Losing a Limb

"The relation of the individual is as the relation of the single limb to the body. Should the arm, in case bleeding is required, refuse its blood, the whole body, the arm included, would suffer. It is, however, the duty of the individual to bear hardships, or even death, for the sake of the welfare of the commonwealth. He must particularly be careful to contribute his 'portion of the whole,' without fail."

--Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, Kitab al Khazari, Part Three, 19

Tonight is my friend Ariel's last night in Israel. She has to go back to school early for RA training (where have I heard that before??) and so she is leaving Be'er Sheva and me tomorrow morning.

Ariel is not a typical 6-week summer program type of friend. I have many of those, and they are extremely special to me. But Ariel is different because we have worked together every single day of volunteering, from morning to night. Together, we completed two 30 page research papers about domestic violence and shelters worldwide and we created a beautiful community with three teenage girls from the shelter.

Most of my close friends here are super supportive, funny, interesting, motivated people. I am lucky to know them. My friendship with Ariel is different because of the challenges we have faced together. We have not always agreed on how to conduct the research, we have struggled with computer frustrations, we have been stressed by deadlines and expectations from a somewhat intimidating (though also inspiring!) director at the shelter. Our time with "the girls" has been marked by impossible days when the twins can't stand to be in the same room as one another and no one will talk to us and, despite elaborate lesson plans, the girls don't want to do anything.

Our friendship has put us to the test, and we passed! Despite these potential sources of tension, we have spent every day with each other in a spirit of tenderness and love. We have learned from each other at every crossroads, we have collaborated on decisions in productive ways, we have shared incredible moments of inspiration together. If you know me, then you know I am averse to group work. I am highly individualistic and I prefer to operate on my own, even if it means more work for me. I also love to hang out by myself, wander the streets of a strange city on my own, and rub my independence in the world's face.

Being with Ariel is like being with myself, but better. Her humor, knowledge, interests, and feelings vibe so well with me. We have a rhythm together--when to be funny, when to play song-association games, when to talk politics, when to admit we know nothing about politics, when to push, when to pull back. We jive. And she shares my love of R Kelly, even though she's embarrassed to admit it.

Tonight in our group discussion, she shared this idea that it is difficult to have both truth and happiness. This is true. It is also the perfect way to describe my friendship with Ariel. We know the faults, the truth--what her wagging foot means when her legs are crossed, what her tired face looks like, the frustration when her computer is not cooperating, the sigh of complete exasperation with all living beings. And we know the joy, the happiness--laughing so hard our sides hurt, piecing together the dirty words of an Akon song, crashing a birthday party, spontaneous clubbing, taking on the town together. We share our families with each other, through stories, facebook, and even in person (whaddup Aliza!). We share what is meaningful to us, and it becomes meaningful to the other.

The quote at the top of this post is something from my group's source book, which we read during a program at the beginning of the summer. Tonight, we lose a limb. We will survive and go on to function as a group for the remaining few days, but we will always feel that absence. Ariel embodied the other half of that quote as well, because she contributed her portion of the whole without fail. She bore hardships, she gave willingly. We were better for having her.

And I am better because I have her--as a friend, a co-worker, a teacher, a soul sister.

Black and White

I was always taught not to see things in terms of black and white. (I hesitate to use the expression now, but:) the "right" way to take in experiences and observations was to remember that everything comes in shades of grey. I was taught that the world is "complex," and that my linear mind needed to bend and weave in order to fully appreciate the many perspectives that combine to create this thing called reality. I was reminded that there are many truths.

But this past Thursday, my world turned black and white.

On Thursday, I took a trip to Tel Aviv with my program. First, we met with the founder of Microfy, a micro-finance NGO that gives small loans to asylum seekers in Israel. These people are not granted refugee status--they are fleeing their homes in Eritrea, Sudan, and some other countries in Africa. They travel through Egypt and the Sinai at great risk to their personal safety to arrive in Israel.

There are currently about 60,000 asylum seekers living in Israel, mainly in South Tel Aviv. Most are men.

