Entering the stretch zone in Luxembourg*
On the second morning of the ALF bloggers intercultural training, the Luxembourg abbey was turned into a casino: we were seated arbitrarily at 5 tables, and Xavi, our non formal education trainer, taught us to play “Barga” (which is Whist with a twist). After every round, the winner moves to the right table and the loser to the left, thus two people are replaced at each table. Oh, and we aren’t allowed to talk during the entire game. What we didn’t know is that every table got slightly different game rules that were taken from the table when the game officially started.
Identity politics, decaffeinated
I lost the first round, and as I walked towards my new table, I realized the game must be a metaphor for immigration to a new culture. Indeed, this new table culture was weird. When they claimed I won, I laughed and showed them they’re crazy in sign language but I was happy to go back to my original table. I was zigzagging between winning and losing so I visited only two tables besides my original and the vibe there was weird. I played calmly without even understanding the rules by which I was playing, letting others lead and assuming different interpretations in different tables. When I got back to my table I was received with hugs and laughs and I was so happy to come back “home” I was almost sorry I was winning again.
At the end of the game we broke the silence and broke down the metaphor. We perceive ourselves as liberal and global but “Barga” proved we all fall into our unaware cultural stereotypes when we encounter uncertainty. I was the classical Jew, turning her home-table into a happy sticky Jewish family, focused on the community rather than the laws, and although I seemed assimilated at other tables I was clueless, I wasn’t having fun and I couldn’t wait to be back home. Deep down I think I even believed my table had the real and right understanding of the rules (the chosen table? Mmmm).
Another blogger from my original table, Greek Orthodox from Cyprus, took upon himself the missionary/imperialist role and spread our rules to all other tables, confusing players even further. The “world” gave in to him until he met resistance from the Palestinian blogger, who was sick and tired of being confused. Later she confessed no table felt like home and she was angry and felt deceived by everyone. I felt great compassion to this “trust no one” refugee consciousness that we share in our cultural genes, although we employed different strategies to deal with it.
The Lebanese blogger confessed the game felt like Lebanon for her, when every group plays by different rules and the only way to survive is to form alliances. She indeed formed an alliance with the British blogger and they were showing drawings to newcomers socializing them to the rules they’ve established. Finally, kudos to the Egyptians that were adapting quickly everywhere, having fun and winning, bringing back new integrated methods from other tables.
Tolerance means stepping outta the comfort zone
We went back to our study room, confused and troubled, to get some theoretical explanation for what we felt. Xavi explained people do everything to get back to their comfort zone but real learning occurs in the stretch zone only. However, if you stretch too much you’re in the panic zone, where anger, hysteria and frustration kill learning again. When one is able to endure the stretch zone, growth happens and one’s comfort zone expands.
When we encounter Otherness most of us become ethnocentric. Even if it doesn’t normally get to the point we deny the Other’s humanity or defend ourselves from their danger, we all minimize. Minimizing the Other is a sublime daily ethnocentrism in which we come with good intentions (or just politically correctness) to respect others but we are pretty fixed on our views and think their interpretations are lesser than ours. Xavi asked us to entertain the idea we are rarely in real dialog. We rarely listen when we are truly open to accept and integrate.
This intensive training actually provided numerous opportunities for me to dive into the stretch zone. The farther I’ve stretched was probably the culture night, as I had to witness the Palestinian blogger present Jerusalem, Jaffa and Nazareth which to me form part of Israel. When she joked even Jesus was Palestinian, I couldn’t find my sense of humor to remark that Mel Gibson must stand corrected and do another movie to get off our Jewish backs.
Honestly, I didn’t expect I’d be bothered but this training proved the Jewish gene comes uninvited; channeling through me that ancient fear of being homeless again, losing that little piece of land that comes without the peace of mind anyway, after my ancestors paid such a heavy price for it. My voice was still a bit shaky as immediately afterward I started my presentation, thanking God I went for stuff like Bamba snack, Ilan Ramon and the Israeli high tech creativity rather than retreating into the state city of Tel Aviv, my comfort zone.
Being strong means becoming comfortable with the stretch zone
That night I cried. I couldn’t’ sleep and I wasn’t even sure why. After two days of reflection I think I can offer some explanation, though. I cried because the stretch zone isn’t necessarily a fun place to be in and growth is a painful process. I cried because both our people are nomads nobody wanted around, and instead of embracing each other we duplicate and mirror the exclusion.
I cried because we fail to break the magic cycle of victim/aggressor, celebrating the panic zone or rushing back to the comfort zone at any cost. The Israeli public opinion is too edgy to be stretched these past few years; it looks away and pretends it didn’t notice the price paid for restoring comfort zone ASAP.
I cried because I am constantly attempting to ground myself within a vortex, when half of my community consists of dark souls, disgusting racist morons, and the other half consists of amazing, sensitive and creative people who bring so much light and knowledge to the universe, who can turn swamps into a heaven with a research institute beside it. And all and all, that’s all I got, that’s my home-table. I cried because the things I’m ashamed of and angry about in my country equal the things I’m in love with and proud of, and even if I resent my family I still love it and depend on it for my safety, like a tree can’t deny its roots.
On that culture night, the Palestinian blogger brought bracelets as give-aways with Palestine’s flag colors. I took one home because I feel uncomfortable to look at it, but every time I look at it I’m stretching out a bit, experiencing that little sting of real encounter with Otherness and the threat to the ego that comes with a competing frame for my reality.
And by looking at it I’m reminding myself that being strong isn’t about arrogance or defensive attack. It’s about taking deep breaths, feeling and containing the anger and anxiety and taking baby steps towards feeling more comfortable with that.
* I find this title ironic since Luxembourg is peaceful to the point it puts you to sleep.
