Remembering my life two months ago

Today, while walking to class, I exited the Dental School and rounded the corner to find a lone woman sitting on a bench. She was in a black burqa, sitting quietly with a cane perched next to her.

For a second, I thought I was in Palestine.

With no one else in sight to cloud what I saw, I forgot that I was on my way to class in Chapel Hill and felt instead that I was back at the Beit Jala clinic, seeing a woman awaiting her appointment.

And then, as quickly as the image came, reality flew in and I remembered that I was still at home.

I spent a lot of today thinking about my trip, something I haven't done in some time. Earlier this week I gave a presentation about the ReCap program to first year med students who were interested in spending their summer abroad. Then, today, I (finally) wrote my ReCap reflection. It gave me a chance to re-express all the things I had felt while in Palestine and when I came home, things that I think a lot of people won't understand. It felt good to write about it again, as I haven't really said much in this blog since my one post after arriving home. Unfortunately, I still haven't drawn any conclusions about what the summer meant to me. Maybe I'm not supposed to, who knows. But I don't know what to do with all that I have seen, done, and felt in that short period of time. I want to do SOMETHING. I just have no clue as to what.

That's all.

The American Life

Back home. It's been a week. What have I managed to do? Eat loads of processed food, go out with friends, relax on the beach, upgrade my computer, go to class, and study. And read Al-Jazeera to catch up on Israeli/Palestinian news.

I really miss being there. I miss the people, the food, the tension, the frustration. Sounds a little strange, like I prefer being in a conflict zone because it's somewhat glamorous - at least more so than my life in Chapel Hill. Maybe part of that is true. At times in the West Bank we were a little unnerved, walking around Hebron with snipers peering at us from rooftops, or walking through Shu'fat Refugee Camp with boys throwing firecrackers at our feet. In Chapel Hill, I'm just scared a cop will bust me for jay-walking. To travel 10km in Palestine, we crossed through checkpoints that took hours, where people screamed and pushed and shoved their way to the front while more soldiers perched above us watched carefully, their machine guns slinging at their sides. In Chapel Hill, I just drive. My biggest annoyance here is a red traffic light.

All the "glamor" aside, I just miss being there. I miss walking through Azza Camp on my way to the UNRWA clinic and seeing all the political graffiti on the walls. I wish I could still walk through the cobblestone markets in Bethlehem, or sit on the roof of Mary's house and eat with the lifelong friends I made while I was there. I miss the long, heated walks up hill after hill. I miss the knafeh, the falafel, and the bread.

I don't miss the sadness I felt while I was there, though. Perhaps I haven't had a chance to miss it because on some level, I still feel it. It is hard not to feel hopeless, but optimism is the only choice. Hell, the people who have been living through it for generations at times seem more optimistic than I would think possible given what they have gone through. There are definitely ones who are not, however. There are people who think all the Israelis should up and leave; some think violence will work; others cheer on those who throw stones at soldiers because even though it gets them in prison or even killed, it is supposedly their only way of letting out their frustration.

It's such a multi-faceted issue. What's that analogy? An onion? You peel back one layer and there's just a dozen more to peel through. The more you peel, the more you cry.

Back to my real Life

I really wanted to post a few more things about my trip here, but now I find myself just itching for more time to do things. Anything. To shop, to sit with my new lifelong friends, to speak to people, to laugh with people and to empathize with people. To eat. A lot. To Live.

Today was my last day with the whole group. Tomorrow, I leave with two other girls for Tel Aviv. I'll spend a day there, then fly home to that Carolina blue sky that I have actually missed. It was a great last day, albeit a sad one. And its not actually over. Maija and I are both still awake at 5:04am, laying in bed with computers that aren't ours, waiting for 8:00 to roll around so the others will wake up. It's been a long day, but it probably won't end any time soon.

This morning I ran around town to do some ridiculously late souvenir shopping. Gotta leave with something. It was nice kind of running around on my own for a bit too. I stopped by a shop where we'd made friends with the owner. Costandi and I sat and had tea, talked a bit about politics, then realized his sister lived in Wilmington (crazy!). I ran into a few food markets where we've been buying groceries since we've been here. It was nice, it felt cozy to know my way around, make regular stops at all my favorite places where people had come to recognize me and I to love seeing them.

Eventually I ended up at home, where the girls commenced to have a "Girl Party" with our local Palestinian girl friends. It was fun - our first time seeing them with bare arms and beautiful hair! We spent hours in the kitchen preparing for our potluck, and when the boys finally came over, we sat down and had a proper feast. It was like Thanksgiving. I had a lot to be thankful for. When the Palestinian girls left, I cried. Yeah ... I do that sometimes.

We all then headed over to the Wall and painted our mark on it. A great picture, if I do say so myself, of Palestinians prancing up a staircase towards a doorway that leads to the other side. I was pretty darn proud of us.

We then went to The Tent, a bar/shisha/food place where we just chilled out for a few hours. We were exhausted, but we laughed - I started to miss everyone even though they were right in front of me.

Back at home, we spent a couple hours cleaning and getting our research surveys in order. We collected over 500 CBCLs! That is pretty impressive. Proud, again.

Then I packed. And now, I write.

I will really miss these people, this place. I say that every time I finish a program or a trip, usually after 2 months away. But something was different this time. This place is exhausting. There is so much to see, to hear, to do, to LEARN. So much to learn. I can't possibly do it in one month, or a year, or several. The group I traveled with was amazing. All from different countries, including this one. I learned so much about them, about me. I learned - a lot.

I am too tired to keep writing. I will salvage 2 hours of sleep before I continue on a mad rush tomorrow to get things done. Then, its back to the other side.

Life side by side

So as if the Tel Aviv experience wasn't weird enough, we went to Hebron on Saturday in the southern West Bank, an area infamous for it's tense atmosphere between Jews and Muslims. There is an inner city Jewish settlement in Hebron, comprised of about 400 settlers. There are 4000 Israeli troops stationed there to protect them. 10 soldiers for every 1 person. We were all very ansy to visit the place; from all that we read it seemed intriguing yet terrifying all at once. In fact, Barbora said a few days before, "I really want to go to Hebron. I heard there are snipers on every roof." Yeah. She said that.

