Hamzeh
We spent the early morning with Hamzeh, a thirty year old Palestinian, who graciously led us through his neighbourhood in the Dheisheh Palestinian refugee camp. It was unimaginable, and visceral, and beyond any kind of poetic or helpful words I could share. War torn buildings, a lack of infrastructure, and limited electrical and water services made available. But there were people everyone - quite obviously holding each other up - and I would even say somehow living in hope. I felt like I saw Rory in the eyes of the young boys, as they looked to play ball between the buildings because they have so little space to just exist. Someone asked Hamzeh if the circumstances there make their people vulnerable to terrorist recruitment and organized crime (I think it’s probably far too common a question he has to face). He sighed and said, “It depends who’s asking. I am Palestinian, I am a terrorist. The children playing outside are Palestinian, they are terrorists. We have been told who we are. You have been told who we are. Again, and again and again.” He explained that is the reason why he works as a social worker in the camp, helping the next generation to heal, to exist and to resist; to compete on sports teams, to learn to read and love and dance; to represent Palestine in other parts of the world, so even if they cannot claim their land in the present time, they can claim their identity of self. I don’t pretend to understand everything I saw here, the divisions or tribal lines. But I saw the suffering Christ right before my eyes. I wept with him, and recognized him, and feel a yearning to return. Jesus is with all God’s people in the city where he was born.