Musalaha — As We Lament
Musalaha is the Arabic word for “reconciliation.” A faith-based organization, Musalaha teaches, trains, and facilitates reconciliation, mainly between Israelis and Palestinians from diverse ethnic and religious backgrounds, but also international groups, based on biblical principles of peace, tolerance, and love. Musalaha and The Outreach Foundation have been in partnership for many years.
Letter of Lamentation
We at Musalaha lament the devastation and unfolding tragedies in Gaza and Southern Israel. We stand firmly against the embrace, use, and justification of violence against civilian populations in the name of justice, vengeance, and liberation. We are distressed and overwhelmed, never having seen this scale of inhumanity, anguish, rage, and hatred before.
As the number of people killed continues to rise daily, we lament for all those who have lost loved ones and pray for comfort over their bereaved families. We mourn all the lives of civilians killed and the ones fleeing for their lives; we mourn for all homes destroyed and futures interrupted. We pray for the medical teams and journalists facing chaos and adversity, healing for the injured, and for the release of all civilian (Israeli and foreign national) hostages in Gaza.
We lament these recent events as part of the larger context we have been writing and warning about for years. We grieve the normalized systemic policies and practices that have been oppressing and denying Palestinians their basic human rights and freedoms. We call for the immediate lift of the indiscriminate siege of Gaza where over 2 million people are currently enduring collective punishment, cut off from water, food, fuel, medicine, and electricity. We call for the deployment of humanitarian aid and vital resources to be fully restored.
We lament people who, in the name of justice, have allowed rage to perpetuate the cycle of dehumanization and excuse bloodshed; as seen with Hamas’ attacks and the Israeli army’s response. We lament the rhetoric fueling exclusive and racist narratives that can only lead to further vengeance and violence. We lament the damaging and barren role international state actors have played, sabotaging the possibilities of a just reality.
Musalaha purposefully exists outside this ongoing cycle of violence, believing in challenging systemic violence as well as vengeful violence reacting to it. As we imagine a better world, we call our friends to practice empathy, express comfort, and support our vision of a just peace. We invite both Palestinians and Israelis to see the dignity and humanity of the other by non-violently co-resisting together for a better future.
Each Monday since October 7, the Musalaha staff team has been meeting online gathering from far corners of the land – Haifa, the Golan, Nazareth, Jerusalem, and Beit Sahur. As tragedy upon tragedy unfolds before us, most of our projects have been paused, but the responsibility of caring for participants and standing for reconciliation has been more important than ever. While news highlights events in Gaza, Southern Israel, and the Northern border with Lebanon, our staff experiences provide a broader vantage point of the lesser-known on-the-ground realities.
The West Bank borders have been shut down, but I’m making my way into Jerusalem with my foreign passport. Internal checkpoints are fortified to prevent cars and people from crossing into Area C before reaching the heavily guarded border checkpoint decorated with Israeli flags. Palestinian bags are checked, but not mine. A friend who works in tourism is going to try his luck at crossing today but is once again denied despite having the required permits. The atmosphere changes in Jerusalem. There’s the weight of “being watched” as streets are emptier than normal, police and military patrol back and forth. Salim points out cameras as we walk through the Old City. Maaike and I sit in the city center where she witnessed the arrest of a young Palestinian man earlier that morning. Returning home, a soldier flashes a light in our eyes telling us to leave, refusing us re-entry. We calmly find a detour. Under a cloud of collective anxiety, Beit Sahur is on another solidarity strike while Hiba and I discuss the neighbor’s dismissal of our reconciliation work.
“How do you do reconciliation in these times?” Daniel asks, “What will reconciliation look like after this?” For young Palestinian men like Daniel and Wasim living inside Israel, remaining indoors reduces the likelihood of being stopped and searched in the streets. Any social media engagement showing solidarity with Gaza is cause for arrest. This surveillance is causing us all to reassess what we post and where we show our face. “It’s choking me,” Wasim told me.
Maaike, another international like me, has felt her Jerusalem world become small. While cautiously scanning people in crowds and managing dread, she still says, “I’m exactly where I am supposed to be” – a sentiment we both share while many who can have already fled the country. Taking seriously the point of presence she tells me, “You want to be part of change, you have to be willing to change.”
Both Hiba and Nancy (not unusually) wonder if they are in the right place. For Nancy, she asks if remaining in the land is the best way for her to make a difference – can she be more useful outside Israel where she can more freely speak her mind face-to-face rather than posting online about this conflict? Hiba, the only staff living in the West Bank, asks, “Until when do I have to live in this reality? Where’s God’s wisdom in this?”
Meanwhile, Hedva is surrounded by the northern border of Israel, where many families have evacuated. Unprepared for the implications of deploying soldiers to the north, the military has asked her to do the army’s laundry, causing her a moral dilemma – “I want to do good for everyone, but on the other hand, I don’t want a war!” While Hedva watched Hamas enter Israel, she felt utter powerlessness. She quickly recognized this as a feeling so many Palestinians endure when subjected to checkpoints, raids, and arrests without charge – the feeling of complete subjugation.
Salim has lived in the land through many times like these, but that doesn’t make today any easier. He walks me through his morning checklist – what news today? Are we OK at home? Are we low on supplies? How is my mental and spiritual well-being? Who do I need to reach out to and support? When we spontaneously stop for an ice cream in Jerusalem, I know I am one he is caring for. He tells me, “Many times we talk about the price of war, but we don’t talk about the price of not doing peace.”
When we gather on Zoom each Monday, there is a spirit of solidarity that makes room for the heaviness of our different realities. In our silent listening, we hold each other’s fear and sorrow, grieving all that is unjust and threatens the goodness of humanity. As we hold the uncertainty of the future, for now, this is a time for lament. And we hope you join us.
- Courtney, Research Intern