Initially, we split the group up into 2 groups and headed to two different refugee camps to collect more CBCLs from the clinics and around town. Each group was really successful, and in total we collected more than 100 filled forms (amazing!). After leaving the UNRWA clinic in search of more families with children, our group came across a Palestinian Children's Cultural Center, where a dozen or so young teens were gathered. As we got them to fill out surveys of their own, they spoke to us about their collaboration work with the center in Aida that we've been working with the past 2 weeks. Together, the kids produce a magazine that is published a few times a year. All the stories and all of the photography are done by the students, ranging from lighthearted stories about dancing to more dense topics like being attacked by Israeli settlers. Several students ran to point out the articles they had written in the latest publication, and smiled sheepishly, but proudly, as we marveled at what we read.

After finishing the research portion of our day, we ventured into the Old City within Hebron. It's much like the Old Cities of Jerusalem and Bethlehem, with cobblestone footpaths, narrow lanes, and an abundance of souvenier shops. What differed, however, was the strange awnings that stretched between the tall buildings. Some were made of ragged cloths, but the view up above of one entire stretch was a metal screen, littered with garbage. Some years ago, settlers had come and taken Palestinian homes that still border these narrow market streets. Known to be extremely violent settlers, they often throw rocks and garbage from their home windows into the market lanes. Thus, Palestinians have erected these barrier awnings to prevent the raining rubbish from reaching them. It is an interesting image - looking up to what you hope to be a beautiful blue sky, only to have that vision obstructed by a trash-covered metal shield.

We continued on and found ourselves walking through mini-checkpoints with heavily armed Israeli soldiers. And yes, we found Barbora's snipers. One threw up a peace sign as Markus aimed his Canon towards him for a photo. We wanted to go to the Ibrahim Mosque, a Muslim and Jewish religious site now controlled by Israel. In 1994, an American Jewish pediatrician opened fire on Muslims who were praying early in the morning, killing more than 20 people and injuring dozens of others. The Jewish settlers in Hebron have supposedly erected a statue for the doctor. Since that time, security and entrance into the mosque has been controlled by Israel. There are separate entrances for Jews and Muslims, and non-Muslims can only enter after 5:00p. We all went through security and had a brief question/answer/ridiculous session with a soldier. I'll transcribe my interaction real quick:

Sonya passes through metal detector, hands passport to Israeli soldier.
Soldier: "United States of America."
Sonya stares blankly. Don't be nervous.
Soldier: "Are you Christian?"
Sonya: "Uh, no."
Now soldier stares blankly, confused at the response.
Sonya: "I'm Hindu."
Soldier: "Hindu?"
Sonya: "Yes. HINDU."
Soldier reads passport intently.
Soldier: "Patel...Patel..."
Sonya: "It's Indian."
Soldier: "Indian?"
Sonya: "Yes. INDIAN."
Soldier again stares, trying to read the eyes of this strange brown woman with no religion and a weird nationality. Then, he waves her through.
Sonya tries really hard not to start laughing hysterically.

Anyway, my first time in a mosque was a rather somber experience. It's a quiet and simple place to pray, but you couldn't help but picture the tragedy that happened there. A man whom we'd run into earlier was there explaining to us the '94 incident - as an eyewitness. He was in the mosque praying when it happened, and gave us all the details he could remember. How he could continue coming to pray in a place where such things happened, I have no idea. Seems to me that it must take an ardent faith to be able to do that, and for that I envy him. I'm not sure I would have the strength.

After exiting the mosque, we ventured into settlement territory. To get there, we walked down a small road with a concrete guardrail running down the middle. A young Jewish boy walked on one side. A Muslim father and his son walked on the other. Seriously. They walked on different sides of the street, separated by a one-foot concrete wall. I can't even make that up.

As far as the settlement and its surrounding streets go, imagine this: An old western film with saloons lining a dirt road, everyone behind closed doors as one man walks down the dusty path, big bales of hay blowing across the way behind him. He slowly draws his pistol.

Now, replace the sepia screen with a dull grey one. Instead of saloons, picture worn down concrete shops, all closed off with solid metal gates. Not only is there no one in the street, but there's no one behind closed doors either. The path is dusty, but there is no hay. Just some garbage, fluttering in the breeze. A lone man does not pull his pistol. Instead, Israeli soldiers stand at every corner, heavily armed, waiting. This is the Hebron settlement on a Friday - an erie, military ghost town.

When we saw the ultraorthodox walking towards us, each with a chair in hand as they made their way to the synagogue for Friday prayers, we finally decided to turn around. Their reputation of being hostile, along with a soldier telling us previously that if we went forth, we needed to be careful, was enough to scare us back to the other side. Furthermore, for the first time in ages I was conscious of my skin color and how I might be perceived. As we found our way back to the beginning of the main settlement road, a few Jewish girls passed us and said, "Hello! Enjoy your stay." I did not expect that. It was nice, weird, and scary to hear all at once. I didn't know what to make of it.

That was Hebron. Different than any other place we'd been in the West Bank. Jews and Arabs living in the same town. I'm still not sure how to feel about it. It was the first time I felt scared walking around this place. Despite the news recently about Egypt and Lebanon and the exchange of rockets and gunfire, I've always felt safe in this area. Perhaps too much guidebook reading before our Hebron visit scared me for no reason. Perhaps the Jewish girl that wished us well was sincere and misunderstood. Still, I definitely had a tiny adrenaline rush walking into that sad and desolate settlement area. Funny how a bunch of empty buildings and desserted streets could do that to you.

Just a few more days here folks - I've got so much to write about but dont know if I'll have time before I leave. Our crazy checkpoint experience, our walk through the huge Jerusalem settlement Ma'ale Adumim, our time in Nablus - so much to write about! I'll see what I can do the next few days - till then, ma'salama!

Life on the other side of The Wall

So...I have had a really weird few days. A few of us took our first trip out of the West Bank and had a really interesting 24hours. I'll try to recount it here- you may want to grab a snack.

We started Thursday morning in the clinics, as usual. It was a really slow day at the clinic (different from the last one), but we managed to get a handful of surveys filled out and shadowed a really friendly doctor. We headed home a bit early and only half-prepped for our afternoon with the kids at the camp. We've started getting lazy - they are a handful and sadly, we've gotten to the point every now and then where we just drag our feet to get to them. We got cheap falafels before hand, then headed to the center to find a group of kids, half of them new to us, that were eager to see us. In general, we had a blast that afternoon. Some kids made bracelets out of beads, others colored, some played hot potato, and we were all happy. Everyone had fun, not much fussing, and a whole lot of love. Funny - we were kind of shocked.

