The Power of the Good News

Saturday I brought 6 of our Iraqis to church: Arazoo (17) who comes regularly now, Halo (9), Alaa (6) and Um Alaa, and Omed (12) and Um Omed (Halo, Alaa, and Omed are our three latest arrivals for heart surgery from Iraq). The families are each given a Kurdish or Arabic New Testament when they come to stay with us, and they had not seen a Christian worship service before. Outside it was the most extreme weather I’d seen in Israel yet, freezing cold, gusty winds, hail, and claps of thunder that made me wonder what kind of idolatry could provoke God to such a fury. It was perhaps more actually blessing in disguise as Israel has really needed the rain, and each thunder clap made the prayer, the worship, the preaching poignantly emphatic.

Because the nature of Jerusalem Christian churches involve a lot of people coming and going the pastor asks who is here for the first time and they are acknowledged by the congregation. Our visitors received a lot of attention as you can imagine, both because they’re not Christians, but also because of the situation they come out of, the fact that this congregation prays for Shevet Achim and its patients regularly, and because Arazoo who they had prayed for previously had since had her surgery and was doing much better. They were made to feel very at home by one of speakers leading a liturgy who addressed them in Kurdish with “choney boshey” which loosely translates to something like “how are you, good?” to which both mothers jumped up, seemingly very pleased to hear these words, raised their hand and said “choney boshey” in return. They seemed to enjoy the worship though they could not understand it, Halo and Omed enjoyed clapping along to the songs (however out of sync they were), and had a good time participating. They all also participated in all the prayers that were said. Whether it was coincidence, Divine will, or sensitivity towards the Iraqi’s, the guest preacher gave the sermon in Arabic which was then translated to English for the rest of the congregation. Kurdish and Arabic are only related to the same extent that, say, English is to say Spanish, but Um Alaa is fluent in Arabic, and Um Omed like most Kurdish speakers in Iraq can understand some basic Arabic. The speaker talked about a prison ministry that he runs in Israel, talked about how we are all molded uniquely like clay in the hands of a potter and gave some other theological references and general edifications toward an individual’s humanity regardless of circumstance and the need for redemption.

I was very grateful that the mothers were able to understand the sermon but something very unexpected happened following the closing prayer and the small horde that approached the mothers and children to bless them and pray over them. Um Alaa began to weep. I wasn’t sure what had happened, if the stress had overtaken her or what exactly, but the other volunteer with me, Donna, told me shortly following that she was weeping because she had been so touched by the message. At this I was kind of surprised…I didn’t think it was that powerful of a message…sure it was good to hear about the success of this ministry and to hear again how God has made each individual special, etc… I thought maybe Donna was being a little too optimistic that it wasn’t something else, but then I noticed the other mother, while not weeping, was also visibly shaken…

This reminded me of, and strengthened my conscience concerning something I’ve felt over the last few weeks being here and in the course of settling in. The work my coworkers and I are doing by any outsider's standards would be seen as tremendous, incredible, awe inspiring, praiseworthy, etc; but the longer and more feverishly I do it, the harder it is for me to see this. I’ve heard analogies such as "you can't see the forest from the trees", or "you can't grasp the immensity of a sky scraper from inside the ground floor," and I think this fits both with my work at Shevet and my spiritual life to a certain extent. I may be driving kids in and out of Gaza, the West Bank, Jordan, making believers out of Muslims, ministering to the least, being a peacemaker between arch enemies, living humbly so that I can save others, etc. but unless I repeat that to myself, stop and step back and realize that is what I’m doing, I don’t see it when I’m actually in the process of doing it.

