Positive Teens: United In More Than Name

Posted on June 28, 2017 by CNF • Posted in Highlights, Slider Content • Tagged jewish, Kids4Peace, Muslim, Ruth Ebenstein, teen voices, teens • Leave a comment

Omri Massarwe and Omri Hochfeld (last two boys on right)

This is the first in our series of Teen Voices, where we interview teens about topics they care about.

By Ruth Ebenstein

Stroll into the offices of Kids4Peace in the Sheikh Jarah neighborhood of East Jerusalem during a youth meeting and call out the name “Omri! and two heads will turn.

“Yes?”

Both brown-haired teens, one 6 feet tall and thin with straight hair, the other with a broader build and a head spiked in thick kinky curls, will break into laughter.

“Which one do you want? Hochfeld-or Massarwe?”

You’re likely to find “Hochfeld”, a 16-year-old Jewish Israeli, and “Massarwe”, a 16-year-old Muslim Palestinian, cracking jokes or comparing the players of Hochfeld’s favorite soccer team, Hapoel Katamon Jerusalem, with those of Futbol Club Barcelona, Massarwe’s favorite.

“Omri”, which means life in Arabic, is the first name shared by two peace activists who have become fast friends over the last 3 years. “With the same name, how could we not,” quips Omri Massarwe. “Yeah, it was destiny,” adds Omri Hochfeld.

They met at Kids4Peace, a grassroots interfaith youth movement dedicated to ending conflict and inspiring hope in Jerusalem and other cities around the world. Here’s what two teens discovered through becoming friends with kids from the other side of the Israeli-Palestinian divide.

Omri Hochfeld, 16, Salit, Israel

Why did you join Kids4Peace?

I’d always wanted to meet people from other places, and it was most natural to meet Palestinians. I’m an anomaly because I live near Kfar Saba, some 50 miles northwest of Jerusalem. I commute 90 minutes each way to participate in the activities whereas all of the other participants live in or around Jerusalem. We Israelis and Palestinians share this piece of land, and we need to learn to live together.

Tell us about your experience at Kids4Peace.

I joined Kids4Peace when I was eleven. Our group comprised Jewish Israelis and Muslim and Christian Palestinians. Over the years, we hung out at various activities and went to summer camp in the US. We developed strong friendships and a foundation of trust. When Kids4Peace started adding political discussions in later years, we already know each other very well. We could handle heated discussions about Hamas, hug and then jump into the pool.

Tell us about your friendship with Omri Massarwe. What it’s like to befriend young people from the “other side.”

I met Omri during my second year at Kids4Peace, when I was 13. He’s one of my dearest friends. We really clicked! Once you meet people from the other side and become friends, there is no “other side”… We’re all teenagers. There is no real difference between Palestinians and Israelis. Omri is not my “Palestinian” friend. He’s my friend-friend. We love to talk about girls, sports, food. What you learn by reaching across the divide is how very many people on the other side are good—and just like you. Ignorance and fear lead to racism and hatred.

What’s the most formative experience you’ve had at Kids4Peace?

Last July, Omri and I joined a delegation of Palestinian, Israeli and American teens that participated in the Global Institute, an advocacy and social action program in Washington, D.C. We met politicians like Senator Tim Kaine of Virginia, advocated for a bill in Congress, went to the State Department, and shared our stories with public figures. I also presented at a Jewish overnight camp with Mutaz, who is Muslim, and with Adan and Zina, who are both Christian and from Beit Hanina, a Palestinian town in East Jerusalem.

For many campers, this was their first encounter with a Palestinian or an Israeli, and their first time listening to an Israeli-Palestinian dialogue about the conflict. We started arguing amongst ourselves, which I think surprised them. But the tones really soared when we fought about where to buy the best humus. They said the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem’s Old City, but clearly, the answer is Acre in Northern Israel!

All humor aside, last summer truly changed me. David Harden, Assistant Administrator for the Bureau of Democracy, Conflict and Humanitarian Assistance, U.S Agency for International Development (USAID), asked us how we are going to change the world. For the first time I thought, wow, I have the power to change things rather than just waste time on my PlayStation.