We left a little early and half of us left for the checkpoint. It's a funny thing, that checkpoint. You basically follow this long, narrow, gated pathway until you reach a metal revolving door. You pass through, then walk up and down some ramps. We placed our bags on a scanner, walked through a metal detector, and chuckled at the Israeli soldiers that were chowing down on food as we passed through their "security check." Again we walked through a one-way small revolving passage where we flashed our fancy foreign passports in order to get out before any Palestinians could get in. Yeah, it makes you feel horrible. It wasn't the first time either - nearly every checkpoint we go through, we are able to cut to the front or bypass certain security points because we are foreigners. During a previous journey through the same checkpoint, I said outloud that I felt bad for cutting all the locals that stood in front of me in line. A man at the front of the line told me not to feel bad. His tone seemed to reassure me that he was just used to it already.

We grabbed a bus to Jerusalem. There, we found what we had come there for - a gay pride parade. Yes, you read it right. A gay pride parade in the Holy Land. It was marking the one year anniversary of a fatal shooting at a gay youth center in Tel Aviv. We weren't sure what to expect, but we found thousands of Israeli and foreign gays, lesbians, trans, and straight folks marching to a band (with a cow bell!), donning their rainbow flags and politically incorrect shirts. Security was ridiculously tight, with police and army personel at every corner of the lengthy route. It was muted for what you might expect of a gay parade, but it was definitely an interesting site. It all occurred in West Jerusalem (pretty sure I didn't see any Muslims participating), marching from near the Old City and ending at the Knesset, the Israeli legislative building. There, they had a rather dull rally, emceed by a drag queen in a flowing black gown, speaking Hebrew to the crowd that had gathered with their neon light-stick bracelets and random assortment of instruments. The whole thing was kind of surreal, but terribly intriguing. I sat there thinking, how different is this from the Palestinian refugee camp I was sitting in only hours ago. Alas, to think of this territorial problem is not to forget about the discrimination gays face. There are just too many problems in the world to keep track of, if you ask me.

We backtracked after a while, then passed through a rather swanky part of Jerusalem with westernized restaurants and "Super-Jew" t-shirts. We made it to the sherut pickup and grabbed a mini-bus to Tel Aviv. It felt like forever, but by the time we made it to Tel Aviv it was only 10:30p. The night was still young.

We managed to find our way to Rothschild St, a very hip and happening spot where we met up with Maija's friend who has lived in the area for some months now. We were disgusting after having played and walked around all day. Furthermore we were all carrying our backpacks. Amongst all the 20-somethings in their short dresses, bare shoulders and strappy sandals, we looked absolutely ridiculous. We managed to find a bar anway, some folks had drinks, and we sat and started chatting.

Maija's friend brought along 2 others when they met up with us - one was an American. Sometimes, I gotta tell ya - it's not fun sharing the same nationality as other Americans. I'm too lazy to elaborate (i.e. complain) about her though. Another boy was an ex-soldier (in fact, all young Israelis, boys and girls, are required to serve after high school so they all end up being ex-soldiers). He was an interesting cat to say the least. He was under the impression that all Arabs wanted to kill him. He also mentioned to the others that the IDF had the highest moral code of all militaries because they called the folks in Gaza before they bombed their homes. One in a million, that guy (I hope). We heard some of them talk about the recent flotilla attack, defending Israel from what they perceived to be a lying international media, saying that the boat contained terrorists and therefore Israel was not wrong by attacking. Maija pointed out several times that the attack happened in international waters - "But that was the only thing they did wrong," was the rebuttal.

We ended up on the Mediterranean beach not much later, hanging with other Israelis, enjoying the scenes and just chatting. I stood by the seaside for a moment, alone, futily trying to find the stars that were hidden by the bright lights. I recalled my recent July 4th miracle night, and got a little homesick. The new Israeli boys that came to hang out were a friendly lot. Whenever they mentioned things about the West Bank (they don't refer to it as Palestine), they just seemed ill-informed, perhaps as much so as we were about the Israeli viewpoint. They seemed to have the impression that they would be killed in the West Bank. Maybe they're right, but from our viewpoint, we have never felt the least bit unsafe during our long stay here. I couldn't help but think, if only they could see what the other side was like. But, like the Palestinians who lack blue permits, the Israelis can't cross into certian parts of the WB for security reasons. Seems as though they may not know what it's like for a while.

We finally crashed at Maija's friend's ridiculously expensive 1-room flat at 4:30 in the morning. Waking up lazily the next morning, we made our way through a vibrant market full of fancy crafts, more olives than I knew existed, and plenty of bare skin. We ate at a great little restaurant that gave me the most delicious westernized gauda cheese sandwich, costing me a mere 12 bucks (in case you missed the sarcasm, that equals expensive). We ate till we were stuffed, then all parted ways to see different things. I walked along the beach with the Recap boys to Jaffa, an old city on the shore that was quiet but serene with a great view of Tel Aviv. It was there that it really donned on me just how strange this side of the wall was. If I had dropped into Tel Aviv unaware of any of the conflict going on behind government doors and 8 meter concrete slabs, I would probably love that place. It was so western, so NYC but on a warm beach. You could walk between skyscraper hotels and find bustling markets, you could walk along the beach and see perfectly tanned bodies soaking in the sun. Not even 24hours before that, we were in Bethlehem, surrounded by scarved women in long trechcoats, kids running up against a concrete wall colorful with grafitti, and men selling olive wood carvings on every block. Now, we were in one of the most expensive cities in the world, where girls flaunted their great fashion sense, the booze always flowed, and the sun bounced its rays off the spotless windows of 40-story tourist spots. We were not far at all from Bethlehem, yet it seemed as though we were worlds away. It almost felt wrong being there, and it felt more wrong liking the place.

I mean really, Tel Aviv is a pretty sweet city. I could probably live in a town like that if it wasn't so damn expensive - and if I didn't know at what cost it was built. It was such a culture shock, to go from one end of the earth to another in just an hour. From a conservative, modest society to a vibrant party scene. From people that suffered from an age-old conflict and thought it about it everyday as it pervaded every aspect of their life, to people who had no clue about the place we had just come from.

I dont even know how to keep writing about this. Understand this much - it was hella confusing. It was the first time we'd ventured that far from The Wall, and I though I had a great time, part of me was ready to go back. I think I am getting a little homesick. That never usually happens but this trip has just been a rollercoaster of information and emotions and I can never seem to sort out my feelings. Including now. So, I leave it at this.

Childhood songs, while Living under occupation

I'll write more extensively about the kids at the camp later, but I wanted to take a brief moment to share a story from today. We were playing with the kids at the Lajee Center in the Aida refugee camp, as we do most afternoons. Katie and I had managed to get some of the most aggressive, loud, and chaos-causing girls into a room making bracelets out of string and tiny beads. It was amazing how much they enjoyed it - and how much we enjoyed it as well. All week, these girls had been the hardest group to keep entertained, keep from becoming violent, and keep happy. Finally, we'd found an activity that, though it took some effort to get started, seemed to be working pretty well. Sure, they were still loud, still a little fussy over the beads and the lone pair of scissors. But they were sitting down. They were concentrating. They were being productive. Proud mama moment, for sure.

