On this page you can read the experience of participants from a variety of the activities and retreats that have been organised by SanghaSeva since 2004. If you have been on one of our retreats we would love to hear from you again please share your experience with us
Poem to process opening to the occupation.
I am a soldier deployed on an occupied land,
With deadly weapons
And heavy armor,
I am the shape of fear.
I am the patrol amongst the olives,
I am the midnight soldier knocking on the door,
I am the intervention force pursuing shooters,
I am the post of segregation in the middle of the 'haunted town',
Programmed to react to threats,
I cannot see the goodness crushed beneath my heavy boots.
Call me by my true names...
I am the shooter, just shot the lady dead,
I am full of rage and anger, I want to hurt "them" back,
All I see is "them", I cannot see the wife, the mom, and grandma heading home,
Call me by my true names...
I am the farmer, following my ancestors olive trees.
There, beneath my olives, on my own land,
I am humiliated time after time,
They took my land, they took my water,
My mind is clouded grey, I can barely see the beauty of this life.
Call me by my true names...
I am the lady, living on forbidden promised land,
Two thousands years, I have come back, I claim it
In the name of God and persecutions,
My eyes are closed my heart is heavy,
I cannot see them suffering from my return,
Call me by my true names...
the patter of english raindrops
as olives fall on black tarpaulin
in a grove
near a village
near a settlement;
- a sound from home,
in a place far from home
that is beginning to feel
the dust and heat rise,
cover my body outside,
fill my heart inside.
now and then a donkey brays,
now and then we stop for sweet
tea made on a fire of dry sticks.
we move from tree to tree.
conversation ignites, dies down;
arabic hebrew english.
inside, the rain continues to fall
long after I have left
and the harvesting done.
Towards the end of the Being Peace retreat this year we went on a tour of Hebron, the largest city in the West Bank, and often described as the most violent place of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. Our guide was an Israeli ex-soldier who had chosen to volunteer with Breaking the Silence, which describes itself as 'an organization of veteran combatants who have served in the Israeli military since the start of the Second Intifada and have taken it upon themselves to expose the Israeli public to the reality of everyday life in the Occupied Territories’.
After driving for about an hour and a half from Tel Aviv we stopped at the edge of Hebron. We all got off the bus, and followed our guide to a vantage point from where we could see a Jewish settlement cheek-by-jowl with a Palestinian neighbourhood. I took a photo to help me explain the proximity to people back home, although it was hard to capture with my phone camera. The guide pointed out the features that distinguished the two areas of housing. Palestinians typically have black water tanks on the roofs of their houses, while Israeli houses most often have white electricity boilers on top.
The guide explained that, due to water restrictions imposed by Israel as a result of the military occupation, Palestinians conserve water in the black tanks so they have a reserve supply for the ‘dry’ periods. A man interrupted the guide as he described this. He said that he had visited an Israeli settlement recently, and that people there were also experiencing water shortages. He demanded that a fair, accurate and balanced picture be portrayed. There seemed no doubt that he felt an overtly pro-Palestinian take on things was not a true version.
I wasn’t clear about the origins of the man’s argument, but I do feel clear that both Israelis and Palestinians continue to suffer every day, in similar and different ways, as a result of the conflict. The guide and other people in the group responded to the man's interjection, calmly stating his point was misleading, and suggesting it was very likely not correct; not true. Their response fitted with my version of the truth since the water restrictions that Palestinians contend with are well documented (see here for just one example). Furthermore, I have never heard of the Israeli settlements experiencing water shortages for any length of time, and the state of vegetation in and around any settlements that I've seen seems to support this.
But I was left thinking about truth, and also about fear, and the connection between them. I know that for me there are times when I find it soothing to create a particular narrative so that I can avoid seeing another version – another version where, perhaps, I’m not as much in control as I’d like to think I am. It could be something apparently minor or benign like, ‘I didn’t get lost, I just took a wrong turning’. This interpretation may serve to protect me from another reality which, at heart, equates to, ‘I’m not perfect / I’m not in control’. From there the ultimate truth is then very close to the surface, ‘I’m mortal; I will die’, and with it the reality of my existential anxiety.
