notes from the nice side of the fence

“peace-building”. I have come to suspect the term.

does peace need to be built? worked at? developed?

what is peace?

peaceful is who I am when I’m not stressed.
peaceful is what I am when everything’s alright.
my natural state.
that is peace.
peace has no substance - it is simply the lack of constriction and plight.

peace is the social condition prior to conflict. a peaceful society is one that is successful at resolving its conflicts as they arise.

it follows that what we need is not to build peace, it is only to remove the structures that are preventing it. and to do this, we first need to get very clear about those structures.

who are those using terms like “peace” and “war” to avoid an honest look at the true power relations that create conflicts?
what do they mean by “peace-building” exactly, and whose interests are they trying to promote?
what is this “peace” that they are trying to “build”? is it engaging in true reconciliation, or sweeping the undesired effects of domination under the rug?

If a fish is born in your aquarium and you call it John, write out a birth certificate, tell him about his family history, and two minutes later he gets eaten by another fish - that’s tragic. But it’s only tragic because you projected a separate self where there was none. You got hold of a fraction of a dynamic process, a molecular dance, and made a separate entity out of it.

Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now

I wake up, get up, and pull up the blinds. the world outside is not.

I decide this is the perfect day for Really Long Emails. or at least one. here goes.

*

there is this widespread theory that if we accepted or loved reality, then nothing would change or improve. this includes external realities like war and rape and our own “negative” tendencies like overeating, depression, fears, etc.

what I found was that this is just a theory - and at that one that I had no way of disproving since I’d been taught from day one how to not accept reality and invest in future outcomes. I didn’t know how to do anything else. the rapture of wondering what things I could be when I grew up rapidly unravelled as the fear of not having proper income and security; the wonderment of connecting with friends was quickly imposed on a hypothetical future as the fear of loneliness. my parents and society, with the best intentions at heart, taught me my motivations, which are invariably fear-based. the problem with this is that the Now disappears in the intricate workings of a mind stuck in survival mode: even playtime is not just that, it’s really an insurance plan for old age. it’s an education, not an experience, and in that it is always stressful - because you know that if you don’t figure out the rules and follow them, you could get it wrong.

so acceptance, of the self and of the world, can be a terrifying thing - so much of our identity is built upon its opposite, and fortified through the fear that if we accepted ourselves, our children, our society and our world - we would do nothing for those things. but that is not acceptance - that is denial. I started testing it, and I realized there were many things that drive me to action other than discontent: creativity, intuition, service, joy, love. the difference being that when I am compelled to move because of love, I am free in that, because I already have my peace regardless of the outcome. when I am compelled to move out of discontent, the effects can only be temporary, and I can only create more dissatisfaction - because I believe for it to be the fuel that drove me to act in the first place, so that’s what I’ll be looking for again once my initial “goal” is achieved. what else is wrong? what else needs fixing? and I’ll either tell myself the story that I do this for other people (when in reality they may not need or use my help, and probably have not asked for it) or that I do this for myself (when in reality no external achievement can be good enough, because I believe myself to not be good enough).

here’s an interesting exercise: you know all those people whose flaws you think you totally accept, those friends who are so easy to love and admire without condition even though they don’t necessarily have anything going for them that you don’t? try to spend a whole week with them, a whole month. because “their flaws are more lovable than mine” is just another trick we use to keep ourselves down. for me it’s become apparent that I can only project unto others my own beliefs: I hate me, I hate you - I love me, I love you. and that goes for every moment, with no exception. and it takes that closer look to see that, because after spending a while together I notice that people’s habits begin to annoy me, and it can be very subtle. I become impatient, I start attacking, I indulge in visions of slightly altered versions of their selves I could REALLY live with - and this becomes very confusing because these are people I love. no wonder all this difficulty comes out in monogamous relationships - we just don’t spend as much time with friends as we do with our partners. but all I’m doing is treating my friends or my partner in the same way that I treat myself - believing I should change and improve, believing I am not good enough right now.