I have been to South Tel Aviv a few times before because that's where the central bus station is located. I had always been told that it's "a bad area" and that I should go straight to my bus. So that's what I did. On Thursday, though, we weren't there to go somewhere else. We were there to see South Tel Aviv, the Black City.

Our visit to Microfy was inspiring. I was feeling pretty good about the situation. The founder is an incredibly engaging and powerful woman from Uruguay. She said she was overwhelmed by the poverty in Uruguay but felt empowered to make a change here in Israel, and she made alliyah several years ago and hasn't stopped changing the world since. They have given out 120 micro loans, all of which have been repaid in full, with 10% interest. 120 isn't many out of 60,000, but you have to start somewhere, right?

After Microfy and lunch on Florentine, an "up and coming" area of South Tel Aviv, we met with a Mizrachi feminist woman, founder of Achoti. This NGO focuses on bringing Mizrachi feminist issues into the spotlight. We often talk about the minorities in Israel: Palestinians, Bedouins, Druze, and other non-Jewish groups. There is a forgotten group though, the Mizrachi Jews. They are invisible to the "Ashkenaz Smol," or the "White Left" (this phrase also doubles to mean "White Small" to highlight the close mindedness of proud left-wing Ashkenazic Jews who refuse to acknowledge the plight of the Mizrachi population). The Mizrachi Jews mainly live in South Tel Aviv and the periphery of Israel. It was a little awkward for me to hear about this woman's life and her fight for equality: I am Ashkenazic, I am left-wing, and until this past Thursday, I did not understand the difficulties facing Mizrachi women.

From Achoti, we stopped outside the Bialik School, a school that serves Jews of all colors, Philipinos, Thai students, Palestinians (if their parents were accused of being Israeli collaborators, they were forced out of their Arab communities), and refugees. There is an amazing documentary (apparently) about this school. Looking forward to checking it out: http://www.strangersnomoremovie.com/

At this point, things were still under control. We had met with strong, capable women who had founded successful NGOs that were helping the community. We were exploring the Black City, and it was diverse, it was exotic. We even walked through one neighborhood whose streets are shaped like a menorah (Neve She'anan).

But then it was sad. We toured the lower floors of the Central Bus Station, the floors where I would never venture on my own. There is a market on these floors, crowded with cheap items and somewhat deserted of potential buyers. We traipsed through this scene as a group of 18 white American young adults. We didn't belong. It was obvious and embarrassing.

The bus station led us to Levinsky Park. From far away, it looks like a colorful children's playground. As you get closer, you notice that there are blankets and cardboard boxes in the slide entrance. There are people living in the red plastic tunnel that connects the monkey bars to the fireman's pole. And what at first seems like people sunning themselves on a grassy lawn turns out to be about 50 young African men, asylum seekers (or "infiltrators" as they are often called in Israel), living on the ground. They were using boots as pillows.

We spoke to a man from Eritrea who escaped about 2 years ago. The program had arranged this for us, and he met us at the park. He was featured on the cover of a magazine in Israel, Eretz Acheret ("a different country"--the magazine article is about South Tel Aviv, which is a whole other country from what most Israelis know and love). He told us of his journey through Sudan and the Sinai. He was lucky to not be kidnapped and held for ransom by Bedouins. He told us that in Eritrea, he's not allowed to express his political opinions. He risked his life time and again to come to Israel, where he has no working permit, no official status. Now he works in a hotel. He's one of the lucky ones.

Israel only has an immigration policy for Jews. There is literally no immigration policy whatsoever for non-Jews.

After this, we spent the next hour and a half in a nearly abandoned, dark hallway of the Central Bus Station unpacking what we had seen that day. My roommate and dear friend is making alliyah this coming year. She went on Nativ a few years after I did and she has decided to come to Israel as a lone soldier. She grew up attending a socialist Zionist summer camp. She is one of the smartest people I know, and she loves Israel with everything that she is. But Thursday tested her faith and her love. She broke down in that horrible hallway of the bus station. She said that she finally saw what people were talking about when they equated Zionism with racism. She said that she couldn't believe that people were living this way in this beautiful country.

