TWENTYSOMETHING by Ishi Dinim

The predicament of Israel/Palestine, whatever you want to call it, looms huge and nebulous in my mind. I came here thinking that I could figure things out. That if I asked enough questions to a wide enough variety of people, I would come to an understanding of this mess. People here tell me about the untelevised versions of history and how it affects them personally. On my trip, I’ve met a Saudi Sunni in Paris, an Indian Hindu in London, a Druze Shi’a in Golan, an Irish Jew in Tel Aviv and a Lebanese Christian in Tiberias. The list goes on. A mixing of ideas, cultures and faiths increasing my awareness of the situation.
Before I left, I was really anxious and fearful about coming to such a conflicted corner of our world. I know that my outsider’s perspective is skewed, but being concerned for my life seemed obvious listening to the news every day. From what I’ve learned, so far, the news has little to do with day-to-day life here. Yes, people are murdering each other in horrific ways, but sketchy driving appears to be a more significant danger than any other threat.
I asked myself what an outsider reading the news about our country would think? Kidnappings, murder, rape, theft, drugs, political scandal, deaths on our roads, toxic waste – we might appear pretty scary as well. I don’t go around Vancouver gritting my teeth fixated on impending catastrophe. No one can live like that.
I could try and elaborate on the countless misdeeds that various religious and racial groups have perpetrated on one another in the Middle East over the last few millennia, however that account would be too lengthy and could only serve to legitimize more violence. I’ve heard enough horror stories to rationalize continued fighting for another 3,000 years. The eye for an eye mentality here leaves gaping wounds to fester in the oppressive heat. Even with all the bad blood between groups here, I see a tenuous coexistence that could easily change into a more open one. No matter how foul life gets, it just kind of goes on. We only have one planet to share.
I live in Canada, a country with its own painful history. When I think about our country’s terrible colonialist ways, I don’t dwell in guilt about how that has benefited my family. Should I be ashamed of being born on Native land? It isn’t perfect or ideal, but here we are; we all live here now. Time has mended some of the hurt. Other more grievous injuries will take much longer to heal.
When there is a fight or trespass in my immediate family the ache can linger from minutes to years. In the desert of miscommunication, we’re parched for clarity and reconciliation. We didn’t remember events the same way; we were misunderstood, or even worse, uttered regrettable words. I know from my own experience and that of friends how hard it can be to work things out between the closest of family members. Extending forgiveness can be extremely difficult to our own blood, let alone to strangers with a different skin colour, beliefs, culture and possibly a vile history against “our” people.
I am a self-described humanist. I want peace, reparations and equality. To achieve those ends, we need some hope that other folks want the same things as well: decent shelter, nourishing food and safety for their community. The enormity of the conflict here, and in other parts of the world, appears staggering at times. How will there ever be peace unless we can actually speak with one another? People need to act like family and we all know how hard that can be.
PS: I’m half-drunk right now. My stepbrother Eli and I went out to a bar with some strangers in Haifa tonight. We struggled between language barriers in a smoky pub with loud music; a good time was had. Upon leaving, I had a gut feeling that it wasn’t safe to drive and that I should walk. The taxi on the way here almost killed us. I looked up at the full moon, breathed in the cool night air and decided to walk back. Our group of young lushes talked loudly, trying to figure out the next course of action.
Then, out of nowhere, an orange flew out of the air from the darkness and struck the ground beside us. It splattered on some people. Disoriented, we laughed it off and tried to find a coherent direction. Our boisterous voices ricocheted off the depressing apartments in the industrial port neighbourhood. Then, “smash,” a bottle was hurled within inches of me from high above. I looked down at my feet. The large shards of glass could have caused me serious damage. I quickly changed my mind and got in the nearest car.

Ishi graduated from the Emily Carr Institute of Art and Design in 2001, with a BFA major in photography. He makes films, collects cacti and ponders many things. Currently, he is trying to figure out what to do with the rest his life.
contactishi@yahoo.ca
Waiting to hear echoes back–