Separated by conflict, checkpoints and culture, Israeli Noa Epstein and Palestinian Bushra Jawabri still manage to be best friends
NOA EPSTEIN | ISRAEL
Growing up Israeli in Jerusalem I had little contact with Palestinians, since our neighborhoods and schools were separated. I’d sometimes walk past Palestinians in the streets, though, and occasionally my family would eat in their restaurants and buy Arabic sweets from a nice Palestinian shopkeeper.
Even from the limited contact, I knew the average Palestinian wanted a normal life, just like us. The extremists—who supported suicide bombings and other terrorist acts—were the ones who made their fellow Palestinians seem dangerous and anti-peace. During the early ’90s, Palestinian terrorists carried out bomb attacks on Israeli civilians. At school we were taught to report strange objects to the police, since a bag left on the street could contain a bomb. It was a scary time. When the Oslo peace accords were signed in 1993 by the Israeli Prime Minister and the chairman of the Palestinian Liberation Organization, it seemed like there might be a peaceful resolution to this conflict. But it was a false hope. Violence escalated again, and it became harder for me to differentiate between extremists and innocent Palestinians.
This changed in the summer of 1997, when I actually got to know—and become friends with—Palestinian teenagers. I was chosen to be one of the 50 members of the Israeli delegation to Seeds of Peace. The month-long US summer camp brings together Arab and Israeli teenagers, in the hope that our friendships might build future peace in the Middle East. We were seeds who would grow roots of peace.
When I arrived at camp in Maine, I was excited and overwhelmed to be around Arabs my age, doing everyday things like brushing our teeth together. Those first conversations with the girls in my bunk were totally normal. But at times I’d realize, “Here I am, in this wonderful, peaceful place, talking to Palestinians, Jordanians, and Egyptians!”
I soon met Bushra Jawabri, a Palestinian girl, in the dining hall. I asked her the Arabic word for chicken; we laughed when I said the wrong thing. Bushra showed me so much compassion on my hardest day at camp—when an attack occurred near my home in Jerusalem. Three suicide bombers stood in a shopping area that I’d normally walk through several times a week. Dozens of people were killed and more than 100 injured. I was terrified something was going to happen to someone I knew. And for the first time in my life, Palestinian friends, including Bushra, were hugging me and telling me they were sorry this happened. This, coming from people who are supposed to be my enemies, proved to me that peace is possible.
At camp, then back in the Middle East, our friendship grew stronger—and Bushra has become one of my best friends. From 1997 to 1999, I traveled several times to Bushra’s home in the El-Aroub Refugee camp. It was so depressing seeing the conditions in which residents there live. But I’d like to think my visits showed the refugees that there are Israelis who care about their situation. Later, Bushra visited my home, too. Now even our families are friends. My mother often telephones Bushra’s dad; she’s also started to learn Arabic so she can speak to Bushra’s mother. Bushra’s father even referred to me as his daughter, which was really touching.
Up until a few months ago I hadn’t seen Bushra in three years. I’d been studying in Norway and also working in England, while she’s been going to school in the United States. But even when we were both at home, it was impossible to meet. Since October 2000, when the second Intifada (Palestinian uprising) began, travel between the areas has been forbidden because it’s too dangerous.
Now I’m back in Israel and I just can’t accept the terror. But in many ways you have to be immune—you can’t wake up everyday afraid you’ll die. I’ve made myself sick worrying about family and friends, both Palestinian and Israeli. I’m afraid to go out to shops. I avoid walking in public areas. After I hear of a terrorist attack, I pray no one I know has been hurt; I feel a selfish relief when I don’t recognize names of the dead. It’s been worse since August, when a bomb at Hebrew University killed seven and wounded more than 80. I’ll be going there in the fall. Before this happened I was so excited about school. Now I’m scared, too.
During these crazy times, many of my friends wonder whether Seeds means anything–whether it isn’t just idealistic. Especially now when hatred and violence has escalated to the most intense level, my friendship with Bushra keeps me from making generalizations and collective accusations. This is part of what Bushra wrote me in an e-mail a few months ago: “I was so worried about your family, especially after the bomb in Jerusalem. Whatever happens, I want you and your family to be sure that my family and I are always praying for your safety. We’re always thinking of you.”