At one point, our Palestinian friends had joined us and we were having a great big girl party, locked in a room making jewelry. The girls love to be loud (have I mentioned that yet?) and decided to sing songs. They sang at the top of their lungs while they strung their beads, not missing a beat. I didn't understand the Arabic, but the song felt uplifting, happy. It felt like any other childhood song, like Itsy Bitsy Spider or There's a Hole in My Bucket.

Rudaina, one of our local friends, then translated the songs and I was shocked. One talked about an Israeli soldier promising all of life's necessities to a Palestinian family, so long as the family gave up their land. The family wouldn't have it. The other song talked about martyrdom, achieved automatically when one is killed by an Israeli.

?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Is anybody reading this?!?

That is some intense shit. Rudaina says that many (perhaps most) childhood songs have such themes. A quick Google on the topic seems to agree with that notion. Tons of sites describe Palestinian children being bred for jihad early on, taught to hate the Israelis (and thus Jews?) and value martyrdom even if it comes in childhood. Other sites are sympathetic towards the Palestinians, expressing sadness that their childhood has come to this.

I mean...I'm still shocked. Those songs are a far cry from Mary had a Little Lamb and Row Row Row Your Boat. Can you imagine? Is it bad? Does it breed hatred and further the war? Can you blame them?

Clinics servicing the Lives of refugees

So I thought the best way to relay all that I've seen in the clinic this week is just to type out the notes I took while I was there. First, a little background. The clinic I was in this week was an UNRWA clinic, servicing the Bethlehem and Beit Jala area. It provides primary care free of charge to any registered Palestinian refugee that comes through the door. Medications are also free, unless of course the clinic runs out, at which point the patient must buy it from another pharmacy. This particular UNRWA clinic had an "ante-natal" or pre-natal clinic, a non-communicable disease clinic for diabetes and hypertension, a vaccination clinic, and a general "I'm sick, help me" clinic.

My notes are typed out exactly as I've written them, in case you're into that kind of thing (you can imagine it scribbled onto a half-sheet yellow notepad). Therefore, it'll all be in weird orders and may not make any sense, but you'll deal. I'll try to explain things that are confusing in italics, also bearing in mind that many of you reading this don't have a medical background. Enjoy!

Vaccine Clinic

• use cotton doused c alcohol as "wipe" (c = with)
  
• no gloves (hardly)
• hardly any handwashing
• BCG/Hep B given at birth (vaccines; BCG = TB vaccine)
• Mom's not tested for HIV/STIs during pregnancy
  
• All boys are circumcised
• IUDs = #1 family planning (IUD = intrauterine device; implantable contraceptive)
  
• Nursing shortage (& only 3 doctors)
• 300/400 pts/day (pt = patient)
  
• avg 6 kids/family for refugees
• clinic = free (for refugees)

"Ante-natal" (Prenatal)

• "You are very nice. We love Indian style!" - nurse
• To get age of baby, measure from symphisis to fundus (rather than using ultrasound)
  
• Use sonogram to find fetal heartbeat - placental sound is like ocean waves
  
• 3 forms --> family planning, preconception, and ante-natal
• IUDs/condoms = most common
• Women deliver @ Holy Family HOspital c a referral - UNRWA pays 50%
• There are nuns who supervise the midwives --> from the Franciscan church
• Currently a non-smoking debate - 10 yr old kids smoing, "All bad things come from America"
• Just felt the head of the baby in a 35wk preg mom!
• Intercourse is good for contractions because of prostaglandins
• Cleaned the tape measure/sonogram c hand sanitizer on gauze - after like 7 pts
• Woman c warts/fingernail fungus - started crying as hey spoke to her
• Avg 18 yrs @ marriage, 19/20 for g1 (g = gravida = # of pregnancies)
  
• More women study/work now bc occupation caused men to be jailed/have less opps for jobs bc cant go past wall
• Just saw a baby c Downs - pretty young woman (20 yrs) - Mom got progesterone shot, stops preg for 3 mo.
• JUST SAW AN IUD PLACED! 14 yr IUD for woman c 5 children
• Most common problems c pregnancy: Anemia (give ferrous sulfate --> compliance issues taking c milk; also shortage for past 6 mo.). Also have UTIs, gest. diab., HT, etc.
• C-sxns --> doesn't know the # but thinks sometimes docs do more to get $ from UNRWA, or to get practice. "Doctors think about $ more than human life"
  

GP (General Physician/Practitioner)

• Literally people are flying through this lady's office! Pts are in & out in 5 min (they've already had vitals/labs elsewhere). GP = dx-ing machine (dx = diagnosis)
  
• Doesn't change spec when checking ears bc wax is not patho? Says its sterile, so no need to change out (observed nose s it) (s = without)
• So far seen: pharyngitis, tonsilitis, vag. candida, otitis media, well baby checks for vaccines, allergies, etc.
  
• Def no hand hygiene here.
• Brief note about doc: female Palestinian, studied in Ukraine, can speak Hindi. Super helpful, despite the hectic sched, she explains everything to me.
  
• And now we have 2 docs @ 1 desk c 2 pts. Still going a mile/min.
• "1 x 3 x 7" = 1 tablet, 3x a day, 7 days
• Pts line up @ door (more or less) - Try to keep privacy by having people stand in doorway behind bookshelf.
• "drop foot" --> SX = urinary incontinence, areflexia, and one more Sx
• Also seen: atrophied tonsils, taken BPs of preg. women, slip disc, SNHL, fractured trochanter, chest x-ray of slightly enlarged aorta
• Doc's got a pocket Bates'

That's all for now. More later about our first few days at the Lajee Center with the kids.

Refugee Life

So I thought about writing a short synopsis of the conflict and what I've learned but then I realized "short" was impossible. So, I've found a decent timeline here: http://www.mideastweb.org/timeline.htm. If you have time, it takes only a few minutes to read.

Since my time here is mainly concerned with refugee health, I'll add a blurb about that - its actually not mentioned in the timeline. The war in 1948 displaced hundreds of thousands of Arabs in Palestine. They were pushed out of their homes and found themselves in refugee camps in Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, and within Palestine itself. Over the years, that number has grown into the millions as more people are displaced and as the camps continue to serve as a home for the original population's posterity. Furthermore, a war in 1967 displaces hundreds of thousands mjore. Most of these people are holding out within these now permanent camps for their "right to return." This right, established by international law, grants them the ability to return to their original homes and/or receive compensation. Many fear that leaving the refugee camp will be considered giving up that right, and so they stay. Nearly 4 generations have passed since that first war.