Earlier in the Being Peace retreat we’d met an Israeli settler. He talked to us at length about the history of the land where we all were. He went back several thousand years, giving a context to why he felt he had a right to be in there, living in a settlement that the United Nations has declared illegal, and explaining why he thought Palestinians didn’t have that right. At points his voice became raised, at other points he was laughing loudly as he spoke. I was interested to notice the compassion I felt for him, and also for his wife who was sitting beside him looking at him with love and concern for his agitated state. It was only after our meeting had finished that we heard a little about how and when he came to be in Israel: he had arrived from Germany as a baby in 1946.
Although I felt I could understand the worldview the settler has taken, especially given what we understood about his early life, I dearly wished it was otherwise. My felt sense and my reason told me he had lived his life through a prism of fear. And I felt I could see how life choices rooted in fear lead only one way, to suffering, and in this particular context, to trauma, for both Israelis and Palestinians. The fear is manifest in these communities in bricks and cement and roads and schools and houses and hospitals and factories and check points and bombings and stabbings and wars and water tanks. It is a fear which ends up locking people in, even as the aim is to lock others out.
The Being Peace retreat ended, and I found myself back at Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion Airport waiting for my return flight to the UK. I noticed several water fountains. It was easy to refill my bottle both before I checked in, and in the departure lounge. I couldn’t help but be curious about this. Since 9/11 my experience is that airports and retailers have taken full advantage of tightened security regarding fluids, and that water is now rarely freely available. It felt good to have the choice to drink as much water as I wanted, and to not have to pay an inflated price to do so. But what also came to mind were the black tanks we saw on top of the Palestinian houses in Hebron. I wondered about the airport's water fountains, and whether providing them was a thought-out strategy, aimed at giving visitors the impression this was a humane, generous country where basic rights are met without question.
I tried to check myself with this thought process. It seemed cynical at best, dark at worst. I don’t know the truth but I tried to draw a little comfort from thinking that just as the truth changes, and is different for different people, so do situations change, and in actuality, not just in perception: ‘things changed in South Africa, they can change here’, was my line of thought. In relation to the Palestine-Israel conflict, my wholehearted hope is for wholesome change, resulting in improved circumstances for all, where plentiful life choices and decent living standards can be enjoyed equally by everyone.
Of course hope is not enough. Recently I came across an article that explored how Buddhist principles for transforming how we live individually can reshape public life on a structural level. I didn't find all of the article easy reading, but a phrase jumped out that I keep coming back to. The writer described a way of being on an individual level that inevitably influences the world around us, leading eventually to 'a public actualization of [our] own innate wisdom'.
I like the clear reference to the fact that every one of us is innately wise; it can be easy to forget this in challenging times. And I wonder if the surest way of tapping in to this deep wisdom is through clinging less on a personal level to our own version of the truth. If we let go more, then we’re better placed to take courageous, collective action based on our deepest aspirations as beings all looking for happiness, and longing for peace.
I have just returned from the 2016 Sanghaseva retreat at Dharmalaya full of gratitude and awe. Nathan and Zohar were the most caring and wise teachers, thoughtful and organised facilitators, whilst always mucking in being part of the team of volunteers carrying out various tasks including stomping around in mud and cow poo! I found their open kindness and humbleness inspirational, and could see first hand the incredible benefits of embodying the teachings whilst living in a close community. Something I am aspiring too! The recipe of silence, simplicity, Dharma talks, living in nature, being vegan, Chi Gong, voluntary work and learning about permaculture and sustainability, is one that can not fail to bring fulfillment and joy. So a million thank you’s dear Zohar and Nathan, I can’t wait to come again! x
What seeds should I plant in this perfect moment?
When the future is the present unfolding.
What question should I ask in this perfect moment?
When the answer is the heart opening.
Who am I in this perfect moment?
When the present moment lasts forever.