In the same way the radical nature of the Gospel is something that I need to be reminded of and refreshed by; not only that, but be truly impressed by the things being accomplished in Jesus name. The speaker was talking about a wonderfully successful prison ministry, to which my response was, “that’s great, another effective prison ministry built on the love of Christ,” but I lacked the enthusiasm of how glorious such an accomplishment is. I know that there are such ministries around the world and perhaps I am jaded by their number rather than overwhelmed by the joy of the enduring and vibrant work of Christ and his Church. I am used to the wonder of God, like the Israelites, like so many Great Revivals, my eyes have adjusted to the brilliant light; I know it's not the right place to be. Witnessing the response of these mothers, I think certainly more appropriate than my own by Kingdom standards, is a welcome reminder to pray for a new, fresh faith that can appreciate all these things, that will in turn encourage and strengthen me as I go about doing the work the Lord has graciously set before me to do in his name. Perhaps when you pray you can petition God to do this for me, so that I can feel newly inspired again and again, by all that he does, and for yourself if you find you are in this same place.

After the service ended the kids ran around the sanctuary taking pictures, smelling the flowers, enjoying being kids. Each of them, and the mothers, received copious blessings and prayers during this time. While I was not there with them, it’s my understanding that some of them, maybe more, went to church again that evening. Please continue to pray for the work God is doing in the lives of these families, physically and spiritually, today especially as I will be taking Halo, Alaa, and Omed in for their open-heart surgeries within the next 48 hours.

Emotional Rollercoasters Are by Far the Most Nauseating

I’ve preserved the drafts of this blog in their original form to better capture these experiences.

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Written Sunday 2-15-09:

Abu Firdaus has been in very poor spirits because of the condition of his daughter who has not been struggling greatly the past week or so. Because of this his demeanor Abu Firdaus had, understandably, become very panicked and frustrated, which is a far cry from the kind and gentle spirit everyone had known him by. In the hopes of alleviating some of the stress, much of which he was putting on himself by being in the hospital, we took him out of the hospital environment he had been living in the last few months and brought him to the Shevet Achim house over the weekend. The outcome could not have been better!

After spending just a few hours in our home Thursday evening he seemed to be doing better; being around other families in similar situations who spoke his language gave him much encouragement, even simply being in a warm comfortable home seemed to make a difference.

Friday the traditional day of prayer in Islam, I took Abu Firdaus to the Old City so that he could spend some much needed time in prayer (see the subsequent excursus on this). The prayers begin at 11am and we left at approximately 10:45 so I knew we were in a rush, however, on the way to the Old City Abu Firdaus kept pointing me toward the Arab market and trying to get me to go there with him. I thought this was curious because I knew we were late for prayer, but he seemed to be very hurriedly tasting some of the greens in the various shops to find the right one, eventually he found what he was looking for: celery. I didn’t know why he was so interested in the greens, and celery of all things, I thought perhaps it had something to do with the prayers…would he be praying so fervently he would need something to sustain him, celery of all things?…would he be making…an offering? After he found it I thought, “certainly we’d better rush to pray,” but he started walking in the opposite direction hurriedly checking out the food stalls once again! When he grabbed a dented can of tomato sauce and started rushing back in the direction of the Shevet Achim house I was completely baffled. Well, as it turns out, Abu Firdaus had had lunch cooking on the stove before we ran out and these were the ingredients he needed to finish the meal. When we visited Abu Firdaus and his daughter in the hospital we talked on a few occasions about his restaurant business back home in Iraq and we often joked that we would love to have him cook for us, and that we would hire him on as our staff cook. He decided to surprise us with that very thing! After some much needed translation through Dorothy, I was told by Abu Firdaus that “of course I would love to go with you to pray, but after lunch!”

After eating a delicious lunch, Abu Firdaus and I finally ventured into the Old City to pray at around noon. I left him at the entrance to the Temple Mount as only Muslims are allowed in most times, and we agreed to meet back at the entrance at 4pm. In the midst of the most dire situation a man can face, his child’s life hanging by a thread, Abu Firdaus emerged with joy visible on his face and embraced me. He later told me after praying, “I am at peace now,” and I believe it, he could hardly keep from smiling on the walk home. On the walk back we enjoyed a sweet from a shop, and I had the pleasure of watching Abu Firdaus do some genuine Arab haggling over some green beans (we got them down to 7 sheqels a kilo). We walked the entire way back through the winding streets of the Old City, up and down the Arab market, and then to the Shevet house arm in arm (which is a feat in itself given the foot traffic).