The refugee situation is, as you might imagine, a bad one. They live in tough economic situations with few resources and even fewer rights. Those in Palestine receive little help from Israel, but they are not the only ones in a predicament. Refugees in surrounding Arab countries also live without many rights. It is hard for them to leave their camps, they face tough financial situations, and they are not allowed to practice certain professions, such as being a physician or lawyer. Why? Arab countries support an independent Palestine so why do they not treat their Palestinian residents better? Many say it is because these countries fear that by giving the refugees full rights, they will permanently change the demographic of their nation - there are often more Palestinians in the area/country than natives. Palestinians are also Sunni Muslims, and would tip many Shi'a Muslim governments in their favor if given citizenship.

As you can see, its a bad situation. Refugees don't want to give up their long held right of return, but they are not given any rights as refugees. The UNRWA (United Nations Relief & Work Agency for Palestinian Refugees, pronounced "uhn-ruhwah") has set up schools, clinics, and the likes to help the refugees. This week, I am shadowing at an UNRWA clinic that service AIDA Refugee Camp in Bethlehem. They provide pre-natal care, vaccinations, ongoing care for patients with non-communicable diseases (mainly diabetes and hypertension), and sick checks for children. Healthcare for the refugees here is free but resources are waning as the UNRWA looks to make budget cuts (supposedly, the average refugee family has 6 children - that's loads of people to look after).

We had our first day in the clinic this morning, and will go back for the rest of the week before we rotate to another UNRWA clinic, then to the government hospital. I'll blog more at the end of the week to sum up my time at this particular UNRWA clinic. Stay on board!

The hard life

As promised, a list of a few things we've experienced while traveling in Palestine. Don't expect any sort of flow - I'm just writing them as they come to mind.


- When going to the Dead Sea with our Palestinian friends, we were denied entrance at a non-tourist location because Palestinians were not allowed through the Israeli gate. Keep in mind, we were in the West Bank which is Palestinian territory. The WB is divided into 3 areas - Oslo A, B, and C - the latter is controlled solely by Israelis. Obviously, it was quite reminscent of a scene from pre-civil rights era Black history.

- We saw a group of foreigners tagging the "Wall of Separation" in Bethlehem. The wall was built as a "security measure" by the Israelis and has basically proven to be a huge obstacle for Palestinians traveling throughout the West Bank. The foreigners spray painted a "USAID" logo, with an inscription below that read: "Partners with Israel in Ethnic Cleansing/Apartheid in Palestine." They have a point.

- The Wall towers 8-9 meters high, running within the Green Line boundary of the West Bank. Palestinians living inside the WB hold green Palestinian ID cards. To travel to Jerusalem (which is on the border, and itself split by the wall), green card holders must have a permit. Several medical students at our university were denied the permit this year, and cannot travel to Jerusalem hospitals for their rotations. They express feelings of lonliness and anger.

- Before the wall, it took 10 minutes to walk from Al-Quds University to our friend Rudaina's home in Jerusalem. Now, she travels 1 hour each way by bus, around the Wall and through a checkpoint.

- Nearly every person we've talked to can recount a story of violence in their recent past. The other night, us foreign girls were waiting with 2 Palestinian men for our gate to be unlocked to our dorm. It was late at night, and a man approached us and told us to hide ourselves behind a brick wall, away from street view. Israeli soldiers were patrolling, he said. One of our Palestinian friends then told us, somewhat jokingly, that he had "bad experiences with the soldiers." Not too long ago, he was walking alone at night from the university when 6 blue soldiers stopped him, threw him up against a wall, and beat him. Then, they left.

- Watch the documentary "To Shoot an Elephant," about the attack on Gaza. Have your tissues ready. One quote from the movie that I wrote down - "Anyway, we did not think that the color of a president's skin would change US foreign policy." True.

And this is just a sampling folks. Let me know how you feel - I know it makes me feel like crap.

Dead Sea = Sea of Life

So I decided after my poorly written awkward first post about Palestine, that I will try to post one idea/thought/story at a time. Today, I thought I'd liven it up a bit with a story about our travels in the past few days in the Holy Land.


The past 2 days we traveled in Jerusalem and Jericho. In Jerusalem, we went through the Old City, this large expanse enclosed by a towering stone wall. We followed "Via Dolorosa," the path that Jesus took when he was sentenced to die. It was ... strange, but interesting and kind of cool. Being there, with so much history! It's kind of amazing, definitely surreal. We followed different "stations," first where he was sentenced to die, where he received his cross, several places where he stumbled or where he comforted onlookers, where he met Mary, and finally where he died. In the Holy Church of Sepulchre, there is a long rectangular slab on the floor, lying underneath a row of candles. It is said that if you put yourself or your possessions on the slab, it absorbs the oil of Jesus and can bring luck. So, people were lined up to kneel at the stone, putting bags of small trinkets and clothes on it as well to absorb as much good fortune as they could to pass on to their loved ones. It was loud and crowded in the church, but that was everyone's silent moment. Whether they participated or just observed as I did, it was a spiritual experience to say the least.


Okay so I said this wouldn't be a somber post - talking about Jesus's death seems bit somber, so I'll change it up. The Dead Sea!!!!!!!!


Okay not to get ahead of myself... First Jericho. Crazy hot city. Home to the oldest city in the world (10,000yrs). Also home to the lowest point on earth! I think its 413m below sea level. And it was at least a 100 degrees. But - it's so low that apparently something funky happens with the UV rays to the point where they can't actually burn you. They don't reach? or something. So no tan and no sun burn! No need for sun screen at all!! Weird.


Okay I've been itching to talk about the Dead Sea, so I'll just do it now. It is the coolest thing ever. It has 8x the salt concentration of the ocean, so basically everyone floats. Great news for someone like me that can barely keep her head above water sometimes. I was sitting - and floating. I was STANDING - and FLOATING. Yes, at the same time. I was running through the water, doing fancy spins, ab exercises, you name it - and floating. It was the best water aerobic workout I could ask for. Now I got a little taste in my mouth and it was like drinking acid. So that wasn't fun. And I was lucky enough not to get any in my eye - my friends that did suffered a few excruciting minutes. I did have a burning sensation on my legs, since I'd shaved the day before. Yes, the expression "pouring salt on an open wound" is based on fact. It hurts. However, the Dead Sea is famous for their mud, and you can find it all across the bottom. Slimy greyish-green mud. The best stuff on Earth. We took hand fulls and gave ourselves mud masks, exfoliated our arms, and tossed it around. It was magnificent. Floating in the Dead Sea rubbing mud on ourselves. Yeah, it's as cool as it sounds. People sell the mud in stores, in fancy bottles for up to $92!! For bout 4oz!! So, being the smart med students we are, we took an empty 2L bottle and filled it with mud. We plan on having facials for the rest of the month.