Her pain was my pain. This was the hardest moment of the entire trip.

Nothing much was resolved, but the schedule for the day was over, and we were let out into the wild of South Tel Aviv. Our first independent action of the day was to get on a bus headed to North Tel Aviv, the White City.

It took us a lot of time to wind down from what we had experienced. We powwowed over dinner at a lovely Italian place by the Carmelit market. Our critiques and our commitments were intertwined. We agreed in a general sense that what we had seen that day would inspire us to action. Either we would take the opposite route of the Uruguayan goddess and combat these issues in our own home country, or we would commit to returning to Israel in some capacity to be part of a sustainable change to help here. We shopped a bit and met up with friends. After a bit of walking and waiting, we hopped on a bus to take us to Herzliya, where we would stay for the next 48 hours.

We were welcomed with open arms by one of the founding families of Herzliya. We stayed in a gorgeous house in a perfect neighborhood. There was a stocked refrigerator and air conditioning and even a mommy ready and waiting to help us with anything we needed.

The next day, I went into Tel Aviv again with Ariel to check out the shuk, stroll through Nachalat Binyamin (an artist's market), walk on the beach, and shop on Dizengoff. We watched beautiful people walk the streets in skimpy bathing suits. Couples kissed passionately on sidewalks. Music and the faint, sweet smell of hash drifted in and out. People greeted each other with a secular cry of "Shabbat Shalom!" Shiny happy Jews holding hands.

When I told my mom my location, she texted me back: "What's up in the White City!?" She had no idea what that statement would mean for me; it affirmed my position in Israeli society and reminded me of the inhabitants of the Black City, just a short city bus ride south of where I was eating falafel and taking in the sites and sounds of the lively White City.

Our Shabbat in Herzliya was magical...we had a delicious dinner at home, got dolled up and crashed a birthday party, hung out at an American sports bar with live music, and went to a nearby club. The club was our taste of diversity for the evening: there was a wide variety of colors and sexualities represented there. A friendly (probably) Ethiopian (definitely) lesbian woman made sure I didn't forget that.

Saturday was pure luxury: sleeping in, playing at the beach, and an easy bus ride back home to Be'er Sheva. I needed the relaxation, but every time I thought about "deserving a break" I was nearly eaten alive by privilege guilt.


Tonight on my run, I thought about the picture on the magazine of this man we met in Levinsky Park, and I thought about the first time I had ever heard the phrase "Eretz Acheret:" it was in the summer of 2008, my first trip to Israel. My favorite staff member taught us all how to sing a beautiful song:

אין לי ארץ אחרת 
גם אם אדמתי בוערת 
רק מילה בעברית חודרת 
אל עורקיי, אל נשמתי 
בגוף כואב, בלב רעב 
כאן הוא ביתי 

לא אשתוק, כי ארצי 
שינתה את פניה 
לא אוותר לה, 
להזכיר לה, 
ואשיר כאן באוזניה 
עד שתפקח את עיניה 

I have no other country
even if my land is aflame
Just a word in Hebrew
pierces my veins and my soul - 
With a painful body, with a hungry heart,
Here is my home.

I will not stay silent 
because my country changed her face

I will not give up reminding her 
And sing in her ears 
until she will open her eyes

The words and melody of this song came back to me, though I haven't thought about this song in years. In 2008, I didn't "agree" with this song. I have another country. It's called America.

As of today, five years later, I have spent three summers and one school year in Israel. I have learned to love this country in ways I never thought it was possible to love a country. I have also struggled deeply with the problems here. I have defended Israel and I have been painfully disappointed by Israel. My experiences are layered like a tel--a hill created by many generations of people living and rebuilding on the same spot. Each new visit adds on top of the old ones, pushing them deeper into the ground but not erasing them. It takes some disturbance or digging to bring these old feelings and memories to the surface, but it's all still there. My 17 year old self is walking the streets of Jerusalem just as my 22 year old present self is crying on the floor of the South Tel Aviv central bus station, just as my 19 year old self is taking a shower in a moldy bathroom in Yerucham. 