He had been so uplifted by his day and our loving care to him and Firdaus that he prepared the staff three full dishes for dinner as well!

Abu Firdaus spent the rest of the weekend taking in Jerusalem and getting a much needed break in mind and spirit from the circumstances he is facing. We brought him back to Schneider Children’s Medical Center today a renewed man.

As we learned in a prior visit to him at the hospital, Abu Firdaus has been diligently reading the New Testament each day since he received a Kurdish version from our Jordan coordinator Dirk. He also took interest in one of the Kurdish Bibles we have on our shelves here at Shevet and cracked it open and began to read without hesitation. He showed no signs of hesitance or offense to walk with me arm in arm, even in front of all the Muslims, despite me lugging my enormous and conspicuous Bible to and from the Old City on our outing. Team members have also spoken with him about what it means to pray in the name of Jesus as an intercessor and Abu Firdaus has been moved to take part in this as well for his daughter. Abu Firdaus is a man of great spiritual fervor and sincerity, please pray that the Lord would continue to draw him near and that through these most difficult and painful times where there seems to be no hope and no chance for life, that he would receive the gift of a new life, and hope in the one who freely gives it. Please also continue to pray that God would act in miraculous ways in the life of baby Firdaus, and that the work God is already doing in her now would be only a foretaste of what is to come.

It’s when crazy things like this happen that I know what we are doing is working, and that it really is from above. The notion of a 50 year old Muslim man walking joyfully, literally arm in arm, with a 23 year old Christian through the streets of Jerusalem being joined together with the hope of saving his child’s life…there's something about it.

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Written Wednesday 2-18-09




Firdaus died yesterday. After being stable and on the road to recovery the child took a turn for the worse about one and a half weeks ago which she never recovered from. I know some of the medical details about her condition and operation and the difficulties that had the potential to make her unsavable but I didn’t ask for any further when I heard the news, and I’ll spare you all the details. Almost as difficult for me was the fact that Abu Firdaus was put on a plane last night as well before I had a chance to see him. Yesterday, I drove for 7 hours, and spent 6 hours in Wolfson hospital in Tel Aviv; between two trips to Gaza to pick up and drop off children and 3 trips to Wolfson, and then getting back to Jerusalem, it was all I could muster to reach my bed and collapse when I got home. When I awoke this morning he was already in Amman, Jordan with Firdaus.

I was told by the Shevet staff who went to him after hearing the news that he was on his knees weeping when they arrived, still cradling the small yellow pillow that belonged to Firdaus. They left the hospital with him shortly after. This father that did all that he could for his child, breaking every social, cultural, and religious barrier to save her could now do nothing more than give her just one last kiss before the tiny body bag was zipped over her face.

I have written him the following condolences for Dorothy to read to him in Arabic over the phone:

Abu Firdaus,

I am very sorry I was not able to see you before you left or offer you any comfort in person, I was needed all day to bring children to and from Gaza. I am so sorry for your loss and I know there is little that can make you feel better at this moment. I myself am deeply grieved and mourning for Firdaus as well. I would like you to know that even though you are leaving now, our relationship and your relationship with those who know of you around the world does not end here. It is especially now that we will bring our prayers for you and your family before God so that you may know he has not abandoned or forgotten you. I pray that God would grant you peace that surpasses all understanding and that in the midst of the difficulty and pain, God may use it somehow to draw you nearer than ever before.

With hope and love,

Justin

I know God is not done with Abu Firdaus, he is a better father than many men I know who call themselves good fathers, and practices a purer and more active Christianity than many people I know who so casually call themselves Christians. Perhaps these very events have set that in motion, and I hope it is true that our Father will not end prematurely any good work he begins in us.