So, I leave you with that image. A bunch of foreign girls, all from different countries, bobbing in the Dead Sea caked with mud, feeling rejuvinated after having "escaped." Next time, I plan on list of short snippets about some of the insane things we've experienced (i.e. back to things that may or may not be so happy, but are reality nonetheless). For now, bask in the non-cancer producing rays that is my memory of traveling.

A Palestinian's Life

is too difficult to begin explaining. Yet at the same time, it is very simple to understand.

I've been in the Occupied Palestinian Territory (OPT) for a few days now - first in East Jerusalem, now on its outskirts in Abu Dis. The past two days I have heard from local students, lecturers, and people about what they face as Palestinians every day.

I have to be honest. I have only been here a few days, and can't profess to knowing much about the conflict in this area up until now. But what I've learned in the past 2 days, from personal accounts to facts and figures, it is overwhelming to discover that though the political issue runs deep throughout this region and the world, the humanistic one is so severely undertold and ignored that is crazy.

Palestine is under "occupation." Today we learned that the words "colonialization" and "apartheid" or a far greater representation of what is actually happening here. We learned that the United Nations has in recent years described it as such, and have recommended action to be taken. Israel has committed international crimes by forcibly removing Palestinians from their homes, withholding their right to return, and controling many aspects of their life, of their freedom. This is just the surface.

I know my post already sounds anti-Israeli. A lot of that, surely, is that I have only heard these things from Palestinians themselves. I will attempt to remain open minded throughout this process - it is hard, but that is how one must approach something like this in order to fully understand the roots of the problem. For now, my thoughts are this: whether or not Zionists pursue what they believe to be their Promised Land, or whether other countries support these odd claims (odd, because no where else would you ever consider "this used to be mine, so now its mine" an argument for stealing people's land) for political, strategic, or economic reasons - what I have come to understand is that despite all of these reasons for occupation, crimes against humanity are not a justifiable means to an end.

This is quite the rambling post, a far cry from what I wrote previously about my wonderful July 4th weekend. That weekend, I was enjoying the luxury of a beautiful and quiet night sky, full of stars and people celebrating their independence and freedom. The next weekend, I landed in a virtual prison of Palestinians with few rights and no freedom to celebrate. I just can't even come to terms with all that is racing through my head and through my heart. Trying to let my head lead is hard - the history alone is extensive and exhausting to try and comprehend, but slowly, I am learning.

My apologies if this made no sense at all - at least, for me, it is a way to start putting things in writing in the hopes of figuring it out before I can properly explain it.

The good life

This summer has been a whirlwind of events so far. Carol and Allison both got married in gorgeous ceremonies with love and friends and family all around them. Sheila graduated from high school (hooray!). And I had a great 4th of July.

That's today's entry - how awesome my July 4th weekend was. It was one of those moments, rather a series of moments, that was just so serene and fun and breathtaking that I felt compelled to write. And so I write.

After a seemingly endless summer of party planning and execution, I decided I needed a weekend at the beach before I left for my big trip. Lucky me that Ray has a beach house - and that it was open. We headed to Oak island, her and I accompanied by J.Moe, Poon, and Jimmy. We spent our first afternoon lounging at the beach, eventually getting in the water because it was too damn hot outside. The water. Was. Amazing. We grilled out, ate, napped, ate. J.Moe had to leave but the rest of us continued - eating, napping, etc.

That night, July 4th, we decided to head to the beach. Ray offered up the idea of biking down to the beach - hell, we had no idea she had bikes, so that right there coulda made our night. That was Sweet Moment #1. The four of us, best friends, biking down the strip towards the beach at 9pm. It was a cool 70-something degrees out, quiet, dark, and a bit breezy. We biked about 10 blocks to the public access point, using the headlights of the few passing cars to light our way. We were lucky to find the shore only sprinkled with people, and we quickly pushed our bikes to a sandy spot with no one around. We set up shop by the light of a cell phone - a blanket on the ground, held down at the corners by backpacks and shoes; a disposable grill in a small foil tray set up nearby with flames creeping from beneath the coals; fireworks placed in the sand, angled towards an ocean we could hardly see.

As we waited for the flames to die down, we lit 3-foot sparklers and pranced around in the sand like teenagers, waving our wands and lighting the air in front of us with spirals, ribbons, and hearts. We lit Roman Candles and shot them in different directions, capturing it with a long exposure time on Jimmy's camera. Eventually, the mini-grill was hot and ready, and we rolled marshmallows around until they were gooey and s'more-ready. We stuffed our faces with dark chocolate, cinnamon graham s'mores until we just couldn't anymore. Then we shot off more fireworks, lightheartedly competing with others down the beach whose purchase of fireworks was far superior to ours - we didn't care. We lit the soft waves with our reds and greens and blues, as the fireworks glittered over the water. Our own dark Eden.

And then at some point during all that fun, someone happened to look up and just stopped. We all followed suit and what we saw was breathtaking - and endless sea of stars. There were no clouds, no moon, and no bright pollution from the shore. Just stars. It seemed so unreal, something so unattainable that the only place I'd ever seen anything like it was in a planetarium. I got giddy looking at them, even started to count. I scoured the sky for shooting stars to wish on, eventually just laying back and soaking in the scene without asking for more than what was in front of me. It was beautiful. It was a moment. It was a night full of moments culminating in that one spectacular view. And it was wonderful.

In fact, I fell asleep. Seems a little odd, falling asleep in that moment but it felt amazing. Lying back in the sand, somehow shaking my very real fear of crabs crawling from up underneath me, and letting the stars, that actually twinkled, lull me to sleep.

Eventually when we woke up, we gathered our things and biked back to the house. A perfect ending. We woke up lazily the next morning and headed back for one last hoorah at the beach. We laid in the sand till the heat was too much to bare, then rode the waves until we finally dragged ourselves out. Then we came home.

And all I can think about is how wonderful that night was. Spent with some of my greatest friends, on a perfect night, having perfect fun. We decided to make it a tradition. I hope that takes hold - I love them all dearly.

