Long Haul Love

Last day of work before returning to the United States, Beirut, Lebanon. May 15th 2010.

In May 2010, I sat in the back row of a plane and cried for an entire 10-hour flight to Denver. This is not an exaggeration. The flight attendants must have thought me emotionally unstable. But I did just come from Beirut. After 5 years of living in Beirut, I called it quits and was heading back to Denver with my tail between my legs. My work, really my dream of working in Palestinian refugee camps and the adventure of expat life, was over. Khallas. (Finished.)

It all seemed unrepairable. I had broken relationships with coworkers and with Palestinians. I was tired of fighting so hard to stay in an unstable place and I was traumatized. I was done with the culture, the trauma, and the dysfunction of Beirut. I realized I couldn’t sustain my life or actually do good for the Palestinians themselves. I was disappointed in myself and disillusioned with this work.

I chanted over and over to myself, possibly out loud for that entire long flight home, “never again. Never will I go back. Never. The Palestinians are just gonna have to be (fill in the blank) without me. 

Sometimes things must fall apart. I know this to be true. I spent the next few years taking a hard look at myself, my motivations, my choices, and my desires. From working with refugees and living in Lebanon, I had to deal with trauma. What emerged out of the rubble was an idea of how I really wanted to work based on everything I had learned. A better way of supporting marginalized communities that felt congruent with me as a person but also respectful to them. I had a deeper commitment to Palestinian refugees formed on beautiful and hard reality, not fluffy dreams that I hoped to be true. I also forgave myself for all the mistakes I made.  

Working with marginalized people is neither glamourous nor rewarding in the eyes of the world. It can be in the beginning. There is an excitement in helping others, experiencing a new culture, and maybe a naivety that you can change things. Just like a relationship, the honeymoon phase wears off. Culture shock, language barriers, and trauma are genuine problems to overcome. You see the underbelly of the world. Your dream of making a difference fades and the impact is small, if at all. 

Your own ambition comes into play, you want success. What exactly is the measure of helping people? I have experienced NGOs setting up their own little empires. It’s about their work, vision, and territory so they can continue to get funding. Which keeps it on with the mission of the NGO, not necessarily the benefit of the marginalized group. I was recently at a conference with over 100 nonprofits. Many were doing the same work. It baffled me at the resources being spent when we could work together to broaden the scope and reach. Wouldn’t funding go even further if we collaborated to support struggling communities?

For me, partnership is the key to greater reach. The focus to remain on partnerships and those benefiting from it, not myself. Even more important is the partnership of the community you are serving. Instead of putting yourself in a position of power over them, building an alliance that balances the power structure. To do so means a willingness to be led by them and come in as support. You are providing resources the community needs to achieve its goals and dreams.

Ulterior motives play a critical role in nonprofit work. Do I want to feel good about myself and believe I am a good person? You bet. But if that is the driving reason I work with the Palestinians, it has no lasting value. I have learned that if I have reasons other than love for Palestinians; it will fail. Love must be the reason for hanging out on the margins with people. Love for them and the longing that love brings to put them ahead of your own needs.

Communicating the love you have is a powerful way of sharing narrative and keeping it on their story. Then, using whatever platform one’s privilege allows to advocate. It’s hard work to build bridges for people to experience others, particularly those who have been dehumanized. We move people through our own heart and passion, not through guilt or an argument. You become a pathway for them to experience groups that are not on their radar or have been stereotyped. It’s only through love that you can sacrifice your safety, ego and need to be right to invite others into that same love you found.

In the beginning, even with the best intentions, plans fall apart, even when your motivation is pure. As a matter of fact, I count on it. But what is my response when it falls to pieces, and I hurt or feel used? I am not naïve; I know how I am seen mostly in those communities. I know that many times I am a means to an end or an opportunity. This is not such a bad thing if I am honest with myself. Opportunities are lacking for refugees. As much as possible, I try to level the playing field. I have privilege and resources and I am seen that way. I know the choices others make will hurt and disappoint me because I have been there. I know I will not be recognized or rewarded for my efforts. When I am sad, I want to walk away. Yet there is something about committing to Palestinians, particularly because it is not popular or sexy. But damn it if that is not love in action.

What speaks of love more than commitment through hardships and ugliness?

What makes a greater impact on those you serve then when you are working together side by side in a partnership for their success? Despite what shall come, no matter what. Especially when they experience your commitment and the cost for you to continue?

Isn’t love what renders us all worthy?

“Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy. That is not our business and, in fact, it is nobody’s business. What we are asked to do is to love, and this love itself will render both ourselves and our neighbors worthy.”  ~Thomas Merton