Many Israelis I know claim Bushra and other Arab seeds are drops in the ocean. But I think if the Israelis and Palestinians had a chance to get to know one another, many more caring words, such as those in Bushra’s e-mail, would be exchanged. Seeds of Peace has taught me that lasting peace can only emerge from relationships between people themselves. I hope this will happen one day, since, as Bob Dylan sings: “How many deaths will it take till [we] know that too many people have died?”
BUSHRA JAWABRI | PALESTINE
I’ve been affected by the Arab-Israeli conflict since the day I was born. I grew up in a refugee camp because my family was kicked out of their native village in 1948 (when the State of Israel was declared). It wasn’t an easy life— 8,000 people share a small piece of land that sometimes lacks basic necessities, like water. Living there, the only picture I had of Israelis were the soldiers who would stop me at checkpoints or sometimes chase me. It made me think all Israelis wanted to kill Palestinians.
But, seven years ago, when I was 13, I was selected to go to the Seeds of Peace camp, where I’d meet Israelis my age. I was nervous about getting to know people from the “other side.” I’d always considered them my enemies; I never thought of Israelis as people like me. On the first day of camp, I was scared to introduce myself to people, worrying they’d be Israeli. But as I looked around, trying to identify the Israelis, it was difficult—all the Seeds were wearing green shirts that blurred their identities. It was weird to realize how much Palestinians and Israelis actually look alike!
After waking up the next morning, the fear started to disappear—I’d slept in the same bunk as Israelis, and nothing had happened to me or them. In the dining hall I met Noa, an Israeli who later became my best friend. One of the hardest parts of camp were the coexistence sessions, where we’d discuss difficult issues like the Six-Day War, the refugee situation and the Intifada. Everyone had strong opinions and often we’d end up crying. Sometimes Noa and I would meet up after these discussions and talk further. It was helpful for us as friends for us to hear each other’s perspective, so that we could be understanding instead of angry.
I feared Noa and I would lose touch after camp, since the peacefulness of Maine was far from the reality of bombs and bullets at home. But we started calling each other regularly. And we’d always invite each other over, not knowing if it was realistic. Then we called Seeds of Peace and they helped arrange a visit.
When I first told my parents that Noa and her family were coming to see us, we were afraid of how it would go and how people would perceive it. (It’s very rare for Israelis to visit the camp.) All that fear ended, though, when our families greeted each other. It was important that Noa saw the conditions of the camp, and it was just as important for people here to know that there are people from the other side who condemn violence. One of my friends here wasn’t too happy that I had Israeli friends but I think meeting Noa was a turning point for her.
After getting special permission from the Israeli government, my family also went to Noa’s house for Hanukkah, a Jewish holiday. My family is Muslim, and this was the first time we were exposed to Jewish traditions. It was amazing.
For more than a year and a half now we’ve watched the Palestine-Israel crisis intensify. Since the Intifada began, it has been impossible for our families to meet in the region, in spite of the fact we live only 40 minutes apart. Though I’ve been far away, studying at a university in the United States, keeping faith has still been difficult. What really keeps the peace alive in my heart is keeping in touch with Noa—we’ve been communicating since day one of the uprising.
I talked to my sister, Rasha, a few weeks ago, and it pained my heart to know what her daily life is like. One day the soldiers were randomly shooting near her classroom. The students had to hide under their desks. Most thought they would die. Rasha even wrote a goodbye letter to our parents. After she finished, she stayed there, awaiting her fate. Luckily, the shooting stopped. A few of her classmates were injured; others broke their legs while running to hide.
After hearing this, I felt frustrated, helpless, and sad. I was close to losing hope. I decided to share the story with Noa who wrote back: “Bushra, I had shivers down my spine when I read your e-mail. I am so sorry to hear what Rasha had to go through. No one should be put in such terrifying danger. I’m so happy that you are in the United States, and at least you are safer there.”
How could I lose faith when I have Noa as my friend? It was a relief to see how, without hesitation, she condemns inhumane actions. She and her family have overwhelmed me with their warmth and kindness. Our families have helped each other; Noa’s family has inspired mine at a time when it was hard to be inspired. Because I go to college in the United States and Noa was in Europe, and because of the situation back home, it was impossible for us to meet until a few months ago, when we were together for a Seeds of Peace fundraiser in New York City. It was great to spend the whole week with her and see how comfortable our families were with each other. I keep thinking if only our families were multiplied, how different the situation in the Middle East would be. I look at them and actually believe, maybe there is hope.