The next step in life

Just a quick post.

Last week I went to Allison's last dress fitting for her wedding gown. It was the first time in months that I had been able to do wedding stuff with her. I helped a tad on invitations, save-the-dates, etc., but I haven't been able to do much. I feel bad about that - sometimes even annoyed. Annoyed that my intense relationship with school had me resenting people who had time for other things, things I didn't have the time to be a part of. Kinda sucks, right?

Nonetheless, I finally got to go with Al to her dress fitting, just me and her. The dress was more beautiful than I remembered, and she looked stunning in it. I felt honored just to be there helping her into it, tying her bustle, giving my opinion that probably shouldn't mean much but is actually worth something to my best friend. I'm not sure if she saw me, but I definitely had a few tears caught in my lashes. I stared at her through the mirror and all I could manage to say was, "God - we have known each other a really long time." It will be our 12-year anniversary on her birthday this August, she informed me.

I love and adore that girl. She is one of my oldest friends, and this coming year will be the first time in five that we will not be living together. It is sad to think about, but I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that mine and Al's lives are finally taking their different paths. We've been going down the same road for so long, and that's all changing now. It is, for me at least, an adjustment. But I still do, and will always, love the girl I met on the first day of 6th grade, and the woman she has grown into.

Man. I am so going to cry at her wedding.

A Life is born

Okay, I have loads to write about.

Last Friday night, I shadowed in Labor & Delivery for the night shift. I gotta tell you - it was insanity. In just 6 hours, I saw two C-sections and a vaginal delivery. I will now outline the ballerness of each event:

C-section 1: Emergent

This woman's baby had a falling heartbeat, so her C-section was emergent. Since the decision to do it happened right as I arrived, I didnt get to scrub in but I definitely got to watch from about 4 feet away. It was a whirlwind of..STUFF..that I had never seen. And it all culminated in this moment: The intern performing the surgery had made a slit in the woman's lower abdomen, then a subsequent cut in her uterus. She reached both hands into the women's uterus, and within seconds, managed to YANK out a baby. I mean this baby came out of NOWHERE. Well, I mean, it came out of the mom. But really - it came out nowhere. The umbilical cord was short and wrapped around the baby's neck, hence the need for the quick C-section. But, in a matter of minutes, there was a breathing 9lb (count em', 9lb) baby girl in the arms of her mom. It was emotional; mom started crying and I nearly teared myself. That was the first birth I'd ever witnessed and it was beautiful, gross, awesome, and terrifying all at the same time. On to the next one.

C-section 2: Scheduled

I got to scrub in for this one. The Chief Resident that night was amazingly nice, and a great teacher. She ran me through the entire process of scrubbing in, something I hadn't done before. So many small details I never thought of, like how to run my arm through the water in one swoop without backtracking, then repeating to get off all the iodine soap. I had to pat my hands dry a certain way on a towel, and had the PA assist me in getting on my sterile gown and gloves. I basically thought that was the end of my lesson for the day, but the Chief instructed me to stand next to her at the operating table - sweet! As the cuts were being made, I was able to hold a tool (I should probably learn the name) that held her open so the other docs could work. And then it happened - another 9lb baby was forcefully removed from his mother's uterus. And I saw it first hand. Holy shit. And then, the PA handed me a bucket and said, "Catch the placenta." And I did. Holy shit. Mom got her newborn son, but this time instead of tearing, I was intensely focused on the next task. Cutting sutures. Yes, the Chief and PA and intern all let me cut the sutures that they were so diligently putting in - 1cm from the last stitch, in case you needed to know. I had a little trouble because the splash guard on my mask was fogging up (gross) - guess I was REALLY excited. But it worked out nonetheless. And that's not even the best part. After stitching the uterus, the intern and PA stepped back. The Chief calmly said - "Ready to staple?" ....Um....WHAT?? That's right ladies and gentlemen. I got to staple this lady's skin back together. Now it's not that hard, you just take a little staple gun and do the damn thing. But it was so sweeeeeet. And the Chief was great about. "Great job," she said. "All this woman is going to see of her surgery is what you just did. Beautiful." How's that for encouragement? I got lucky being on her service that night. That was one of the craziest moments of my medical life. Even trumps the open heart surgery I saw standing bed-side. This time, I got to DO something. Is this what being a doc feels like? Holy shit. On to the next one.

Vaginal Delivery w/ Perineal Tear

The last delivery I saw that night was of a very young mom. She was a "bad pusher," as some had said, but since she was so young, they wanted to give her every opportunity to deliver vaginally before resorting to a C-section. So, they took her to the OR to deliver, in case surgery was needed. Now by this point, I'd seen two C-sections. But no vaginal birth, the kind you see in the movies with people crowded around yelling "PUSH! PUSH!" Well this was that kind of delivery. Except while some people said "PUSH!", the PA was yelling "EMPUJE! EMPUJE!" Both mom and the PA were Hispanic - that helped the comfort level. What wasn't like the movies, however, was mom's vocals. Every film with a birthing mother shows her yelling and crying and sweating and maybe swearing. But this mom was a silent pusher. She had tears in her eyes and a look of terror as she looked at her boyfriend and at the PA - but she didn't make a sound. Everyone else around her though, probably a crowd of 5 standing around her vagina, were yelling words of encouragement. And it worked. Mom delivered a near 10lb baby (yes, it was Huge Baby Night). In the process, she suffered a perineal tear, which I got to watch being stitched back up. It was a gruesome scene, of a swollen vagina (ouch) with a tear to the anus (double ouch) and blood and meconium and more blood. But it was a happy scene too. Mom and Dad seemed excited about their new baby boy, and a little afraid at the same time. "I'm not sure if I'm holding him right," mom said at one point. Another teary-eyed moment.

So what did I learn that Friday night? Well - that OB is sweet. I never really considered it before, but the idea of combining such personalized patient care with surgical procedures seems like the best of both worlds. So its definitely on my list of possibilities. However, I also learned that having kids looks insanely painful. Miraculous, but holy shit, painful. So...we'll see about that :)

Sigh.. what a night.

Life in motion

I. Love. Dancing.

I cannot emphasize this enough. Dancing is my savior.

A few weekends ago, I went up to D.C. for my second Monsters of Hip Hop dance convention. I learned from Rhapsody, Marty Kudelka, Tony Czar, Kevin Maher, Chonique, and Laura Edwards - HELLO! How freaking cool! These people have choreo'd for the top in the industry and they are insanely good.