America is my country, that is certain. I am excited to be returning there for so many reasons. But through the pain and the confusion, I feel a passionate love for this land, this homeland. A word of Hebrew heard on the street in New York City pierces my soul. With a painful body and a hungry heart, here is my home.

"...It is a dual relationship: the reality and the dream. But nevertheless, I am happy at the contrast." 
(Nitzan Horowitz, Eretz Acheret, vol. 24)

Broken Hearted in Be'er Sheva

I went in to volunteering an hour early today, so I was sitting alone at the bus stop. An older man walked by and stopped to ask me if everything was all right. I felt fine, but my face must have looked somber or distressed. I thanked him and assured him I was all right.

This is not the first time that a random stranger has expressed concern about my well being while I waited at a bus stop in Israel. It happened for the first time at the Be'er Sheva bus station three years ago. It is one of the more touching aspects of Israeli society.

That was where the touching aspects ended today, however. I waited for the bus for about a half hour, and the whole time, there were a few boys climbing on top of the little bus stop structure, making a ruckus and frightening me.

The reality of the place hit me as I watched the world pass by from the bus window. The apartment buildings here are raised, so as to let air circulate underneath. People congregate under the buildings sometimes. Today I saw an old woman sitting alone there, her walker set out in front of her. She was just gazing ahead. I have no idea if she was content or if she was lonely. I have no idea about her life whatsoever. But that image cut through me.

I even had a thought that the women at the shelter where I work are happier than that woman, because they have things to do and people to hang out with them. And then I felt guilty about trying to put an order on sadness, or trying to organize what's worse and what's better.

The whole horrible reality of everything hit me today. During my research on women's shelters in the US, I found a shelter that has kennel services on site. "Nearly half of the women entering the shelter say their pets have been threatened, injured, or killed by their abusive partner." Somehow, I had been putting information into boxes in my mind and making sense of domestic abuse, however difficult that was. Women can walk out, they can call hotlines, they can come to shelters. But when I thought about the animals, I hit a wall. I couldn't fit this into a box. I couldn't make sense out of the cruelty.

Last night, the volunteers from the women's shelter went to a pub with our volunteer coordinator, a 28 year old angel on earth, Shiran. We had maintained distance at the shelter and it was important to everyone to break down some barriers so we could connect on a more personal level. After gossiping a bit, exposing everyone's love lives, and battling an enormous caterpillar, the conversation turned to politics. Shiran is very left wing. She absolutely hated the army, where she served as a sort of social worker for soldiers (she had to do house visits to determine financial need and she visited the homes of some very poor, very disadvantaged people). She spoke openly about her opinions about the army in general, how wrong it is that the army is glorified and how terrible it is to make 18 year olds guard borders and jump out of planes, and that the army is not a great equalizer, because the rich Ashkenazi (white) Jews enter certain elite units, and everyone else goes into other units. And she spoke about racism in Israeli society, and how she views Zionism as being connected inextricably with racism.

I had always been so proud to call myself a Zionist, but I had never heard Zionism described like this. She told us gently and without a tone of debate, she was just expressing her own opinion and telling us about her personal experiences. I really valued this conversation because I realized I had mostly come into contact with right wing, privileged Israelis.

Shiran told us that when she was a senior in high school, one of her teachers was killed as a result of the Second Intifada. Instead of becoming vengeful and right wing in response, she went in the other direction. She felt that people said meaningless things to her for comfort ("Everything happens for a reason," and, "Only the best die young," and other silly things that don't respect the trauma or depth of this death). And she began to see systematic oppression and racism in Israeli society.

In no way is this post a declaration of "anti Israel" sentiments (I still consider myself a Zionist, even though I have a deeper understanding of what that term means to some people now). Rather, it is a declaration of reality. In some ways, it is a submission. I have known that these issues exist in Israeli society but I have chosen to not give them the weight they deserve. Today, I cannot ignore them any longer.