What’s your takeaway message:

Go out and meet someone from the “other side,” whatever that means for you. You will learn and grow in ways that you cannot imagine. Find a niche where you can have an impact. Remember that you are powerful! Be a link in the chain of making a difference.

Omri Massarwe, 16, of Beit Safafa, an Arab town in Jerusalem

What did you join Kids4Peace?

In 2013, my English teacher encouraged me to apply. She was a counselor there and said, you’ve got the English, go for it. I checked out the website and really liked their platform.

Tell me about your experience at Kids4Peace.

The first meeting was awkward. While I had spoken to Jews before, I did not have Jewish friends. How do you talk to the other side? We were a diverse group of Jews and Arabs, Muslims and Christians, all the same age. We played icebreaker games, and that was helpful. In time I learned how connected we are, what unites the three monotheistic religions, the ways in which we are the same. We coalesced into one family before we headed to summer camp in Atlanta.

My second summer at Kids4Peace coincided with the Israeli-Gaza conflict, a military operation also known as Operation Protective Edge, during July and August 2014. It was a very difficult time. Fearing for the safety of other people in our group, we checked in frequently across the Israeli-Palestinian divide. Kids4Peace gave me a safe harbor. That’s where I felt hope and comfortable with people from different backgrounds. On the Palestinian side, we did get flak. I heard comments like, Are you ignoring our conflict?

As we got older, our counselors at Kids4Peace raised more political discussions. And that made sense. The basic ingredients of dialogue and peacemaking include talking about contentious issues like the separation barrier dividing Palestine from Israel and military checkpoints. Those are real issues. The conversations were authentic, illuminating, frustrating. But because you know the people very well, it’s easier to stay connected.

Tell us about your friendship with Omri Hochfeld. What is it like to befriend young people from the “other side”?

My friendship with Omri is very special. We can argue, but at the end of the day, we’re friends. It’s hard to explain chemistry! Being in Kids4Peace and the friendships I’ve made highlight the universality of the human experience. More than ever, Kids4Peace gives me hope that there will be peace for the next generation in Jerusalem.

What’s the most formative experience you’ve had at Kids4Peace?

Going to Washington, D.C., last summer for the Global Institute was incredible. I loved lobbying for a bipartisan bill to create an international fund that focuses on people-to-people connections, economic cooperation and grassroots efforts like ours to build coexistence. As I lobbied Democrats and Republicans, I felt privileged to represent the Palestinian voice, sharing some of the issues that we deal with back home.

What’s your takeaway message:

First, volunteer. This year I’ll be a counselor for sixth graders and participating in the Youth Action Program, where we design and implement community service projects and do leadership training. Second, carve out your thing. Mine is photography. While the media highlights the tension and animosity in Jerusalem, I spotlight points of connection via my Instagram account, Life of the Lad. Every positive voice counts! Use yours.

RUTH EBENSTEIN is an award-winning American-Israeli writer, historian and peace/health activist who loves to laugh a lot and heartily. She is the author of the forthcoming memoir, Bosom Buddies: How Breast Cancer Fostered an Unexpected Friendship Across the Israeli-Palestinian Divide. Ruth has also penned a children’s book entitled All of this Country is Called Jerusalem. Find her online at RuthEbenstein.com, on Facebook at Laugh Through Breast Cancer – Ruth Ebenstein, and on twitter @ruthebenstein.

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What Being Muslim Means To My Daughter

Posted on January 30, 2017 by CNF • Posted in Blog, Highlights, Slider Content • Tagged children and childhood, holidays, Islam, Muslim, parenting, Ramadan, religion • 9 Comments

By Stephanie Meade

“I wish I could eat pork like Eryn!”

