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My Personal Experiences With Palestinians and Israel

I

n 1967, a few months after the
Six-Day War, I stopped in Beirut,
Lebanon, on my way back from a
trip to India. This was eight years before
the Lebanese Civil War, and the city was
incredibly beautiful — especially near
the shore. The quiet harbor
water was deep blue. A little
further down the coast,
the color was a light blue-
green, punctuated by small
stretches of white foam from
gentle waves. The water
looked welcoming. I remem-
ber thinking how crazy it
was for people to be fighting Edna Garte
in the presence of a sea that
seemed ready to embrace us
all as humans.
Before I left for the beach,
the lady who ran the small hotel where
I was staying had taken me aside and
asked where I was going. She apolo-
gized for interfering with my visit,
saying she was concerned. I told her I
wanted to see the beach.
“If you want to go there,” she said,
“you’d better wear a headscarf. I can
loan you one of mine. The people in
that section are mostly Muslim and very
orthodox.”
She showed me how to wrap the scarf
so that it crossed under my chin and
tied in the back. Looking in a mirror,
I saw that it was much more becom-
ing than the way I had previously worn
a kerchief or babushka tied in front.
When she saw that, she relaxed and
smiled.

This lady had shoulder-length, wavy
hair and a warm expression. She was
very hospitable, acting like she needed
to take care of me in her country and
appreciating my presence at the same
time.
From the beach, I saw older
men with white cotton robes
and matching turbans behind a
low wall on the adjoining road. It
struck me that they were walking
with spirited pride in their heri-
tage.
The next afternoon, I ate in a
small, outdoor restaurant, covered
by a cloth awning. It held only two
or three tables. The owner came
over and asked if he could join
me. He was wearing slacks and a
Western-style shirt and was proba-
bly Christian. His wife was serving some
type of fancy rice and tea. As I recall,
it tasted good. I think it had a chicken
base with vegetables.
The man asked me what my religion
was, and I said I was Jewish. He seemed
slightly shocked. “I’m Palestinian,” he
said after a pause. He looked like he was
thinking of the depth of human tragedy.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. My tone must have
suggested I felt meeting a Palestinian
was something special.
“That wasn’t the reaction I was
expecting,” he said.
I’m not sure where my reaction came
from. At this time, I was very tuned in
to Israel as a source of religious and
cultural meaning. I had just finished a
master’s painting project on Jewish cer-

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emonial art and a thesis on the Dura-
Europos Synagogue murals. However, I
was aware of a common Middle Eastern
heritage (partly because the Israelites in
those murals showed it). I think I also
felt the sacredness of people displaced
and surviving.
We talked further. At one point, his
wife said something to him in Arabic.
“She’s saying we should eat and drink
tea,” he told me with a half-smile.
I don’t recall what I said about my
own background. However, an image of
the place and some of his words stayed
in my mind.
“I can live here,” he said. “But I’m not
a full citizen. Possibly I could become
one, but it wouldn’t make me feel right.
I get homesick. I want to go home.” He
said he felt adrift, un-centered. “But I’m
not willing to kill for it.”
I felt his sense of loss and lack of ease.
At that moment, I only zeroed in on his
feelings, not thinking of their interna-
tional implications.
“I hope it will be possible someday,” I
said.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “But
thank you for the thought.”
A different conversation with a man
in Beirut was less sanguine. I men-
tioned the beauty of the water but
didn’t get a chance to go into the part
about how war seemed like madness
next to it.
“It’s even more beautiful further
south,” he said. “That area has been
taken over by demons. But we’re going
to get rid of them.”

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I didn’t reply because I was a little
confused, thinking he was referring to
a mythic concept of some kind. He was,
but not in the way I imagined.
In 2006, during the Israeli-Hezbollah
war, I thought of the restaurant owner
again. I was reminded of him by the
grief, hurt and trauma I heard in the
voice of a leader in northern Lebanon.
He was speaking in a radio interview.
“If they want to fight Hezbollah, that’s
fine,” he said, “but why did they have
to destroy Lebanon?” His voice broke
into tears. Then he went on to say that
Lebanon would recover.
A couple of weeks ago, a friend post-
ed some beautiful photos she had taken
on a visit to Israel. One of the most tell-
ing was a view from the Christian sec-
tion of Jerusalem, with adjoining stalls
in a market, and the wide, outdoor
stairway. I’d like to do a painting of it.
The images said everything about the
meaning of Jerusalem to Israelis as well
as their resilience and the willingness
of many to share what they could, if
allowed to do so.
But putting it all together — as the
American Embassy opened with prayers
by a pastor who thinks it’s fine to say
Jews and Muslims are going to hell,
while Gazans living under impossible
conditions tried to storm the Israeli
border and get shot — I could only feel
terrible grief. •

Edna Garte is a member of Congregation Shir
Tikvah and recently retired from teaching courses
on diverse arts and cultures (including Jewish tra-
ditions) at Oakland Community College.

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