16 May 1997

Last night I stayed in a small village in the West Bank. I was housed by a Palestinian Christian family, who had a seventeen-year-old daughter, Sharooq. Perhaps because of the relative closeness in age, or perhaps because of our childless state, Sharooq and I bonded during the short night that I spent with her family. Sharooq and I shared a room that evening, and despite our initial bond, I felt apprehensive as I crawled into bed that night. I recall my ridiculous anxiety that the pajamas I had brought with me were somehow inappropriate. I was in a strange place and exhausted; however, I had consumed too much Arabic coffee late in the evening and did not immediately fall asleep.

As we laid in bed, Sharooq and I talked for hours, questioning each other about her life. I asked her about school; she asked me about dating in the United States. We talked of music, our likes and dislikes, and many other monumental and irrelevant things. Eventually, Sharooq spoke of her desire to go to a university and study English, with the hope of teaching someday. As we chatted, I knew that we were both thinking the same thing: Sharooq would never fulfill her dream, as there was no university in her village. Additionally, the travel restrictions imposd upon the Palestinians would not allow for her to nearest university that accepted Palestinians. Yet, neither of us mentioned this. We spoke freely and confidently of her plans, as if she were leaving to do this first thing in the morning.

I will never forget the ache in my chest as I listened to her, nor will I forget my respect for her at that moment. This young woman had dreams. Despite her everyday reality, Sharooq looked to this future with hope, excitement and an understated dignity.

As the night slipped into morning, we fell silent. I lay awake from all that caffeine and tried to let physical and mental exhaustion overtake me. Sharooq broke our silence with a question: "America is a Christian country and we are Christians, why are you doing this to us?"

I laid there in the darkness and tried to formulate a response. I began and discarded sentences about international politics and religion. Each response I formulated seemed inadequate. I realized I could not answer her "why". Because I did not want to show her my ignorance or inadequacy, I pretended I was asleep.

1 March 1998

Today, I write in apology and confession. I heard Sharooq's voice that night and chose silence instead of admitting my own inadequacy. As an American and a Christian, I was embarrassed. Yet, the deafening silence that permeated the room that night was not empty; it was filled with the loud crashes of my theology falling to the floor.

The loud echo of Sharooq's question still echoes in my head. Since, I have left her, every word I read is tainted with hopefulness and urgency. I am looking for an answer to her question. I did not speak that night, because I did not know what to say. When I do find the answer and struggle to raise my voice, the words that I will speak will be weighted with her memory.

If I had the opportunity to relive that night, I would not remain silent. Although I still would not have the answer to her question, I would have sat up and screamed for us both. I would have screamed as loudly as I could. Then Sharooq would know that I did hear her and suffer with her. The silence would have shattered and been unable to grow between us. "If nothing else is left, one must scream. Silence is the real crime against humanity" (Nadezhda Mandelstam, Hope Against Hope).

Kathleen Flinton
Voice, 1998