The Beginning

May 13th, 2008 Jellico, Tennessee, USA

One of the most beautiful, and somehow poetic, images is that of a full backpack waiting on the night before a long journey. That pack represents anticipation, excitement, adventure, and the plain ole’ love of travel. Brimming backpacks represent the Open Road.
The last time this picture filled my head (at least in the physical sense, because this image recurrently appears in my restless mind) was almost two years ago on the night before I left for the Far East and the South Pacific, gallivanting through China, Australia, New Zealand, and several islands. I recorded those adventures on a blog I titled The Wanderer. I didn’t really stretch my imagination too much with the name of this new blog, but I like it. This is the second part of my chronicled travels, which is, obviously, why I tacked on “Part Two.” I feel like the word “wanderer” sums up my life, both spiritually and geographically. But the fact that I wander doesn’t mean I’m not going anywhere. One of my favorite quotes is, “Not all those who wander are lost.” I have a need to wonder and to wander.
The road on which I step tomorrow, with this pack strapped on my back, leads me to the Middle East, where I will spend two months volunteering with the Palestinian Medical Relief Society, traveling throughout the West Bank and writing stories about what I see. This is the third time I have been to Israel and the Occupied Territories; the first time was in 2001, when my family and I spent close to a month in the Middle East during a six-month sabbatical. The second time was in 2006 with my dad (a doctor in the impoverished Appalachian Mountains of East Tennessee), his parents (who are archaeologists, teachers, writers, and all-around smart people) and his closest friend (a medical ethicist and historian). This trip was my first encounter with PMRS, a non-violent resistance organization dedicated to the aid of the Palestinian people. This summer, I will be writing for the Palestine Monitor, which is a slightly more political branch of the relief society.
Fortunately, I will not be going alone. My good brothers, Sean Boehrig and Adam Clement, are also coming. I was incredibly excited when these two expressed interest in what I would be doing and said that they wanted to join me. The three of us are all fairly laid back, but determined. We have all traveled quite a bit, and we travel similarly. And all of us will be working in capacities related to our fields of study: I am English major and will be writing; Sean (who just graduated) was a Youth and Family Ministry major and will be working with youth camps; and Adam, a General Studies major with an emphasis in pre-Physician’s Assistant work, is volunteering with the Emergency Response Unit.
When I tell people I am going to Israel and Palestine for the summer, a large number of them respond, “Oh wow! Are you going to do mission work?” I’ve struggled with the response. I want to say, “Yes, but not in the way you think of mission work.” We are not going to beat people over the head with Bibles or to convert them to another imperfect religion. We go because we are followers of Jesus of Nazareth, and that forces us to look, as G.K. Chesterton said, “with a frantic intentness outwards.” Our mission is to serve. Francis of Assisi is attributed with the potent statement, “Preach the Gospel always, and if necessary use words.”
The purpose of this trip is not to point judging fingers. Too much of that has been done already. We go to serve an oppressed people and to better understand the conflict between the Israelis and Palestinians. My family has close friends who are Israeli and close friends who are Palestinian. We love these people and want to do whatever we can in the effort for peace. Right and wrong exists on both sides. But one story has been given preference and the support of the most powerful nation in the world; we want to help turn up the voices of those who are too often drowned out. This is not about choosing sides. According to the Hebrew Scriptures, Joshua inquires of an angel whether or not he is for the Israelites or their enemies. The angel replies, “Neither.” The question is rather, “Are we on God’s side?” And God is on the side of the oppressed, the poor, the sick, the weak, the hungry, and the thirsty wherever they are and whoever they are. If I claim to be a follower of Jesus, then that is where I am supposed to be also, because God is seen most blazingly from below. We go with a belief that peace is better than war, harmony is better than violence, creativity is better than destruction, hope is better than fear, reconciliation is better than racism, and love is better than hatred. The Mission is a Lifestyle.
The road over the next two-and-a-half months will be taxing, both physically and emotionally, but it is one which I cannot wait to start trekking. I hope everyone who actually takes the time to read all this will enjoy (and, hopefully, gain something more substantial from) the stories to come. Thanks for the support and the encouragement, and for following me through Israel, the West Bank, Egypt, Turkey, Greece, and maybe Jordan. “The Road goes ever on and on,” and may we wander deliberately. Peace, Shalom, and Salaam.