I am in a safe place this summer in terms of my relationship with Israel. I have my feet on the ground here, and I know that the country isn't going anywhere. I am not surrounded by potential detractors at school. I do not have to constantly be on the defensive. I do not have to counter every allegation of racism or terrorism with a bright, sunny statistic about democracy or technology or gay tourism. I have the space and the time to take in these criticisms, view the oppression with my own eyes, speak with Israeli Arabs, Druze, Ethiopians, and other populations that are discriminated against, and make my own conclusions.

These conclusions are still in the works. The process is painful, though, and I feel as though my heart has been laid open on an operating table and the surgeon has forgotten about me. I am exposed, I am open, I am vulnerable. I have not felt this way in a long time, and I know that ultimately, it is a good position to be in when forming opinions. But it's not easy. It feels the same as a broken heart.

Mandalas and Social Change

This is the second week I have been able to participate in yoga therapy at the women’s shelter where I’m volunteering. A yoga instructor comes in once a week and provides classes for the different age groups of children who reside there. Since I have been working closely with three 14 year old girls, they asked the instructor if my co-volunteer Ariel and I could join in the yoga class.

We start off the class by chanting “Shalooooohm” and taking deep breaths. The instructor is a super calm, super kind woman with great flexibility, strength, and a gentle touch. Sometimes the girls don’t take the yoga very seriously, or they are self conscious, or both. Sometimes they don’t want to do certain poses because they’re worried they won’t be able to, or because they’re 14 and everything is hard when you’re 14.

After about 45 minutes of yoga, the instructor pulls out some pieces of paper with circular patterns drawn on them and some markers and crayons. These are the materials for the mandalas.

There are three rules for the mandalas:

1. Do not compare your mandala to anyone else’s mandala
2. Do not speak when working on your mandala
3. Finish whatever you started--even if you make a mistake, find a way to make it into something beautiful. Don’t crumple up the paper and start over.

I asked the instructor why they color in mandalas. Mandalas have many different meanings and they can represent different things (thanks, Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mandala). This is what the instructor emphasized to me:

“Tibetan monks spend hours and even days creating intricate sand mandalas. These mandalas have many levels of meaning and are very beautiful. Then, in a ritual ceremony, the monks destroy their work, brushing the sand away or letting the wind carry it off. This represents the impermanence of all things. Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end.”

On my program, we talk a lot about sustainable social change. How can we make a lasting impact? How can we continue to help people after our six weeks in Be’er Sheva are up? How can we bring this home to our own communities, and continue it? How can we empower people so they can then empower themselves? How can we teach a man to fish instead of just handing him something to eat?

Sometimes, though, sustainable change cannot be a reality. Families leave the shelter unexpectedly, before we are able to leave our mark. Six weeks flies by and we are on the move before we can see the impact of our work. We are interacting with people with problems outside the scope of our ability and training, and we must leave it to the social workers and the counselors, and hope that our simple act of loving them will matter in the long run.

The mandala reminds us that it is still worth it.

It is worth it to create something beautiful. To work hard, very hard, to do something. Even if that something will be carried off by the wind or destroyed in a brief moment. Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And that’s okay. 

Since making that first mandala, I am not so disheartened. When we were weeding a community garden last night, I was not sad that the weeds would grow back by next week. When we baked cookies with the girls at the shelter, I was not sad that they might not remember how fun it was later, on a rainy day. When I gave the girls encouraging words, I didn’t worry that they might not remember it when they’re older, when it’s time for them to stand up for themselves and believe in themselves.

Because the garden looked beautiful last night.

And we laughed so hard and shrieked with delight when the cookie batter flew everywhere.

And for that moment in time, the girls know they are smart and that they matter.

My legacy will be that I leave no legacy. I won’t know if I mattered. Sustainable social change may or may not happen, and it may or may not have something to do with me. And that’s okay.

Another good informational website on sand mandalas: http://www.yowangdu.com/tibetan-buddhism/sand-mandalas.html

A Few Good Men

While I was doing research at the women's shelter today, the two Arab children I had been working with last week left with their mother. They went to their aunt's house, but really we don't know. The social workers will follow up briefly, and then they will be gone. I didn't get to say goodbye. I saw the girl in the morning and I just said "what's up" in Arabic, and that was the last time I will ever see her. This was a painful reminder of what it means to work in a shelter.