whatever I am is perfect and enough in the moment. I know this because that’s all there is - anything else is a projection of the mind from past experience unto a nonexistent future, and there is no presence in that. there are only conditions, manufactured: if I lose enough weight, I’ll find the right boyfriend. if I do that, I’ll be happier. if I stop the Occupation, the world will be a better place. if that happens, I’ll be happier. all theories. some will indeed lead me to actions I might consider loving or noble, but they stem from a place of pain, of not-good-enough. and when I manage to see the falsity of those stories (can I absolutely know that a boyfriend would make me happier? where did I pick up that belief?), I notice that I am still active in the world, I still respond to my heart, only I have a lot more space in my mind vacated from troubling and stressful concepts - and in that my body is happier too. I am more able, more flexible, more creative. when I don’t believe I need a boyfriend, I’m much more relaxed and confident around guys. when I don’t believe I need to end the Occupation, I’m much more joyful in demonstrations and a lot more approachable for people who hold on to fearful ideologies. what is more effective? what is more egotistical?

my sister came in my room one day, and I told her about this video I started working on on my laptop. before even seeing it, she sighed and said “I wish you didn’t waste your time like this when you could be fulfilling your real dreams. I want for you to grow and get what you want. I’m not one of your friends who would just sweet-talk you into false comfort.” and all I could wonder was: why do you want me to grow? what would that give you? why am I not good enough right now? how can being comfortable with myself be false? and she never got to see what I was up to that day. and because at first I believed what she was saying, that I should do things I wasn’t doing, I was left sad and deprived of energy. not a great place to start growing from. and this is how most forms of education work. and for some people that seems to work very well, with little perks and punishments along the way, until they realize that they’ve run their whole lives for someone else’s race, and they have no idea who they are anymore. I thought I’d first opt out of that, and see what life looks like without need, want or lack. this goes against the grain of everything that I’d been taught, and I figured that was ok. it’s a journey I’m happy to take.

 

dreams carry violence. swords and guns and reluctant face-offs. “let’s play a game”. and I get to take the surviving hero to the movies with me, once the carnage is over. it’s exciting. it’s romantic. it’s what I want, barely even secretly. 

 

in the morning there is spring onion, tomatoes, peppers, french toast with maple syrup and cinnamon. there are faces, eyes that don’t ever meet mine. just like in the city, this is a place where people come and go - making contact might not be worth it. this is something that I understand.

 

Mr. A may have used cliches, but he was often right about me. how could it be otherwise? until I peel away the layers, I am just that - a product of my conditioning. the sum of “I can’t believe you said that” and “please please please don’t go”. when that is good enough, there is nothing else. it remains a game, a competition. a tradeoff at best. 

 

so here I am justifying my free lunch and lodgings. likening weeding the ground to the cleansing of mind. insects punishing me for keeping still. your image punishing me at night, for the opposite sin. it’s true, it’s true, I ran away. I took away your friend.

 

most of the time my mind thinks it knows what’s going on.

 

“I am having lunch with my mom.”

 

“I am getting my eyes tested.”

 

“I am refusing to give change to a beggar on the street.”

 

and so on.

 

this was no exception. I am walking down Even Gvirol street in Tel Aviv. I am going to pay in a cheque at the bank. I seem to have a special talent to always be unconscious during bank opening hours, which admittedly isn’t difficult to do in Israel. so I make full use of online services and branch postal boxes.

 

my mind registers a guy in jeans and a tight white t-shirt swaying on the pavement a few meters ahead of me. his eyes find mine, and that window of opportunity opens: that half-second that offers a choice between looking away, getting on with whatever it is you think you are doing, and letting reality present something new - an interaction with mostly predictable yet ultimately unknown results. wallets are unlikely to be opened, nor telephone numbers exchanged, nor lives be saved or lost. but then again, you never do know. I go for the second option. my eyes rest on his for another twinkling, authorizing his approach.

 

“man, have you seen a grey Honda?”

 

I go in. I always strive to give truthful answers unless I have a good reason not to. he gestures at the cars parked along the pavement.

 

I see grey cars.

 

now, I’m a person who, when being asked by a parking attendant what kind of car it is that I can’t find in a lot, says “it’s grey.” I don’t own a car and so I always drive others’ - I don’t care where they bought them from as long as I’m not taking them to the garage, despite the obvious usefulness of knowing outside of that particular eventuality.

 

I see grey cars. I don’t know which is a Honda. but before I get to dwell on the matter, this guy’s body movement and the half-empty Smirnoff bottle in his hand (no brand-recognition trouble there then) suggest more urgent questions to be answered.

 

“are you alright?”

 

“what can I do man. what can I do? she left me.”

 

he tells me this not so much apologetically but in anticipation of sympathy, as if being dumped justifies any kind of behaviour.