PS I am also posting a story I wrote over a year ago about one of my experiences during the two-week period in 2006, which was published on the Palestine Monitor.


The van pulled around the looping driveway and parked in front of the cathedral-like Notre Dame Guest House in Jerusalem. The Virgin Mary stood tall at its summit, as if she were watching over those who came to this place for rest. Wassan, the driver, met us in the lobby. He was perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties and wore a pair of dark sunglasses. A Palestinian Medical Relief worker, Wassan would be guiding us to the little town of El Jiftlik.
I had been once before to this small strip of land, caught between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River. That was five years before, during a six-month sabbatical from my dad’s medical practice in an impoverished part of the Appalachian Mountains. That journey stretched all over Europe and parts of the Middle East, with my family and most of my college money. My grandparents (who are archaeologists, writers, and professors) have been to Israel and Palestine over thirty times. The Middle East is a place very close to my family’s heart, and so are the people, both Israeli and Palestinian, Jew and Arab.
For the past four years, my dad has returned to Israel and Palestine, hoping to learn more about the seldom-heard plight of the Palestinians and the increasingly devastating situation in which all who live there find themselves. He has also gone to gather information concerning the consequences of the conflict on rural healthcare and the need the violence has created for humanitarian aid. And he has gone to simply listen. His good friend Doug Brown, who has served as the ethics advisor for Dayspring Family Health Center (for which my dad is a practicing physician and the CEO), has joined him for a few of those trips, and, for the most recent excursion, I found myself fortunate enough to become the third member of the team. One of the purposes of this particular mission was to help build a relationship between the Arab-American community in Knoxville, Tennessee, (and, hopefully, others as well) and the Palestinian Medical Relief Society. This mission led us to the village of El Jiftlik.

