In October of 2014, I visited a friend in a small, impoverished rural village in the West Bank of Palestine.  A joyful reunion, after a separation of a few years. Much had happened in her life since we last met.  She had married and was a new Mum to a 6 month old baby boy, and was eager to introduce me to them both.  She was also excited to show me her new home – tiny and humble by North American standards, but it was their home.  Immaculately clean and cared for, it had a small living area, a small kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom.  Sitting in her home, chatting together as we played with her son, life was good. We parted, making plans for my next visit.

Two days later, a panicked phone call.  The Israeli’s had issued a demolition permit on several buildings within her village, including their home, and could demolish at any time.  Palestinians in Area C of the West Bank, where they live, are required by Israeli law to obtain a building permit – but Israel denies 98% of permit applications.  Desperately needing housing, Palestinians are forced to build without a permit. The small humanitarian organization I was with sought to obtain a legal injunction against the demolition.  I visited again that evening.  Over sweet tea and fresh oranges, my friend and her husband shared their fears.   Would their house be demolished? What then? Where would they live? Winter was coming. What about the baby? Would I come to be with her if the bulldozers arrived?

The next day, before we could get the injunction, the Israelis entered the Palestinian village with their bulldozers, their police, and their armed soldiers. The army blocked outsiders from entering.  In short order 6 homes were demolished (including my friend’s), as well as latrines and the village’s only bread making oven. It was a horrible traumatizing experience.  Soldiers yelling,  villagers held at gunpoint, violent arrests, terrified children, women crying, men unable to protect their families from harm. Deliberate destruction all around, as an already dispossessed people were further dispossessed of the most basics of life. 

We went as soon as the army allowed. This time, we were met with the grim reality of rubble and the visceral revulsion that brought. I found my friend. We hugged.  Tears flowed.  We surveyed the mangled mess.  Plans were being made for temporary shelter.  Nightfall was upon us. 

She invited me to sit with the women.  I anticipated anger and despair – the usual North American response to disaster that highlights our nightly news.  But this conversation was far different.  I listened in awe as the women spoke instead of their fears and concerns for raising their children in this environment.  Of their desire for their children to grow up with an open heart – to recognize the humanity in their Israeli neighbours. Not to hate, but to seek to truly live in peace, side by side. 

I think back to that night, to the destruction and the horror if it all.  I feel my friend’s broken heart.  But I also remember the wisdom of the peasant women of the village. That night they showed me the capacity of the human heart to replace justifiable anger with a sincere desire for reconciliation with those who intentionally and systematically perpetrate cruel injustice against them. I continue to process this gift, this approach to hurt – and I know I have much still to learn.  Perhaps one day I may more fully live into their example.