It’s a harmless statement really. My four-year-old wishes a lot of things. She wishes she could have a dog and a monkey, she wishes she could “buy” a princess (I explained to her you can’t buy people but left the discussions of slavery and human trafficking for a later date), a certain dress or a stuffed animal. Sometimes she wishes she could be other people or have other family members. But something in this statement felt a little like sandpaper on my skin and I couldn’t at first pinpoint why.

The month of Ramadan just finished—a time of spirituality and fasting from sunup to sundown—and I tried to fast like I always do but didn’t succeed beyond one day. The maximum I have fasted is 12 days, which made me feel like a superstar. But when you think Muslims are fasting for 30 days, my sense of accomplishment dwindles. The thing is, I’m not Muslim so I don’t even have to fast like my husband looks forward to doing every year. But I try—not because my husband wants me to (I had to put that up front as that’s what most people assume)—but because I like the holiday spirit it creates in our household, the togetherness. Our household has two sets of beliefs but each of our traditions is part of the same family canvas, blending seamlessly like a watercolor painting.

Before we had kids, my husband and I had decided to raise them as a balance of both of our belief systems. Even though I lacked a formal religion, I consider myself spiritual. But after the kids were born I changed. I felt strongly that being raised within a faith is beneficial, especially when you go through hard times in life. I always wished I had been raised with a strong sense of faith versus the nominally Catholic-but-never-went-to-church religion I grew up with. So Muslim became their predominant identity, with perhaps a trace of something else that doesn’t have a name, like when my daughter once told me between tears to say an “om” for her to calm down.

The thing about celebrating Muslim holidays in the West is they don’t feel much like holidays. You can’t pop over to Hobby Lobby or Michael’s and pick up some decorations or Islam-inspired crafting supplies while Ramadan-themed music plays in the background. As you go about your daily fast—tired, a little drained and just plain hungry and thirsty until the magical minute of sundown arrives, which in the summer isn’t until almost 9 p.m.—not many people understand why you would undertake such a practice. And when it’s Eid, the big celebration at the end of Ramadan, with presents, feasting, new clothes, social gatherings, candy for kids and holiday cheer, it’s just business as usual for most of the Western world. That part I’ve grown used to. I should be more used to people’s surprise (putting it mildly) when I mention my husband is Muslim and we celebrate Ramadan. I don’t seem to fit their profile of what they think a woman married to a Muslim guy would be like. But that discussion, on stereotypes and Islam’s negative portrayal in the West, is not the one for today. But it’s not entirely irrelevant to my four-year-old’s innocuous statement about wanting to eat pork either.

For now, I know my little one’s proclamations of wanting to partake in foods outside her religion don’t mean much. She is secure in her Arab and Muslim identity and still protected at age four, just barely, by the paper-thin innocence of childhood. When we were in Mexico recently boarding a plane, someone asked where she was from. “Morocco,” she answered, even though she was born and has lived her whole life in the U.S. Boisterous and chatty, she tells strangers pretty much everything and anything on her mind, even stuff that makes us squirm a little, like yelling to our twenty-something neighbors over the fence that they shouldn’t be smoking. She loves experimenting with different head scarves, likely because she adores our babysitter who wears one, and looks for any excuse to wear her fancy Moroccan dresses, putting together color combinations that make me sure I will be asking for her fashion advice in a few short years. Unlike her six-year-old sister, she brings up God a lot in her questions. While my six-year-old doesn’t talk much about God, she enjoys praying with my husband when it’s Ramadan. She also loves singing Arabic songs and teaching them to her friends. But she identifies herself differently from her sister. “I’m English,” meaning American, (as she was making the distinction from speaking Arabic).

However, as they grow older in a society that regards Islam unfavorably, they will face questions, comments and likely even criticism. I hope the foundation we are building for them of confidence in themselves, pride in their heritage and an appreciation and love for many other cultures and religions will be their source of strength. I hope they will not just recognize that people are different and that’s what makes the world beautiful, but take confidence from that statement I regularly repeat. And with that confidence they won’t want to be anyone but themselves.

Stephanie Meade is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of InCultureParent, an online magazine for parents raising globally minded children.

