Falling Water

As I get into the swing of things, there's much I feel like a blog post can't do justice. The ever-strengthening relationships I have with my host family, my students, my coworkers, and even my YAGM cohort truthfully cannot be put into words, other than to say I am so very thankful.

Making friends here eases the initial anxiety just about anyone gets when thrust into a completely new setting. Singing loudly in the car with my coworker, kicking around a soccer ball with my host-cousin, slapping mud onto the in-ground "oven" to seal any smoke from escaping while making "zar" with my host father, discussing childhood fears on my host family's porch with my host sister--these things all tell me "Yes, there is a place for you here. This can feel like home". However, the budding feeling of belonging I've been lucky enough to feel across all different sectors of my placement here does not come without a catch. And that catch, however nonsensical, is this: how am I supposed to leave? Yes, I have eight months to work this out. But if I feel this attached after two, what will ten months of laughter, bonding, memories, and learning do? In short--what emotional heartbreak have I signed myself up for--not by agreeing to come here, but by agreeing to eventually leave?

As they say in Arabic, "hallas" (enough).

I was fortunate enough to accompany my 7th and 9th grade students on a hike in the desert by Jericho last week. I was amazed the entire time. At the very beginning of the hike, my own astonishment and confusion interrupted my conversation with one of my students with audible attempts to determine how trees were sprouting from what seemed like an otherwise dry and desolate habitat. But shwayy shwayy (slowly slowly) more and more green appeared, and I finally spotted a small stream amongst the vegetation. Walla!! ("swear to god", a term used in astonishment).

As we walked, the stream got bigger and bigger, and we finally crescendoed into a series of small pools and a waterfall. Students leapt from rock to rock across the water, finding fish and small frogs. (For those ecological nerds following along, one of the guides informed me later that that spot in the desert is a very low point, catching most rain from the surrounding mountainous areas, hence the oasis.)

The students were extremely exhausted and hot by the end of the hike, and this magic of the waterfall was all but forgotten in the outrage of forced physical activity, hot sun, and muddy shoes. I shared my love of hiking with one of my 9th graders as our dusty tennis shoes marched along the man-made irrigation system sourced from the waterfall. She looked at me with utter bewilderment.

"You like hiking??" she challenged. I gestured around us. The sun glistened off the water, palms bristled from a soft breeze, a herd of goats stared at us from a collection of caves along the mountain to our left, and to our right an arrangement of desert mountains that could have been copy and pasted from a post card.

"This," I said, as I waved my arm around us, "is not normal. Other countries don't have this".

"I'll trade with you," she said, hardly even glancing at the landscape from which I could barely look away.

"I want to live in America. I hate this country."Another 9th grader behind us voiced his agreement. I was silent, love for my experience of this country abruptly put into perspective.

I am not free to stay here, but I am free to leave.