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Excursus: Some Uncomfortable Questions

After writing the last section I questioned whether or not it would taint the visceral nature of the blog to include an intellectual excurses on a Christian taking a Muslim to a mosque to pray, lest you think I am not in emotional shambles, or that this grievous event is anything less, but I think it may be helpful to anyone who may have been caught off guard or be apprehensive about it. I don’t mean to provide an answer to every concern, indeed I have my own, but here are just some considerations that most people would not grasp at first thought on the matter.

First, on the idea of different God’s in Christianity and Islam. Etymologically, there can be no argument reasoned from the word “Allah” as this is the standard Arabic word for God, used by Christians and Jews who spoke pre-Islamic Arabic languages like Ancient (Northern) Arabian and Syriac for hundreds of years prior Islam. Today there are at least 30 million Arabic speaking Christians that pray to Allah and have the very same beliefs about Him and Yesua (Jesus) that you and I do. To say that “Allah” is a different god doesn’t make much sense in practical terms. Without the bias against the term “Allah” we would be saying in English “God is a different god from God,” which is linguistically nonsensical. What therefore would be in dispute would be the nature of God in Christianity and Islam, rather than having an entirely different deity on our hand. We have to ask then, do prayers by someone who has different, incomplete, or even heretical beliefs about God not ascend to Him? What percentage of correct belief about God does it take or is it relevant?

With regard to prayer, the issue of Islam’s Mohammed need not come into play much either. Muslims don’t pray to Mohammed, they believe he was a prophet and they do not pray to prophets, they only pray to God. In fact, this is a significant snag that Muslim converts to Christianity face at the onset, as we pray to Jesus (God in flesh). Muslim’s venerate Jesus very highly as a prophet or even higher as a messenger of God (they also regard most Bible characters as prophets as well). This is often surmounted by explaining prayer “in Jesus name” as using Jesus as an intermediary between man and God, that he as our divine peace maker and ransom is the only one through which it is worthy to bring prayers to God, or that because of his special relationship to God Jesus is granted power to appeal God more on our behalf.

It is with this in mind that I have to step back in humility for how Abu Firdaus prayed. This is a man that has been reading the New Testament every day since he has been here, more than I have had time to that’s for certain. It would not surprise me one bit if in fact Abu Firdaus was on the Temple Mount praying in Jesus name for his daughter. This produces more questions for those that haven’t encountered Muslims converts or those in the process. Is it wrong for a Christian to pray 5 times a day at the traditional Muslim times and with the same movements? Is it wrong to pray to God in Jesus name in a mosque? Will a Muslim who tries praying in Jesus name be granted his petition if he has yet to come to faith in Him and is seeking if Jesus has real power? What beliefs must they have about the authority of Koran and Mohammed to be received by Christ?

I believe God is just and merciful, and that he extends the most grace to the little children of faith who have just begun to seek and knock on the door. I did not just see this event as Abu Firdaus going to meet God in prayer and hoping that he would pray in Jesus name. Prayer is where man meets God, where divine pierces mundane, it cannot be the other way around, only God can break this barrier to both receive and answer. I therefore took him there to pray not in the hope that Abu Firdaus would grasp the formula and reality of Christ’s efficacious work and pray accordingly, but that God who has the power to reveal these things to man would encounter Abu Firdaus at this time; that it would be from Heaven down. I don’t know what God revealed in prayer, but if the sense of peace and joy that Abu Firdaus emerged with were from Him, I know that God is indeed at work in this man.

