Palestinian Rooftops and Privilegeby Heather Biscoe There is a water situation in Palestine. I'm not sure about all of the politics of it. I don't know who is in control of the water and how much control they have. I'm not sure, but I imagine the water situation looks different for the inhabitants of zones A, B, and C. Perhaps in different zones, different people are in charge of the water. What I do know is that sometimes, without warning, water is cut off to Palestinian homes. And this is not a rare occurrence. When you're traveling about Israel, and you've crossed a checkpoint or two, and you've become a little disoriented, so you want to know what kind of neighborhood you're in—Palestinian or Israeli—there is an easy way to know. Maybe you find yourself on the “Israeli side” of the security/separation wall, but you think you may actually be in a Palestinian neighborhood, you can know. All you have to do is look to the roofs. Most roofs in the land have water tanks on them. Israeli households tend to have a single water-heater on the roof. Palestinian homes tend to have multiple water-holding containers. Privilege is something I reflected on a lot during my recent stay in Israel. My blue, US passport, Christian faith, and my heritage—blonde hair, blue eyes and Slavic last name—meant easy-sailing for me. With much ease, I walked through checkpoints where I've heard stories of Palestinians being held up for hours, even though they had all of the proper paperwork filled out and permission granted ahead of time. I heard, too, about Israelis needing to get proper paperwork and go through checkpoints in order to come into Palestine. In Hebron, I had an opportunity to reflect on my extensive privilege in this land—as both a US citizen and as a Christian. Hebron boasts of being the home to the tombs of the patriarchs and matriarchs—Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca and Leah. At this site, a synagogue and a mosque are built over top of the tombs. The mosque occupies the southern side of the building, and the synagogue the northern. They share a wall in the middle. They also share Abraham and Sarah's tombs. Windows from synagogue and mosque allow pilgrims to peer into the room. The tombs of Jacob and Leah are in the synagogue. The tombs of Isaac and Rebecca are in the mosque. When I visited this site, I was with a group of other (mostly) American tourists who first went to the mosque, then to the synagogue. Outside of the mosque, we were asked if

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we were Jewish. If we said “No,” we were allowed to enter. Outside of the synagogue, we were asked if we were Muslim. When we said, “No,” we were allowed to enter. Because of my identity as a non-Israeli, non-Palestinian, non-Jew, non-Muslim, I was allowed to visit both pilgrimage sites. The first site we entered was the mosque. With ease, our bags barely searched, we were allowed to enter, making our own pilgrimage. Afterward, we left, went back through the checkpoint, making our way through another checkpoint, beyond which only non-Palestinians/non-Muslims were allowed. It is here when I began to mourn my own privilege. How was it that I could be allowed into both places just because of my passport and my faith? I had the right faith. Or, rather, I didn't have the wrong faith. And, because of that I could be a pilgrim to the fullest extent at the tombs of the patriarchs. It is rare that we have an opportunity to deny ourselves privilege. It means we must recognize we are privileged, and then deny ourselves the (usually very positive) reception of the thing. Throwing off my privilege is a small thing I hope to do when I am present enough in mind to think about it, in order to decrease my sense of entitlement (something typically bolstered and inflated by such privilege). By this point in my abroad experience, I had encountered enough privilege that it was time for me to reject and reflect. So, in a move that was not political at all, I decided to sit outside of the second site we visited—the synagogue. It was a move that put me in solidarity with both Jews and Muslims who were not allowed into the space of the “other.” Finding a bench, I began to ponder my own privilege, journaling my thoughts. Young school girls and boys were running up and down steps, having traveled, making their own pilgrimage to the site. I mourned for them and mourned for the conflict which has caused such division, with no easy solutions in site. After writing a few paragraphs, I looked up, as I often do from journaling, breathing deeply and taking in my surroundings, and I noticed it. I noticed the washing station. I can't say this for sure, but I would bet that this washing station before entering the synagogue has ties to the miqvahs (ceremonial bathing pools) outside of the temple. Makes sense, right? Ritual bathing before worship at the temple, through time, has also found expression in ritual cleansing (hand-washing) before worship in the synagogue.

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Just behind my view of the ritual washing station were the Palestinian rooftops. I could tell because of the water basins. Here's where my thoughts went: Outside of this synagogue are spigots where water flows for worshipers to cleanse their hands ceremonially before entering the building. It is a place where one might be become clean before entering a worship site. It is certainly a powerful symbol. Beyond the cleansing station is the Palestinian rooftops on which water must be held in tanks so that when the water is turned off, Palestinian homes might still be able to have water to live. Water that bathes babies, water that is poured into pots which boil rice for family dinners, water that quenches parched lips. Yes, water for living. I'm not sure if those fountains are even working, or if when they are working they also are affected by the unannounced shutdown of the water system. I have no idea. But, the juxtaposition of water for ritual and water for living caused me to think about Jesus. Jesus knew the value of ceremony, tradition, and following law. Jesus also demonstrated the heart of the law, which was one for correcting injustices and making peace. I wonder what Jesus would say about the ritual cleansing stations and the water tanks existing just yards from each other. The image of this is one which ought to cause us to think about the people, the land, and the depth of the conflict in Palestine and Israel. It is terribly complicated. I, even with my privilege and ability to get through checkpoints and be an observer on both sides, have no proposals for solution. What I do know is that we, the privileged, must pause. We must observe. We must listen. We must also pray. And, we must love.

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