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The other day in my sociology class we were given a statistic that upset me, but after I thought about it, didn’t surprise me: In 1950, fewer than five percent of Republicans or Democrats reported they would be upset if their child married someone from the other party. Today, that number is 50 percent.

My sister Emma in Jerusalem

This got me thinking about a discussion we’ve had in ASTU about the concept of “us vs them”. After 9/11, America went on the defensive, blazing its red, white & blue, while condemning any opposition. That has yet to change. One of the major things I’ve realized in my life is that people are unable to see anything as beyond black and white. There is always a right answer and a wrong answer. Anything you say is dumb, because my opinion is correct. Because of this, people fight exclusively by shouting, protesting, and blocking their ears to anything they don’t like.

Subsequently I’ve realized that in fact, black and white is almost never the case. So many debated topics could be solved if people were willing to have open-minded discussions and actually listen to one another. Despite my realizations, I can’t help but be divided on a current global topic that affects me in a very small way, but because of my background I have been forced to confront: the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

I’m Jewish, (emphasis on the -ish). I’m not religious, I’ve only been to a synagogue a handful of times, and that was for my many cousins’ bar/bat mitzvah’s and various community activities. Despite this, I still identify with being Jewish. My family recognizes the major holidays, and my sisters and I have participated

My sister Eireann in Jerusalem

in Jewish community events and gatherings. Even though I’ve never been to Hebrew school and Judaism is not a frequent topic of discussion in my house, I’ve always been interested in Jewish customs, history, and religious practices. Along with this research I’ve done what searching I can on the situation in Israel, but I remain torn.

Both my parent are pro-Israel. Even my dad who’s not Jewish, he’s Catholic. My mom has some extended family there, and as a young woman she lived there for eight months on a kibbutz called S’dot Yam, just south of Haifa. My sisters don’t really talk about the subject, but they’ve been to Israel on a trip called Birthright (Taglit in Hebrew). Birthright is a tour program that allows young Jewish people to travel to Israel for free. The experience is paid for by philanthropists, and the organization’s goal is to get as many young people as possible to go to Israel and connect them to their Jewish Identity. My sisters loved their experience and talk about it all the time. I can’t help but be fascinated with a country with such interesting culture and fascinating history. But then I am reminded if the conflict, and the fact that I have the very real opportunity to travel across the world for free instead becomes a burden.

My dilemma basically comes down to my sympathy for both sides of the conflict. I am fortunate enough to not have any relatives who were victims of the holocaust. My mom’s parents were born and raised in South Africa, faraway from any danger. I still understand that Jews have been victims of discrimination for millennium, and that giving them a land to be safe from harm and to help them prosper was an essential part of protecting them. But my vision doesn’t stop there. I see the innocent Palestinians who were forced to leaves their homes, and those who are killed unjustifiably by Israeli military. I disagree with the recent decision by Israel to create more settlements in the West Bank, but opinions like these lead to feelings that I’m distancing myself from the place I’m supposed to call my homeland.

When I see someone who has suffered, their religion, ethnicity, and nationality becomes irrelevant to me. Whether someone is killed by a suicide bomb or a senseless soldier, I grieve. I can never rejoice at someone’s death, regardless of what “side” I’m on. Ultimately, when it comes to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, I believe that no one is “right” and no one is “wrong”. I believe the answer is negotiated peace, and it could be so easy, but no one is willing to take that chance.

Willem van Heythuysen (2005) Kehinde Wiley. Seattle Art Museum.

I am a frequent visitor of museums. Anytime I travel with my family we always do two things in whatever city we visit: stop by the most prominent university, and go to an art gallery. Recently I went with my parents to Seattle specifically to see the art of Kehinde Wiley, a New York based painter who paints people of colour in positions like those depicted in the neoclassical style of the 18th and 19th century. My family has traveled to Los Angeles and New York on several occasions, so I have been lucky enough to see many of ‘the greats’, like Monet’s Water Lilies, Van Gogh’s The Starry Night, Picasso’s Les Demoiselle’s d’Avignon, and Matisse’s La Danse.

These works of art that I’ve seen are priceless; international treasures that are instantly recognizable. That is not what I found in UBC’s Rare Books and Special Collections. 

La Danse (1909) Henri Matisse. Museum of Modern Art.

Our ASTU 100 class examined and studied various documents relating to the novel Obasan by Japanese-Canadian author Joy Kogawa. The things we looked at would not be recognizable, you wold not see one recreated on a t-shirt. They were letters of rejection, newspaper articles, and fan letters. But what I was given was no less important than a Rothko.

Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (1907) Pablo Picasso. Museum of Modern Art.

My partner and I were given a folder holding the contents of Kogawa’s brain. Early editions of the fictional Naomi Nakane’s family tree, an outline of Obasan’s plot, and alternate titles for the novel. On these pieces of paper, it is almost impossible to see where Joy ends and Naomi starts. We found a list of memories from “the house in Vancouver”. We couldn’t be sure whose memories these were. ‘My young mother, christmas presents, hot bath, playing dirty with kids, Old Man Howard’. These could be anyone’s memories.

Dad with his favourite painter. No. 10 (1950) Mark Rothko. Museum of Modern Art.

I was surprised by how much freedom my class was given with these documents. Like the paintings I had seen at the MoMA, these were priceless, one of a kind, not to be recreated. The class was nervous at first, not wanting to rip any pages or smudge any words. It reminded me of a time in Palm Springs, when my family discovered an inconspicuous art gallery, with a name I can’t even remember. In the courtyard of the gallery was a sculpture by Henry Moore. My father, a lover of modern art, was so overcome with awe that he touched the statue without even realizing it. It could have cost millions. Some of the things were the product of a brain storm, Kogagwa’s stream of consciousness onto a page: “If we refuse to be eaten and eat do we die, or live. Surely the challenge is to discover that we can be eaten and not be destroyed – that love and resurrection attends our death – isn’t that where hope lies?” These words will not be endlessly studied by scholars. They will only be seen by so few people, and I am one of them. No one has analyzed them and decided what they mean. They can mean anything.

A family tree and character outlines. UBC Rare Books and Special Collections.

Joy Kogawa’s brainstorm. UBC Rare Books and Special Collections.

Alternate titles for Obasan. UBC Rare Books and Special Collections.