Perspective

Yesterday I went into a Palestinian refuge camp in the West Bank. (My mother probably just wet herself reading that). The camp is surrounded (against UN regulations) by a 30 foot high solid concrete security wall. As you can imagine spray paint abounds and the message isn't one of peace and love. Inside the camp I had an experience quite different than what I expected.

For reference lets recap what we in the Western world know about the Palestinians.
1. They are an Arab people without a country (The world as yet does not recognize Palestine)
2. Their charismatic leader - Yasser Arafat - recently died creating an internal power struggle
3. They will stop at nothing to remove Israel and don't want coexistent peace
4. They are all known terrorists, rock throwers and/or potential suicide bombers
OK, so the last one isn't true but you wouldn't know it being exposed to "fair and balanced Western journalism."

So the camp isn't what you think. It is actually a small city, with concrete buildings, vehicles and shops. Inside the walls we meet a young man named Muhammad who wishes to show us around. His English isn't the best so we go to his friends house and are all promptly invited in, to sit and drink some cool water. After a quick tour of the camp and some chatting we learn about life on the inside. Unemployment is high, maybe 40-50%. People can travel outside the country to Jordan but not cross the boarder into any parts of Israel. Being trapped in the camp creates little economic opportunity for these people. We travel to man's house on the edge of the city...or what's left of it. It was destroyed by the Israeli Defense Force. Punishment for his sons being involved in subversive activities. All three of his sons (the youngest 13) are jailed. He cannot visit them, does not know their release date, and Israel will not let him rebuild. He currently lives with his wife, sons' wives and grandkids in a 2 story livestock farm. One story is clean for living the other for animals. He also invites us into his home and we chat over rounds of Arabic coffee, Arabic tea and sheep's milk. (The tea was great, milk no so swell). On the way to a learning center for children at the camp I breeze into a shop for an apple. I greet the keeper with the Arabic hello - "marhaban" and he smiles broadly. When I try to pay for the apple he puts the money back in my hand, packages the apple in a bag and thanks me for visiting! What generosity from someone scraping so hard to make a living. That is a moment in my life I will never forget.

So after a few hours, lots of conversations, handshakes all around and many smiles I come away with another side to the story. These people don't have money, freedoms, journalists, or a nation. But what they do have is a lot of heart and a desire to be recognized and respected.