate, kind, intelligent, hilarious, courageous, passionate and beautiful human being I’ve ever come across. She’s the most special person in my life and no one has ever summoned such intense emotion within me as her. I don’t want to leap prematurely and put a definite label on myself, however, I’m pretty sure I’m gay. And, you know what? I’m cool with it and I’m so, so happy that at last I can express it honestly, confidently and publicly. I love Jess Dellabarca with my whole heart and I’m ready, we’re both now ready to share that with the world.