safe spaces safe places

Last year in my class on Leviticus we talked about the distinction between a holy place and a holy space. I spent a good chunk of the summer and fall here in Israel thinking about those concepts, writing poetry about them, exploring them physically—Mosques, Synagogues, Churches. Lately my attention has turned to questions of safe space and safe place.

Safe space:
I find it difficult to disagree with other people openly. It can feel alienating, lonely and scary. What if I find myself without friends or without community? The point of creating a safe space is not to create a space in which everyone agrees with each other. That actually is not a safe space, because inevitably someone will disagree with someone about something—whether they admit it or not. A safe space is one in which people can have open, honest conversations in which they share their differences of opinion without threatening their relationships with those who disagree. It is one in which everyone agrees to respect other people’s right to think differently. In a safe space you look at someone with a different perspective as equally intelligent. Just because you came to different conclusions doesn’t mean that you both don’t have the intellectual capacity to think critically. I think people often assume that differences of opinion are a question of quantity or quality of information or about the person’s ability to reason. Sometimes they are, but more often they are about our values. I can look at the same exact piece of information as you, see exactly the same thing, understand what I’m seeing and place a positive value judgment on it while you place a negative one. That does not mean one of us is not intelligent. We just care about different things.
Recently I have been part of, been around or heard about many confrontational conversations about the war in Gaza. The stakes are high—these are matters of life and death and people act as if the discussion also has the power to kill. Some try to avoid political discussions, while others make their views known openly. In two of the institutions in which I am studying, I have heard a lot from individuals who have very nuanced views of the situation here. There are those who are critical of certain aspects of what the Israeli army is doing if not totally against the war. There are those who feel badly about the impact of the war on Gaza civilians, but believe that Israel has no choice. Despite the myriad views represented by the students, the rhetoric used publicly by students and faculty at these institutions often sounds like the standard, uncomplicated view that we must support Israel no matter what—and the resounding silence that follows might be (mis)taken for approval. I am not saying here that I think one way or the other about whether to pray for Israeli lives or pray for Palestinian lives or both. What bothers me is the lack of open conversation about these questions. I am used to participating in a community where discord prevails. This experience of feigned conformity masking an underlying rumble of disharmony strikes me as unhealthy at best and destructive at worst. I also do not blame any particular person or institution for this. We all participate. I too have sat and listened and silently acquiesced. This, however, is now what I want to put into the world.
I would like to work towards creating safe spaces for people to talk about their opinions. I do not mean a space where everyone agrees and certainly not a space where everyone pretends to agree. I mean a space in which we honor the discord. In that vein, I am working on a project. If you would like to know more about it, contact me.

Safe place:
I have written about holy places. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed by the obvious sanctity of a place that I cry. Sometimes I have to work hard to discover the holiness of a place, as I have on this particular stay here in Israel. The problem now is that I can’t even think about holiness. I am worried about safety. I stay home a lot. I used to do most of my studying and writing in coffee shops. Now I stay in my bedroom. Part of this is due to a recent bout of illness which prevents me from drinking coffee and eating dairy or wheat. Since coffee shops mostly serve coffee, sandwiches and pastries, I am better off staying home. But the other reason is because I don’t feel safe. It’s not that I am not safe. I probably am. But I don’t feel safe in the crowded places on Emek Refaim street which has been bombed in the past, once at Café Hillel only a week after I had sat there drinking my coffee and chatting with a friend.
Here’s the irony: one of the major justifications for the existence of the Jewish State is to provide a safe place for all Jews, a place where Jews can come and live freely, escaping the rampant Antisemitism in the rest of the world by having a Jewish majority and special protections for Jews. Yet, America feels a million times safer to me. Sure, at any moment the American people could start to have hostile sentiments toward Jews, elect an Anti-Semitic president, and even justify discrimination under the guise of Homeland Security. However, I don’t think that is very likely. Nor is it happening right now. In fact, right now I would be significantly safer in Brookline, MA than in Jerusalem.
I am probably going to go back to American soon. The headaches, sleeplessness, and intestinal chaos I am currently experiencing feel connected to the violence going on around me. Even if I do know that I am probably safe here, like I’m in the eye of the storm. At any moment things could shift. Not only that, but I am incredibly heartbroken by the loss of life and the shadow this war casts on any hope for reconciliation in the near future. It’s agonizing to know that people are dying and hurting each other not only while I sit here snug in Jerusalem, but so that I can be here. That thought makes we want to vomit, except that I haven’t eaten anything.
The thought of leaving this tropical war zone to go home to a New England winter sounds incredibly boring and also amazing. Right now I would welcome a huge dose of boring. I want to look out my window, see snow falling, make myself a cup of hot cocoa (the Nestle packet kind) and read the New York Times. Not online. I mean the newspaper. I want to trek in through the slushy Boston snow in my boots to get to Trader Joe’s and then pick up a free sample of coffee in the small cup to warm my hands, grab some chocolate covered pretzels and Fage and feel the snowflakes melting on my eyelashes just in time to head back out into it. None of this sounds anywhere near as exciting as hiking through the huge crater in the Negev desert and watching the sun set over the ridge. Or having intense conversations with Palestinians in Bethlehem about their lives. Or just hopping on the bus to Tel Aviv to see the sea, some friends, smell the salty air. But boring is safe. At the beginning of the semester my friends Josh and Sara and I made a toast on beer to adventure. I’m tired. I've had a little too much adventure. Now I’d like some peace and quiet—which is certainly not in great supply in this region of the world.