And so are the dancers that attend these conventions. I was in the advanced class - definitely at the bottom tier of that class, amongst a bunch of teens that looked like they dropped out the womb doing the Dougie. I am in awe of all of them. I mean these kids are amazing - they dance with such precision, such passion, and such damn swag. I totally dig it.

It was a great weekend, to say the least. Coming away sore and sweaty, but smiling nonetheless. I thought what I really missed about dancing was being on stage. That's still true to some extent - I miss the cheering sections, the blazing lights, the heart-pounding music, the feeling of triumph at the end. But that weekend made me realized I missed a lot more than that - I missed learning in a creative environment where those that surrounded me taught me something by just being there. You learn so much more about dance when you watch good dancers, and I was surrounded by hundreds. I missed being with my friends - my dance friends, who despite our backgrounds and our future goals, all had one thing in common: dancing was in our blood.

Dancing IS in our blood.

Perhaps what I miss the most is the escape that dance gives me. In this life dominated by routine studying and stress, my dance class once a week is the place here I let loose. Monsters weekend was a whole 2 days of it! Imagine that. Two days to do nothing but dance. When you dance, its impossible to think about other things. You can't stress about your test coming up, you can't brainstorm for your MedSoc paper, and you definitely can't try to sort through any drama in your life. All you can do is focus on what move comes next. When you have that part, something in you wants you to just break out and show the world how damn good you look when you dance. And then you just let it all out on the dance floor. God, that is a good feeling.

I just finished up a Healer's Art course in school that takes a deeper look at what it means to be a physician and tries to remind students about why they chose this profession. Pretty good class - definitely a little "kumabaya" at times, but a good release from the normalcy of science classes. Anyway, during the first class we talked about what part of us we thought was missing during med school. Naturally, I said dance - more so my escape . It wasn't fully gone, but it was definitely reduced from before. On the last day of the course, a friend in my class told me that no matter what, she just envisioned me dancing. Dancing, dancing, dancing, prancing anywhere and everywhere - and letting that lead my life. She didn't mean she saw me being a professional dancer ; I'm nowhere near that nor do I want to be. But it was nice to see that someone else saw the dancer in me too, the part of me that loves to let loose, to have fun, and to be creative. A part of me that I am trying desperately to stay connected to while in school. A part of me that I want to not only keep, but to grow. A part of me that I love. A part of my life.

Life in crisis

All this stuff with Haiti... it's sad. Thousands are dead from one of the world's worst natural disasters and there is so little infrastructure in the country that many people can't be helped. People are dying for broken legs for cryin' out loud.

What's worse is that we choose to recognize this problem after something terrible has happened. There is no "preemptive attack" on poverty, no prior action. Instead, the world waits for something awful to happen: a tsunami, a hurricane, an earthquake. Why do we have to wait for a crisis to kick things into gear?

You know what else sucks? When you don't have TIME for a crisis. Can you imagine? You might wonder what kind of life anyone would lead that would make them too busy for a crisis. But it happens.

A girl in my med school class (I hope she doesn't mind me relaying her story) - her dad still hasn't been found. He was in Haiti with some students, some of which have returned home safely and others who haven't. When she was telling me this, she sounded surprisingly calm. It was Thursday, a few days after the quake and about five days before our first test of this block. The long weekend was our chance to study - her chance to go home and be with her family. She said it sucked - no matter what happened, she'd have to go home, but it sucked because she had to study. "There's no time for a crisis in med school," she said.

Well ain't that something? A situation so grave, so close to your heart - and you have to worry about taking a test because you fear getting behind. Granted, she felt that way because she said her dad would want her to focus on school. Most of our parents would, and perhaps in her situation, I would hang onto that notion as well. But it just seems wrong.. and sad... that school makes us feel that way. We're in school, in this type of school, because it's our life long goal to be physicians. We want to help people, serve them, make differences. But while we learn, we regret taking a few days to deal with something personal.

This is not how it's going to be when we're actually starting our careers, is it? I hope not.

Life's not so bad

I haven't blogged in quite a while, but a "moment" today made me rush to my computer.

It wasn't even a miraculous moment, nothing jaw-dropping, nothing so unbelievably awesome that TLC would pay millions to make a movie out of it. It was just a simple, pleasant moment that reminded me that people are good in this world.

About an hour ago, I was driving from my house to my apartment. It's bright outside, the sun is shining and it's a crisp 34 degrees. Chilly, but warmer than its been all week which made it beautiful weather. I'm listening to 100.7, an oldies station that is perfect for driving in weather like this. A great song comes on - "Jessica," by the Allman Brothers. If you've never heard it, its worth a listen. One of those songs that you'd want to walk down the street to, a little pep in your step, maybe a twirl every now and then too if you're so inclined. Alas I was driving, so no twirling for me. Still, driving through a town I love on a beautiful Sunday morning was a great place to be in listening to that song.

I pulled up on an exit ramp off the highway. While sitting at the light, I noticed a homeless man approach a guy in an SUV. I have to admit, my first thought was "Man, poor guy in the SUV. He's being harassed by a homeless man." Not my proudest thought. Given the great mood I was in, I'm surprised my first thought was so negative. That'll be something to reflect on later.

Anyway, while sitting at this stoplight watching the homeless man "hassle" the SUV-man, something kind of unexpected happen. The SUV-man got out of his car. He was probably around my age, maybe a few years older. He trotted to the back of his car, popped the trunk, and grabbed a sleeping back out from the back. Then handed it to the homeless man, got back in his car, and drove off with the rest of us as the light turned green.

Hm, I thought. That was really nice of him. I mean that was really nice of him. It looked as though he had the sleeping bag and maybe some other "camping gear" in his trunk. Saw this guy, presumably asked him where he slept and if he was warm, and then decided to sacrifice his sleeping bag for this guy.

I don't know why such a gesture was so astounding to me. Maybe because I hadn't seen such acts of kindness in a long time. Nothing so simple, so direct, so quick. With all the stigma applied to the homeless (by myself included, given my initial thought), it's kind of amazing when you see someone hop out of their car in the middle of traffic to let go of one of their possessions to make it someone else's.

People are good. The guy that gave up his sleeping bag is a good guy. I dont even know him - maybe he's a murder looking for redemption... but in that moment of giving, he was a good person. I'd like to be a good person. I want to erase my mind of negativity, clean my soul of judgment, remember that every person is a part of humanity, a smart, beautiful, unique species that is just mindboggling to be a part of.

And I don't want to forget that on a sunny Sunday morning, with clear winter air and great tunes, I was reminded that in this life even the simplest of moments are worth remembering, cherishing, and emulating.