This influenced the rest of my day at the shelter. There is a boy who is the son of a Russian gymnast. His tumbling and dancing skills are incredible. And on top of that he looks like a 6 year old version of an ex boyfriend of mine (in an endearing, not creepy way). He is simply precious. I adore him, and he adores me. But I am not allowed to forget that he could be gone when I get back to work tomorrow. Every evening when I tell him I am leaving, he runs away instead of giving me a hug good bye. I call out to him: "I am returning tomorrow morning!" but he still won't say good bye.

It is difficult for me to work and invest myself in a place where there is so much uncertainty about the relationships I form there. But when I think of what it must be like to be a child growing up in that environment, my heart breaks. Certainty, trust, justice, predictability, routine, stability, friends, adventure--all things that contribute to a child's healthy development--are in very short supply when you spend part of your childhood in a women's shelter (or possibly in several women's shelters).

I was carrying this weight with me as I stood with my co-volunteers waiting for the taxis after work. It was still very hot and bright, and I felt weak against the pressures of the world. We had also been talking a lot about George Zimmerman's case, and I was starting to feel like the definition of "justice" I grew up with is not going to cut it anymore.

When our taxi finally came, I plopped down heavily into the front seat. The air conditioning revived me and I made a little small talk with the taxi driver. He spoke Hebrew slowly and deliberately so it was easy for me to understand him. He said, "your work is difficult, no?" and I said that yes, it was very difficult. He made some comments that made me understand that he had a real sense of empathy for what was going on inside the shelter. Then he said "The director is a very good woman. A strong woman." I asked how he knew the director.

"I am one of three taxi drivers that brings women to the shelter from all over Israel. I travel to Haifa, to Tel Aviv, anywhere, to pick up women at a moment's notice and bring them to safety at the shelter in Be'er Sheva. I have been doing this for many years."

We chatted a little more about the structure of my program and I thanked him for the ride. When we got out, I was struck by the awesome power of goodness.

This apparently gruff taxi driver was in fact part of a team of people who bring women in grave danger to the safety of our shelter in Be'er Sheva. His work must be done confidentially and without much appreciation. He is one of three taxi drivers without whom the shelter would not be able to operate as it does.

Maybe there is no justice. Maybe goodness will have to suffice.

Second Day of Work

My second day of work is not accurately described by this picture, but I work in a women’s shelter, so I’m not allowed to take photographs there. 

This picture shows just how dedicated I am to this volunteer placement, however, because it illustrates my misery during our 30 minute wait at the bus stop this morning. The entire block reeked of fish, bleach, and rotting garbage. My five fellow volunteers and I really thought we might asphyxiate, but our commitment to the Yachdav Women’s Shelter inspired us to wait it out… and we finally caught our bus. 

We had our first full day of volunteering today. I met with the shelter director to talk about the research I will be doing with Ariel, which will be a meta analysis of best practices in women’s shelters around the world. We will also be examining how women of different cultural backgrounds construct narratives of abuse. Then we will assist with creating promotional materials and fundraising plans so that the shelter can expand and help new women. The plans include creating a special space for Bedouin women seeking temporary shelter, apartments for women with adolescent children, and apartments for women who need to stay at the shelter for extended periods of time, over the typical 6-8 months. The expansion will cost about 3 million USD and we still need to raise approximately 1 million USD. 

Game on.

After the meeting and a lunch break, we began interacting with some women and children. 

I have been charged with the task of entertaining and mentoring two Arab tweens at the shelter, a boy and a girl. Today we spent the better part of an hour sitting on the playground, pointing at different objects and body parts, and trying to say their names in Hebrew, Arabic, and English. The children insisted that I attempt the Arabic accent when I used Arabic. I learned how to say ground, sky, tree, eyes, ears, mouth, shoes, sandals, helicopter, how are you (after much hand shaking and confusion), very good, and hello. 

