Application essay for study abroad. Another chicken soup moment from me.
2. Describe a significant intercultural experience, issue, or event and its impact on you.
I recently met a girl here on campus who’s father was an American diplomat doing business in Palestine. As a result, she was raised there, and lived in Palestine for the majority of her life. When the Israel/Palestine situation began to worsen, people in the American government were afraid she would be targeted as a result of her father’s position, and thus she was sent to boarding school in another country for years until they said she could return to the United States.
All this information was given to me by a friend of hers, and right away I was intrigued. However, I was warned several times not to bring it up with her. Apparently, her experience in the United States among people who have heard her refer to Palestine as her home, has been less than welcoming. Her friend told me that she has even had other college students accuse her of being a terrorist and has since been suspicious and hesitant over any mention of the subject.
I, on the other end was raised in an extremely Zionistic Jewish household. The word Palestine wasn’t even used until I grew older. Everything was Jews and Arabs. Israel versus the Arabs. Furthermore, my aunts and uncles on both sides of my family and the majority of my cousins live in Israel. As a result, I spent most of my summers there as a child. My younger sister is actually studying there this year, a fact which causes my heart to leap into my throat at every bus bombing I read about on the front page of the Washington Post.
Acknowledging that these are my biases, I was still extremely curious about this girl, and wanted her to feel comfortable in my home (I met her at a party I was hosting). I sat down next to her and made small talk for awhile, silently wondering what it was okay to talk about. As this all happened shortly after Rosh Hashanah (The Jewish New Year), hanging on my door was a message I had written to my roommates in Hebrew, wishing them a sweet New Year. (Consequently, my four roommates speak a combined total Spanish, Greek, Latin, German, Punjabi, a little Chinese, and not a single word of Hebrew between them, but we like to keep each other learning.)
This girl noticed the sign, was quiet for a moment, then asked me if I had ever been to Israel. Careful to avoid mentioning politics, I quickly launched into a description of my favorite places, the scenery, and my experience biking the Carmel Mountains last winter. I tried to put her at ease, by speaking about things that I hoped could be appreciated universally. It must have worked, because after a few minutes she joined in, relaying some of her own childhood experiences, and expressing a sort of nostalgia for the area in general.
In response, I slowly began to express regret over the situation there, and finally confided in her how sad it was to no longer be able to walk, as an adult, down the same streets that I had played on as a child. As she told me about her last few experiences there, it was clear that she felt the same loss and regret that I did, over a home and world that was no longer safe.
Although we both sensed we were entering dangerous territory, we both stood quietly in my doorway, as the party continued around us, carefully feeling each other out, what we could say, what we should say, and where the other person stood.
She pointed to the rug on my floor. “It looks like a prayer rug.” she said. I told her it was, and that my boyfriend had purchased it from the Palestinians that own his favorite restaurant.
Somewhere in all the seriousness though, it occurred to me that she had come here for a party, and I apologized for keeping her and offered her a drink. She accepted, and I called out to see who wanted another round. It was so late by that point though, that people were pretty much done for the night.
I was exhausted myself, but I certainly didn’t want any guest of mine drinking alone, so I poured two shots of whiskey and asked merrily, “What shall we drink to?” feeling proud in a sense, that our encounter was going so smoothly.
“What’s that Hebrew expression, you know, that Israeli one, the one the Jews always use?” some drunk person offered from across the room. The girl froze.
I looked up at her apologetically, mentally cursing the person who had said it. Why that? I thought. Why mention the one thing that most divides us… as though that single moment might somehow make void our last hour of diplomacy, highlight our positions as the polar opposites they truly were. She looked uncomfortable for a moment more, then shrugged it off.
“L’Chaim,” she said carefully. “Yes, let’s drink to that”.
As I smiled gratefully and clicked glasses in unison with this girl, I thought to myself that just maybe, these interactions, seemingly small in the grand scheme of things, is where understanding begins.
I recently met a girl here on campus who’s father was an American diplomat doing business in Palestine. As a result, she was raised there, and lived in Palestine for the majority of her life. When the Israel/Palestine situation began to worsen, people in the American government were afraid she would be targeted as a result of her father’s position, and thus she was sent to boarding school in another country for years until they said she could return to the United States.
All this information was given to me by a friend of hers, and right away I was intrigued. However, I was warned several times not to bring it up with her. Apparently, her experience in the United States among people who have heard her refer to Palestine as her home, has been less than welcoming. Her friend told me that she has even had other college students accuse her of being a terrorist and has since been suspicious and hesitant over any mention of the subject.
I, on the other end was raised in an extremely Zionistic Jewish household. The word Palestine wasn’t even used until I grew older. Everything was Jews and Arabs. Israel versus the Arabs. Furthermore, my aunts and uncles on both sides of my family and the majority of my cousins live in Israel. As a result, I spent most of my summers there as a child. My younger sister is actually studying there this year, a fact which causes my heart to leap into my throat at every bus bombing I read about on the front page of the Washington Post.
Acknowledging that these are my biases, I was still extremely curious about this girl, and wanted her to feel comfortable in my home (I met her at a party I was hosting). I sat down next to her and made small talk for awhile, silently wondering what it was okay to talk about. As this all happened shortly after Rosh Hashanah (The Jewish New Year), hanging on my door was a message I had written to my roommates in Hebrew, wishing them a sweet New Year. (Consequently, my four roommates speak a combined total Spanish, Greek, Latin, German, Punjabi, a little Chinese, and not a single word of Hebrew between them, but we like to keep each other learning.)
This girl noticed the sign, was quiet for a moment, then asked me if I had ever been to Israel. Careful to avoid mentioning politics, I quickly launched into a description of my favorite places, the scenery, and my experience biking the Carmel Mountains last winter. I tried to put her at ease, by speaking about things that I hoped could be appreciated universally. It must have worked, because after a few minutes she joined in, relaying some of her own childhood experiences, and expressing a sort of nostalgia for the area in general.
In response, I slowly began to express regret over the situation there, and finally confided in her how sad it was to no longer be able to walk, as an adult, down the same streets that I had played on as a child. As she told me about her last few experiences there, it was clear that she felt the same loss and regret that I did, over a home and world that was no longer safe.
Although we both sensed we were entering dangerous territory, we both stood quietly in my doorway, as the party continued around us, carefully feeling each other out, what we could say, what we should say, and where the other person stood.
She pointed to the rug on my floor. “It looks like a prayer rug.” she said. I told her it was, and that my boyfriend had purchased it from the Palestinians that own his favorite restaurant.
Somewhere in all the seriousness though, it occurred to me that she had come here for a party, and I apologized for keeping her and offered her a drink. She accepted, and I called out to see who wanted another round. It was so late by that point though, that people were pretty much done for the night.
I was exhausted myself, but I certainly didn’t want any guest of mine drinking alone, so I poured two shots of whiskey and asked merrily, “What shall we drink to?” feeling proud in a sense, that our encounter was going so smoothly.
“What’s that Hebrew expression, you know, that Israeli one, the one the Jews always use?” some drunk person offered from across the room. The girl froze.
I looked up at her apologetically, mentally cursing the person who had said it. Why that? I thought. Why mention the one thing that most divides us… as though that single moment might somehow make void our last hour of diplomacy, highlight our positions as the polar opposites they truly were. She looked uncomfortable for a moment more, then shrugged it off.
“L’Chaim,” she said carefully. “Yes, let’s drink to that”.
As I smiled gratefully and clicked glasses in unison with this girl, I thought to myself that just maybe, these interactions, seemingly small in the grand scheme of things, is where understanding begins.