Tension in Tel Aviv.

Right now I am sitting in the most picturesque little café in Tel Aviv, just minutes away from the breezy, sunny beach where I plan to spend the afternoon. A short walk in either direction leads to markets overflowing with fresh fruit, nuts, and spices, beside endless tables of eclectic, handmade crafts. Young people fill the European-style streets and parks, enjoying the trendy atmosphere and bustling night scene. Last night my friend and I witnessed a gorgeous sunset on our way to a fancy restaurant to eat delicious seafood. Basically, this short, spontaneous spring break trip has felt like hanging out in paradise.

Maybe I should just allow myself to fully enjoy these couple days of escape from the usual stresses of life in Palestine. But of course, things aren't that simple. I am present in this beautiful seaside setting, but my mind keeps drifting back to what exists only an hour or so away in the West Bank. That place has beauty too--but it also has checkpoints, refugee camps, and a sort of heaviness that makes breathing so easily here feel foreign. The reality that these two places exist simultaneously, so close together, is almost impossible to fathom.

What is bothering me even more though is this knowledge in the back of my head about the relationship between these two places. In a diversity of ways, the life enjoyed here in Israel is at the expense of Palestinians. Inclusive in this statement, yet also beyond it, is the reality that the rich in this world often benefit, either directly or indirectly, from the suffering of the poor. Therefore, as an advocate for the Palestinian cause, and other efforts towards equality and justice, I feel compelled to ask a series of questions [which really shouldn't be surprising at this point].

Am I being true to myself and my personal convictions by coming here? Spending my money here? Is it hypocritical for me to actually quite like it here? To simply enjoy this environment without thinking about the consequences on anyone else? 

As I watch the sunset over the ocean, should I smile with gratitude at how magnificent it is, or feel solemn knowing that the majority of Palestinians have been completely cut off from this view? Or perhaps some combination of both?

What is with this sense of entitlement evident in phrases like "I just need a break from the West Bank for a little while" when so many others don't get that option? When Palestinians aren't allowed permits or visas to enjoy where I can go so freely? 

In general, who is being affected by the daily decisions I make? Do I care enough to make the harder choices, especially in light of the justification of self-pity? ["it's been a difficult day... Should I splurge on this thing I wouldn't usually buy, even if it breaks my boycott standard or is a bit too indulgent?"]

And what about the people around me [Israelis, the wealthy]? How should I feel about them? Is this anger I feel towards such apparent complicity justified? Or should I be a bit more understanding towards their way of life, myself feeling the enticement of blind comfort in this self-proclaimed "bubble"? Even if they are just somehow unaware, shouldn't they still be held accountable? And since I play many similar roles considering my position in the world, shouldn't I be held accountable? 

Goodness gracious. These voices almost never leave my head these days. These questions, and the way I answer them through my actions, leave me in endless tension.  

Maybe you'd tell me that I am overthinking this, that I shouldn't feel so responsible in regards to injustice, and maybe you'd have a point. After all, I am just one small person in a really big world, and I know there's not much of a difference I can make. But then again, I think I have learned that what allows things like the occupation to continue is actually a lot of small people making small decisions to see the world and live in it a certain way. Which must mean that the only way things will ever change is through a lot of small people, seeing differently and doing something about it.

The problem, my friends, is in all of us. But maybe the hope is in us too.