divisions

We're not supposed to speak to the Arab waiters in the restaurant anymore.  I don't know if something happened or if there was just aggressive flirting going on.  I don't necessarily understand, but I do trust N. when he gave us these instructions.  We're not supposed to speak to them-- but today one of them blocked my way to the door and asked my name, and I had to tell him.  This brief encounter has left me slightly flummoxed.  We're not supposed to speak to them, but this waiter has a nice face and gentle eyes-- not like some of the others, whose eyes get predatory when they smile at me-- and yesterday while I was walking with M. she greeted him in the parking lot.  We're not supposed to speak to them, but I almost wonder if this waiter is Jewish, and not Arab.

And the fact that his ethnicity matters so much to me makes me angry.  Drawing such strict distinctions feels racist and prejudiced and wrong.  But, I remind myself, perhaps it's less a racist thing than a cultural allowance.  The moshav residents understand that we foreign female volunteers are not promiscuous, no matter what our films and television shows might portray.  In the Arab culture, perhaps there has been less exposure to foreign women, so maybe it leaves much more of an impact when we wear short sleeves, or smile, or say hello, or look men in the eyes . . .

I don't know the cultural mandates exactly.  I just know how much it all grieves me.  We were never meant to live like this, separated from and wary of those we live with.  We were meant to be unified and live at peace with one another.


Come, Lord Jesus . . .