A Fond Farewell at the Jordan

The third day of non-stop driving was to the Jordan border to sent off Azhin, Vanya, Donya and their mothers. This was my first real experience saying goodbye to kids and moms that I had gotten to know very well. Everyday, Azhin would call out my name incessantly, “Justiiiiin, Justiiiiin,” wanting to play. Um Donya (“Um” means “mother of”) had taught Donya (the baby) how to blow a kiss during her stay here, and all the Kurdish moms would laugh and joke with me because Donya would often blow kisses on command to no one but me. Azhin, Vanya, Donya, and I had many opportunities to bond through playing games and giving them attention in general, going with them to their doctor’s appointments, eating meals with them, and simply experiencing family life together. While I am sad to see them go, I am overjoyed knowing with full confidence that they will live normal happy lives and have been changed forever in many ways because of their stay here and that I personally had a part in it. I will cherish these memories of them, and will certainly ponder from time to time how they are getting on, and what they will be like when they grow up perhaps 10 or 15 years from today. When we loaded them on the bus to the other side of the border the mothers were crying but the last I saw of them they and their children were waving with smiles as the bus pulled away, certainly one of the most rewarding things I have seen so far.

Joy and Love Despite Every Obstacle

Today I drove a young lad named Mohammed back to Gaza, I had driven him out a few days ago and I knew then that I would be able to reach out to him in more ways than driving him back and forth. Like any young boy about 8 or 9 he was nervous meeting Simantov (another volunteer) and I at the border, and probably due to the austerity of his father, had to hold back a guarded sense of excitement about seeing new places. It was clear the mannerly father felt his son should be less energetic and excited (must be his first son). I shook the fathers hand and then extended it to Mohammed, and he smiled and shook it as well. When I saw his bright smile with big front teeth I was reminded of my little brother Jamie back at home who is about the same age and has the same kind of excitement when I come around. Once he got the clear impression from us that it was okay to be excited, just about everything was a thrill for him; from shaking his hand, to letting him load some bags, the rides through Israel, letting him close the trunk with all his might, sharing my Pringles with him, to the last high five I gave him before he went back to Gaza. It's inspiring to me to see such vibrant joy bursting through during such hostile times, especially in contrast to his father who in the face of this very thing seems to have been rubbed raw, hardened, and inevitably calloused. He only remained in the hospital for a few days because he had come in for a heart catheterization, his open-heart surgery is scheduled for the end of April and I’m really excited to see him again. Even though we only have the Gaza patients with us for a much shorter time than the Iraqi’s, I have a wonderful feeling that, perhaps despite his father’s efforts, he will go home to Gaza with a positive impression of me and my fellow workers that will last him his a lifetime, and render his experience here incompatible with any he might encounter in Gaza that would breed hatred or violence.

An Email from Gaza

We received the following email a short while back from one of the parents of the children we treated (I'm betting their English is better than your Arabic so no complaining):

Dearest Abu Josh ,
It has been so long time since we have communicated . However , I think of u and your woderful work you do . I saw you on teh Israeli Channel 2. Many people were influnced positivelly by your humanitarian mission you have carried .
Mainwhile , My brother khalid has been shot by Hammas militant in Gaza because he was standing infront of my house trying to evacuate some people from the shelling two weeks ago . Now he is inEgypt getting medical treatment . His leg has been cut off .

I hope you will join me in prayer for all those harmed by this conflict and give praise for all those we have been able to help.

Learning to Drive on the Road to Gaza

There probably aren’t many people in Israel that can say their first day driving was to the Gaza Strip or that they would cover some 1,000 km in their first 4 days driving, but I managed to do just that. Again, the pace at which things have been going is obviously quite rapid. The Shevet team has been undergoing some reforms in an effort to strengthen the group and give each individual more clear-cut responsibility. Through this process we each had a private discussion with Jonathan Miles (the founder) about our gifting, passions and where we would like to serve…Apparently this was used as an opportunity by about half the team to express their frustrations, issues with the administration, etc. When the dust settled, one of our central team members was dismissed/quit, two were given 2 weeks break to assess their feelings and sentiments and decide if they would stay on, and one other member coincidentally (perhaps not, I don’t know) got sick and has remained so since this falling out. This has essentially cut our team in half, and as two of them were our main drivers, I had had little time to cut my teeth. To pick up the slack I have been doing most of the driving for the last week; in just a 72 hour period I have gone to Gaza 4 times, through the West Bank twice, and to the Jordan border once, not included countless times to hospitals all of which are themselves an hour drive.