 

“oh. um. well, maybe you should have a drink of water instead of that vodka if you’re going to drive?…”

 

“but. but I don’t have water.”

 

“then… buy some,” I say, capitalistically enough.

 

the guy’s completely drunk. not a common sight for central Tel Aviv at 4pm. his eyes widen, obviously struggling to maintain focus on anything. his mouth opens and closes randomly, and his legs lose their balance every time someone walks past.

 

“hey man, you think it’s this one? man, you gotta help me. where did I park it? d’you know?”

 

“no, I… - look. you shouldn’t be driving right now.”

 

“but I need to get to work.”

 

he’s obviously not thinking straight. I put my hand on his shoulder in a performance of affection and care. the truth is I don’t know if I want to be in this situation. I want to go to the bank. this guy has been drinking, and I don’t want to help him. especially not to find his fucking car, with which he could only harm himself and others in the state he’s in.

 

“that bitch. there she is, up there,” he looks up at the two-storey building, “three years. three fucking years, you know - just like that.”

 

“listen, I have to go to the bank. sorry.”

 

“look, man,” he takes out a car key from his pocket and puts it to the lock of the nearest car, “I think maybe it’s this one, but that shit at the back, I don’t think. I don’t think it’s mine. just - the key won’t fit. can you - just help me unlock the door man and then go.”

 

“I don’t wanna help you do that, sorry.”

 

I turn away and go. my mind begins to evaluate the situation, reviewing my taken steps and possible outcomes. if nobody stops him, he’ll probably find his car, and if he doesn’t pass out inside, he’ll probably attempt to drive it. this is likely to end in some kind of crash. traffic may come to a halt. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing. people might be outraged. I don’t know.

 

he could also try and go back to the woman. maybe violence would ensue. maybe one of them would get hurt, or both. I don’t know.

 

or maybe he runs into someone with a little more sense of responsibility for others who will sit him down and bring him some water, or a coffee. I don’t know.

 

suddenly I find myself deeply saddened by the whole affair. under different circumstances, and granted a little more resourcefulness, I would have loved to hear his story, I tell myself. for a couple of seconds I indulge in seeing us both sitting on a step, maybe even sharing the rest of that vodka, spilling our hearts out. it’s not like I don’t know heartbreak. it’s not like I don’t know self-numbing. sure, he’s being stupid, but how many times have I nursed a bottle in hopes of avoiding my pain? I can see where he’s coming from. my reaction was heartless and passive. I could have insisted a bit more, I could have listened. or maybe that would have just postponed a terrible end. maybe what he needed is to be left to his own devices. I don’t know.

 

after slipping my cheque in the hole in the wall, I turn back where I came from. I decide to buy a big bottle of water, just in case. the man at the counter offers plastic cups, and I take one, thinking the drunk guy might struggle holding a 2 liter bottle upright. should I take two? no, I’ll just drink from the bottle. what if he’s one of those hygienics though? nah, he wouldn’t mind, especially being so drunk. drinking from the same bottle would create solidarity. he’ll see I thought about him, and that I’m open to spending time with him as long as he’s willing to sober up. it’ll be good. would he still be there though? I don’t know.

 

as I approach the spot again, I see a police car parked there behind “his” car with some people gathered around it. god. too late. he tried opening that car, someone called the police. damn it. I should have been quicker, I should have asked him to wait, or come with me. would the cops let me bring him water? I guess they could give him some at the station. maybe this is for the best, maybe they’ll keep him from doing serious damage. I still don’t know.

 

I spot the white T. he’s steadily leaning against the car, in conversation with the people around him, surely there to keep him from running away. I come up to him and give him the bottle in a bag.

 

“wow, you came back. guys, check it out, he came back to bring me water.”

 

he says this with a wholly sober accent.

 

“it looks like you don’t need it anymore. the police sobered you up?”

 

“yeah,” he laughs.

 

a girl with a clipboard comes up to me. the other three people there are all excited smiles.

 

“that is so sweet of you. Eyal is actually an actor, and we’re shooting this new TV series. don’t worry, we didn’t film you.”

 

I smile and drop my head, feeling foolish but relieved. duped out of my big moment of charity. “and I see the cops are cooperating?”

 

“yeah. but it’s so sweet of you!”

 

Eyal gives me a firm handshake and hands me back the bottle. good actor.

 

“well,” I say, “I guess I thought this is what would have helped me if I’d been in the same situation.”