A Problem with My Privilege

Sometimes, I am embarrassed to have a US passport.

Don’t get me wrong—I am thankful for the rights, freedoms, and responsibilities that accompany my US citizenship. I am grateful to live in a country where my voice is valued, I can move freely, express my opinion, advocate for myself and others, and to pursue my dreams and ambitions.

But…

Who am I to hold in my hand this little blue book that permits me to travel freely? To move through the checkpoints without a second glance or to be granted the highest level of security—simply because I’m American?

I get embarrassed to have this beautiful book whose pages tell the stories of my travels through the stamps and visas that fill its pages—Norway, Iceland, Denmark, Israel, England, Germany, France, Scotland. I am embarrassed because this little blessing, something that cost a small amount of paperwork and money, is a status symbol. A very public expression that my country is free—and therefore, so am I.

My passport is always with me. As an American abroad, it’s an at-all-times essential. At any given moment, I can tell you where it is, reach for it, hand it to you, and wait without anxiety about whether or not I will be able to carry on my way. And I am thankful for that.

I am living in a place where most people do not have passports. Living in the West Bank, I am a 7 mile bus ride to Jerusalem; yet my friends, my host family, and the majority of my community here is not permitted to go into Jerusalem. Why? Because they don’t have permission. Why don’t they have permission? Because they are Palestinian. Once or twice a year, some people are granted permits that last about a month to go and visit the holy sites—to pray or to worship at places that were previously (within the past decade) open and accessible to them. And even then, they must pass through checkpoints, where they are interrogated, humiliated, and dehumanized by soldiers before they will ever be allowed to enter Israel, land that used to be their home. It’s not right, fair, or just in any way.

I am grateful for all the rights and privileges that come from being a US citizen, for the ability to possess a passport and move from here to there….and really, anywhere my heart desires. But living in a place where so many people do not have the same privilege is humbling. Gut-wrenching. Heartbreaking. And so I am a little embarrassed to be holding my pretty blue passport as I go through the checkpoints, inadvertently advertising my freedoms.

And so I ask again: Who am I to have born in a free country? It’s certainly not because I’m a better person than anyone else. Why should I be able to move freely in the Holy Land as a foreigner while the natives of this land cannot even travel the short distance to visit what they consider to be the capital of their land? How is it that some people are born under Occupation, while others are born free? Why have I met relatively few challenges in my life, when children much younger than me struggle world-wide to meet their basic needs? Why do innocent people have to suffer? When will this conflict come to an end? Why should I have the right to carry a passport?

I am having a problem with my own privilege. And it’s a big problem, you see, because even while I am appalled at the injustice in the world, I am still thankful for that passport, for my freedom, for the privileges that I have grown up in….without always recognizing myself as a person of great freedom.  I appreciate my passport & all that it symbolizes, but I’m realizing that along with my rights and freedoms, it has also become a reminder of the responsibility that I hold.

As a passport carrying, well-traveled, educated, young American woman, I have an obligation to tell the story of those whose voices are muffled or stifled by biased media. I can-and must-tell of the hospitality, resilience, hope, and great faith that defines the life of the Palestinian people. These are the people who have loved me, welcomed me, befriended me, and never once judged me for coming from a country that continues to oppress them. What an experience of grace this is.

I do not know why I was born in a free country; I do not know how or why I have been so abundantly blessed in a world where injustice rages rampant. I do know, however, that I cannot keep silent. I cannot close my eyes to the injustices that are present in our world. I must speak, telling stories, sharing experiences, and advocating for those that cannot advocate for themselves.

And so, every day when I check my purse to make sure I have my passport, I will be thankful. I will be mindful of the gift it is. And I will be motivated to speak.