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Mommy, Why Do Muslims Do a Dance When They Pray?

Posted on September 26, 2013 by CNF • Posted in Blog • Tagged Islamic prayer, Muslim, parenting, prayer, twins • 2 Comments

By Rachel Pieh Jones

I drove my twins to a play date and we passed Djibouti’s Dry Port where dozens of trucks waited to head to Ethiopia. Port workers and truckers lined up inside a rectangular space blocked off from the desert by small white-washed stones along the perimeter. Some had scraps of cardboard at their feet, a few had colorful prayer rugs. All men, shoulders touching, they faced the same direction—Mecca. A few stragglers finished swiping palms full of water over their faces, blew their noses in the dirt, and joined the line. In near unison they began the salat, the Islamic prayer.

The twins were six, maybe seven years old at the time. Their exact age eludes me but the conversation is forever etched in my memory. They had lived in Muslim countries over half their lives. Our neighbors, with whom we shared a duplex, often prayed in the front yard. Sometimes Daddy joined them, with his own non-Muslim words. My language tutors, women, prayed in the house. They washed inside too, in the bathroom sink and left puddles on the floor, damp circles on their dresses. Sometimes I prayed with them, with my own words.

So this drive was not the first time Henry and Maggie had seen Muslims praying. Maggie watched, her nose pressed to the window, as I drove around the roundabout, the one by the fish port, the one with rusting and dust-covered blue dolphins.

“Mommy,” she said, ” why do Muslims take a bath and do a dance when they pray?”

Thankfully before my laugh bubbled over, I sensed the sincerity in her question and choked it back.

“Good question,” I said. “Why do you think?”

She wondered if maybe they were dusty from the Djiboutian desert. Henry thought maybe they were sweating and stinky from their hard labor at the port. One of them suggested they needed exercise.

“But what are they doing?” I asked.

“Praying.”

“Who do people talk to when they pray?”

“God.”

I explained that Muslims believe God is holy, that out of their deep reverence for his perfection they didn’t want to barge into prayer with the things of the world on their body, sort of like meeting the president with gum in your hair.

I asked them how we prayed. Henry knelt with me when he couldn’t sleep. When we were in America at church, people taught their kids to fold their hands, close their eyes, bow their heads. Around mealtimes in our house we kept our eyes open and held our hands out, palms up, we looked at each other.

“Sometimes you pray when you drive,” Henry said.

In Djibouti I prayed the entire time I was driving, for miraculous safety as I dodged donkey carts and wild buses and goat herds and massive Ethiopian lorries. Sometimes my prayers were simply, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” followed by little screams while I clutched the steering wheel.

“So prayer can look like a lot of things,” I said.

I told them that I liked the Islamic custom of bowing, standing, bowing again, kneeling, touching the forehead to the ground because of how it physically embodied the conviction that God is greater.

“Like the song they sing before they start,” Maggie said.

When we first heard the call to prayer, the adhan, in Somalia a few years ago the kids had asked what the sound was. Our neighborhood imam sang “Allahu Akhbar! Allahu Akhbar!” Muslims didn’t sing along, but responded to the call by coming to pray. I had translated the words and suggested the kids sing along, God is great! God is great!

I started to say more about Islam and prayer and how I saw the washing as symbolic of the need for spiritual cleansing, for forgiveness, but one of them picked a fight and the other asked about orange construction cranes. They’d had as much serious as they could handle for the short drive. But I still think about that conversation when friends pray in my house, when I jog past groups of men lined up facing Mecca.

As a non-Muslim I observed and occasionally participated in the salat as structure, as tradition, as worship even. But Maggie saw the dancing, the joy in it.

Rachel Pieh Jones lives in Djibouti with her husband Tom Jones (not the singer, though he thinks life might be more interesting as a musical) and three children. Raised in the Christian west, she used to say ‘you betcha,’ and ate Jell-O salads. Now she lives in the Muslim east, says ‘insha Allah,’ and eats samosas.

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