The van left the gated confines of the Notre Dame and drove away. To my right, I could see the golden Dome of the Rock, standing emphatically and proudly on the Temple Mount. We left Jerusalem behind, going east into the occupied territory of the West Bank. The Separation Wall stood tall and threatening, a perfect personification of the turmoil and hatred that plague this land. The terrain became harsh and rocky as we descended into the Jordan River Valley, 1,300 feet below sea level. My ears didn’t stop popping until we reached the bottom.
A light haze covered much of the ashen valley. To the south, our right, sat the light blue waters of the Dead Sea, the lowest point on earth. Through the fog it appeared as a mirage, an illusion faintly dancing on the horizon. The blue sky had paled under the veil of the haze, and the land that stretched beneath it seemed to have been washed of any color. To my left I could see the city of Jericho.
We continued on through the desert. Only a few cars accompanied us on this road. For a time, a military jeep hummed in front of our van, a machine gun mounted on its top. Sheep lazily wound through paths in the rocks on the hillsides. In some of the gorges were ancient pick-up trucks, parked next to makeshift homes of cloth and metal sheets. They were the abodes of the shepherds, some of the poorest of the poor.
An hour-and-a-half after we left Jerusalem, Wassan pulled the van off the road to the right. We had arrived, he said. I had barely noticed. I then realized that “village” was a very loose description. A scattering of cinderblock buildings, some of which were decorated with flowery vines, sat nestled beside a chalky hill. A dirt path split El Jiftlik in half, lined on one side by a thin metal wall and on the other by small piles of garbage. In the 104 degree heat, sweat cascaded from my body and my shirt clung to my skin.
As we exited the van and the heat hit us like a wall of fire, children suddenly appeared from the blackness of the naked doorways and raced down the path towards us. They swarmed around us, speaking rapidly to one another in Arabic and pointing excitedly at our cameras. I was carrying my digital camera and a video camera, and the kids gathered around me and peered into the viewfinders of the bizarre little machines and laughed as they saw themselves, frozen in time. They would motion to me, signaling me to photograph them posing in almost every possible locale in the limited space of the town. I learned their names by pointing to myself and saying my name and then nodding towards them. By using this very simplistic form of sign language, I was introduced to Faris, Faras, Nehev, and Hussein. They grabbed us by the hand and led us up the mount behind the houses.
The hill was as rocky as it was chalky. As I watched my feet to keep myself from falling, something on the ground caught my eye. I bent down on one knee to get a better look. The empty shell of a military rifle bullet lay in the midst of the stones, next to the small sprout of a plant. Wassan followed my gaze to the dirt.
“This hill,” he said, “is used for target practice by the Israeli soldiers. They come here to use their guns. They hope to scare the people away. They do not want them here.”
It may have been a weed that was growing next to the bullet casing.
A range of pale mountains rose far across the bronzed valley, dappled with patches of green. A few trees grew in these fields where the Palestinians worked and harvested the fruit and vegetables, which would then be shipped out to Israel and marked with a hefty price in order to be sold back to the Palestinians. Through Wassan, Faris told us he had dropped out of school five years ago to work on the farms in order to help support his family. He is eleven years old now.
El Jiftlik looked even smaller from the height of the hill. I could now see the tops of the buildings which comprised the village. Multiple pieces of tin had been placed across the cinderblocks and were held there by large rocks. The roofs could not be bolted down, Wassan said. If they were, the Israeli soldiers would bulldoze them down. Nothing was allowed to be permanent.
“They do not want them here,” he said again.
Dad followed Wassan down to the clinic beside the road. Dr. Brown and I sat on plastic lawn chairs in front of one of the homes. A lady, robed in black with an ornate shawl covering her head, passed in front of us and smiled broadly, welcoming us to her home. After some time, Faris came out of the house, holding a tray with two small glasses of Arabic coffee, made especially for us by the woman, his mother. This particular coffee is very strong and thick, slowly crawling down your throat as you try to swallow. I had actually come to like its potent taste, and it was made especially for us with loving hospitality.
We found our way down to the clinic. The interior was simple, extremely Spartan. A few filing cabinets and some dilapidated machines rested by the walls. Women and children sat crowded together, waiting to be seen. As I raised my camera, the women’s hands stole quickly upwards to hide their faces. In a dark backroom we met with a lab tech and a doctor, the latter of which knew little English and relied upon his prematurely balding colleague to relate his story. The doctor sat at the table with his hands folded in front of him, occasionally reaching up to scratch his unshaven chin. His father had sent him to study medicine in Russia, and had “taken bread from the family” in order to have the money for his son’s education. While in Russia, he had married and the two had a small child. The doctor returned to his home in the West Bank to care for his people, and has not seen his wife or his daughter since he came back. That was six years ago. The Israeli government will not allow them to immigrate. They want people to leave, not come.
The only constant light available in the room came from a small window in the far wall, casting a square beam on the stained linoleum floor. Every few minutes, the generator beneath the window would roar and hiss, and the lights overhead would flicker, stuttering indecisively before finally illuminating the small space. After a moment or two, our eyes would then be forced to readjust to the dimness as the generator clicked off and the white box on the floor became visible once more. The dial on the voltage meter of the generator, when it was not performing the high jump, predominately hovered around 150 volts, far below the required 220 needed to operate the machine. On most days the medical equipment remains unusable against the walls. The power line connected to El Jiftlik is not very strong, hindered from its use by Israeli soldiers, who will not allow an adequate signal to come through. The lab tech shrugged as he spoke.
“This is our life.”
For most of the ride back, I sat in silence.
As we flew home a few days later, I looked over my sleeping dad and out the window. According to the map on the screen in front of me we were flying over Ireland, whose history has also been burdened with violence and hate. In the darkness below I could see the lights of Limerick and Cork. The world seems at peace from the air.

“Pray for the peace of Jerusalem……for the sake of my brothers and friends, I will say, ‘Peace be within you.’” -Psalm 122:6, 8