Coming from Los Angeles you would think I would be prepared to drive anywhere, but it’s really a whole different story here. Whereas in Los Angeles everyone more or less cooperates out of recognizing the necessity for it to get anywhere and respects at least certain rules like red lights and parking, in Israel people would much rather fight for every inch of road, make their own lanes, run red lights if they think they’re close, laying on the horn is as common as shalom, and they are quite creative with their parking. Driving aggressively is the only way to really get anywhere here, and with defensive driving knowledge under my belt I’ve been learning the ways of the road here quickly. If you were wondering, anyone with a US license can drive her for 3 months before needing an Israeli license, which is yet another expense that I will have to anticipate in the coming months.

The highways across Israel and the West Bank have made the driving less of a chore. So much of the country is farmland and undeveloped country side that it makes for quite a nice scenic tour of the land. Rolling yellow green hills, green farmlands, abandoned cobblestone buildings in the distance beckon to be explored, towns with real character nestled in the countryside, their houses placed at just the right angle to catch the best view with none of the soul stealing uniformity of the cookie cutter streets and houses found elsewhere. The road to Gaza is no different, even at the border (Disclaimer: I am not anti-Israel or pro-Palestine, the following are just observations). Facing toward the border itself, against the 15 foot barbed wire wall every few meters there are guard towers, cameras hanging over the road, watch dogs with their own area they are fenced in to guard, military jeeps about… There are even blimps high overhead mounted with cameras, notorious to the residents of Gaza as a symbol of oppression, that big brother watches their every move. The blimps are very unassuming, dead silent, flat white, but they see every centimeter; frankly if I were to brainstorm about what I could use to be a subtle reminder of vigilant oppression over a group of people I could see myself arriving at “hmm, how about a silent blimp painted flat white that slowly patrols overhead that could be filming any one of them at any moment!” its practically out of a movie. But even in the face of the perfect picture of control there is the aforementioned scenery, because if you do a simple 180 degree about face at the border there is yet another delightful open grassy field fit for a picnic. Waiting there for a few hours the other day for a family to come across I sat in the car facing it, the sun was warm and there was a gentle breeze in the air, it was very cozy, a perfect picture of serenity and freedom. Perhaps it’s only in the context of their backdrop that the other seems so extreme, but the juxtaposition creates a vivid portrait.

Gethsemane in Spirit - A Theological Jaunt

A few days ago (maybe a week ago…) I had the day off and decided to walk to the Garden of Gethsemane. As a test of my assimilation into the neighborhood I thought I would test my skills reaching it by taking the shortest route which happened to be through the Old City. For anyone who cannot imagine, the Old City is notoriously difficult to navigate, but from google maps I was fairly sure I was familiar with the route. I managed to find the way after just a single quarter mile detour after missing a turn, though to my credit I did stop amid the crowd at the turn to ponder if it was the correct one. At any rate I arrived and like most holy sites it was a tourist trap, the entrance of which was crowded with individuals all jockeyed for position at the entrance to sell their wares; the sort whom I imagine would have their table thrown over by Jesus had they had any. If perhaps you think such a judgment is rash on my part don’t stop reading just yet.



The garden itself contained 8, perhaps 9 olive trees in a grove almost certainly the very same place Jesus prayed, wept, and was betrayed in. The garden itself was fenced off but well tended, and there was a large cathedral parallel which I approached next. The cathedral was designed very intentionally to be dark, gloomy even, to set the mood for the events that occurred there. Appropriately, no talking was allowed in the cathedral. I did my best to be respectful to all the notices, though it was not posted, I turned the flash off on my camera because it would surely disturb anyone trying to pray or reflect there. After taking in the architectural beauty and sensation produced by the building I attempted to block everything out and pray and reflect myself for a short while. In many ways, my sentiments at the Garden were uncannily parallel to those which the Biblical record assigned to various characters at this place; I hope I convey them humbly. I haven’t conveyed them explicitly in this blog but I hope it isn’t needed.