This was the source of much delight for my tween friends. Every time I butchered a word, rolled my r’s for too long, nearly choked on a guttural “ch” sound, or just got completely and utterly confused, they would burst into unrestrained laughter, and so would I! I made a fool of myself, and then it was their turn to try English. The “th” sound was a challenge and “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” became an instant hit.

Just yesterday when we visited, the young girl I’m working with would watch us from different hiding places and run off when we tried to say hello to her. Today, we were rolling on the floor laughing together. It is amazing to see what can change in a day!

Flash News

There is flash news: the world is not fair. There is no justice ever.


These are the harsh words of the woman who manages the women's shelter in Be'er Sheva where I will be volunteering this summer. Today was our orientation and I, along with five other girls from my program and 10 Brazilian/Uruguayan 18 year olds, learned about abusive relationships, the role of the government, the role of NGO's, and the day to day operations of "our" specific shelter.

There are 14 women's shelters in Israel, two specifically for the ultra Orthodox, two specifically for Arab women, and the rest for any citizens of Israel. This shelter where I am working in Be'er Sheva is for all different types of Israelis and currently has an ultra Orthodox family, one or two Arab families, and a diverse group of Jewish families from Israel and Ethiopia. There are about 12 families total, which include the women and their children up to 14 years old.

We began our orientation with a discussion of the six types of abuse: physical, emotional, sexual, financial, religious, and immigration-based. It was horrible to hear about the different ways that people can be cruel to one another and coerce one another. During one particular anecdote that the manager was relaying to us, I asked why the man was not arrested by the police. She started to explain the various (reasonable) reasons why women would not go to the police with their concerns ("he just threatened to kill you?! That happens all the time of course...") and why arresting a man for a night or two might just make him more angry when he is freed.

I was becoming frustrated with this idea that although the husbands are inflicting harm on their wives, the wives are the ones who must seek shelter--put themselves out of harm's way by effectively putting themselves in prison--while the man gets to continue living his life freely.

The manager told me, "There is flash news: the world is not fair. There is no justice ever."

She explained that when she began working at the shelter when she was young, she was idealistic and believed in justice. But over the years she has become so pragmatic, and she does not believe in justice. She told us that the worst part of her job is that she has to turn down women all the time.

"There is a finite amount of staff, money, energy.." She called the phone calls she receives from social workers on behalf of abused women decisions made under fire. "Those phone calls are a certain kind of fire, of bullets, of bombs. 'That man just tried to cut her throat' the social worker will tell me. Everything in me wants to take in this woman and protect her. But if I don't have any more data on that woman--what diseases she has, if she herself is violent--or if I don't have the space in the shelter...I have to protect the 12 families already entrusted to my care.

"No justice. Just reality."


This was not easy for me to hear. My life revolves around the pursuit of justice and fairness. I thought, surely to save a life you could consolidate families two to a room, put up a screen, and get everyone to cozy up. Surely to save a life you could stretch your resources just a bit further. Surely to save a life you could look the other way when government regulations aren't being followed or an illegal immigrant is admitted.

But the answer is, you cannot. Setting those precedents would erode the shelter, would take away its government funding (which provides about 80% of the money for the shelter's operations), and would endanger the current residents.

Because of the manager's iron fist, the shelter today is a beautiful, well-run, positive environment. There is a lovely area for the children and many kids running around welcoming us and trying to get to know us. Each woman has her own room for herself and her children, and she cooks for her own family in a large communal kitchen. The dining room is spacious and organized. There is yoga, animal therapy, and gardening once a week for the children. There are as many social workers as there are residents, practically, and now with the volunteers, nearly as many volunteers as there are children.

The tour of the shelter was the most uplifting part of the day. People were excited to see us and the children especially were thrilled. I was glad to see that the facilities were in excellent shape. After our tour, we had a meeting to discuss our specific volunteer placements. In the mornings I will be writing grants and researching best practices of women's shelters around the world. In the afternoons I will be working with five 12-14 year olds doing fun activities. I can't wait to get started.