I entered being distressed in my soul about the certainty of my faith, the thought of leaving loved ones behind, questioning if the direction God is leading me is really right and worthwhile.., I struggled to escape this to focus on penitence and found these thoughts obstructing me. While perhaps they were not the formulaic nature of a prayer or addressed at God formally I felt that even the roof itself would block alleviation by God or the ascent of my concerns to him. These sentiments were only exacerbated by the irreverence of the tourists behind me and in turn my frustration at the lack of grace I was giving to them in my heart. During my entire visit I was intentionally keeping one step ahead of a large tourist group so as to not be distracted by the cumulative volume of their footsteps or whispers. As they entered and I left the cathedral, I turned to take one last photo; as I was doing so I noticed the tour guide apparently speaking to the group. The signs for silence and “no explanations inside” were abundantly clear at each door, I thought perhaps he himself was reminding his group to be quiet.

I continued on to the tomb of Mary which was next to the garden. The entrance was an impressive downward staircase, perhaps leading some 100 feet down, in itself my favorite part of the tomb. The walls and ceiling were a jumble or incense holders and candelabras. Once I reached the bottom I took in the site, which contained probably late Renaissance art of the life of Jesus and Mary in somewhat of a timeline. The tomb itself was nothing much to look at, just a bunch of very old looking dirt vaguely resembling a box-like shape, covered in a shrine. I escaped just in time before the mob entered. I wanted to get one more shot of the downward staircase before I left, as the crowd cleared a mother and small child were left behind descending at the pace of the young child who seemed to be taking great joy in each step.

My final stop was in the grotto in Gethsemane, the spot where it is said Jesus was confronted by Judas and the authorities. The chamber was fairly small, contained some seating, an ancient Greek inscription under glass, behind a rope, and far too faint for me to read, some painting of Christ’s betrayal and a center-piece I can't recall at the front. I again sat and attempted to focus on prayer, trying to make this site meaningful, thinking perhaps (possibly heretically) I would be closer to God in this place given my circumstance. A man sitting there also shushed two women whispering to each other. “An attendant”, I thought to myself, “perhaps I will be able to focus in this place for a while.” More quickly than before, the tourist group caught up to me, and the attendant faithfully shushed the whisperers and held up a sign I’m assuming said “silence” in a dozen languages. I figured I would stay and attempt to focus in spite of the group. Suddenly the tour guide, a thin, bald-headed man, about 40, the same one as before, began speaking over a microphone in what I believe was Russian… I thought “surely he must have seen the sign for ‘SILENCE’ and ‘NO EXPLANATIONS INSIDE.’” The attendant held up his sign to the tour guide, who looked back at the attendant made a shrug and continued speaking. The flippancy of this act offended me, and the attendant himself looked aghast. The attendance shushed him again and held up his sign, to this the tour guide lowered his voice for a few seconds and continued talking. With no other options the attendant opened his mouth and said something in a frustrated tone. Without changing his tone or facial expression at all, the guide casually answered back and kept talking. One more time the attendant opened his mouth to try to get the man to explain the site outside but he was ignored yet again, the guides group gave him no consideration either. The attendant could do nothing but stand by and watch. I was already feeling upset and frustrated, this only produced feelings even stronger entering into malice and hate. When I left, and on my walk back, I was practically furious about the time I spent there. I thought to myself, “How could he have so little respect! How could he so flagrantly do something like that and act as if it didn’t matter?! Didn’t he know what he was doing?! All the more how could everyone be on this man’s side! I know what I should have done to him! I wish I would have ripped off his microphone and smashed it on the ground…” It was upon dwelling on this for much of the walk back that I replaced smashing the microphone on the ground with “sliced off an ear” and realized what I myself had done.

I’ve been processing the event ever since.