Touch of Typhoid

July 12th, 2017 by Chinyere Nwankudu

Part One:


I’m sick. It started a week ago.

When I woke up the first day, I felt fine. I would clear my throat every couple of minutes without noticing I was doing it.

An infinitesimal scratch. A feather-like caress. I thought, perhaps, it was just a particularly stuffy day.

By midnight, my throat felt as if moss were growing inside it.

I sat in front of my friend’s heater — a small, all-metal appliance with exposed rods — and felt my skin pucker. The heat was not the type that lovingly enveloped you. It was not a heater that made you feel better about being alone in a freezing apartment with indecisive Wi-Fi, nor was it one that helped you come to terms with the fact you were becoming ill.

With this heater, you fell — kicking and screaming — into the heat. It felt like a miniature sun.

I thought, if I could bear it, I would arise less sick.

When I got home I took a pill with passionfruit juice. I felt a little better so I went to sleep.

Morning came, and I opened my eyes to the sound of my alarm. I was sick.

Now, everyone in the house is sick, and not in an endearing way.

There are no teddy bears here. No chicken noodle soup. No button-red noses.

We sneeze like we’re trying to turn ourselves inside out.

And the snot is thick. It gushes out of our noses like Pillsbury biscuit dough bursts out of the container. We have to leave our classes to cough our throats raw. Today, as we sat in front of the heater, one of my housemates showed me a rash on her chest. She said, “I think I have a touch of typhoid.”

I wonder, does a society notice when it’s getting sick?

When neighbors start rubbing their candy-colored eyes, who notices when they turn red?

When police officers clear their throats as a couple passes on the way to the park, do the lovers begin to feel a tickle in their own?

Do mouths dry out before or after native languages have been banned?

When children complain about the dogs barking ferociously at night, does the whole neighborhood lose sleep?

In Parliament, do papers slide a little less smoothly into filing cabinets? Does the microphone keep cutting off?

Before the churches become clinics, does anyone wonder why people are laying in the pews? (And does a single person question the splatters of wine, or ask why they’re trialing down the aisle?)

Does anyone take measures against becoming ill?

Before I left the United States, my mom packed me a mini-pharmacy. I have antibiotics, Naproxen, Mucinex, nasal spray, and Tylenol. But a country can’t reach into a bathroom cabinet.

Instead, are house deeds moved to a safe? Is a shaman somewhere cutting herbs, slaughtering sheep?

Do elders gather around fires to talk?

If so, South Africa and I are the same. Curled up pathetically in front of the heat, convinced the burning outside will stop the burning within.


Part Two:

The oversimplification of illnesses leads to incorrect diagnoses.

I told my friend Dylan that, contrary to what most women say, period cramps do not feel like being stabbed. They feel as if someone has carved a cylindrical hole in your uterus through which a small snake is writhing about, trying to escape.

I told my history class that, contrary to what South African news sources say, the problem with Bushbuckridge, Mpumalanga is not that hundreds of residents share a single water tap.

The aching of it is that the area has been ignored by the South African government since the dismantling of Apartheid, an event that placed the town at the edge of a province 300 km away from the nearest major city.

The bleeding of it is that an eleven-year-old boy must wait hours to collect water for his disabled mom, in addition to walking two kilometers to school every day.

The nausea of it is that town inhabitants are exposed to violent muggings as they queue for water, solely because criminals know they have no other choice but to come.

When I pulled down my pants on Saturday morning and saw the catastrophe that awaited me I said, “Oh no.”

But at least I had the water to wash my hands.

Initial thoughts and freak out moments

August 27th, 2016 by Punam Mulji

Blogs are a something of a foreign concept to me. I don’t read many of them, and I certainly have never written one. I hope that acts as a kind of disclaimer for what you are about to read. This is going to be a steady stream of my thoughts, opinions and observations over my journeys through Bolivia, Guatemala, India and Haiti.

Day 1: July 31 10:55pm-11:00pm

Here I am sitting on American Airlines plane on the tarmac in Miami after listening to the flight attendant go over the seemingly never changing safety procedures. I am freaking out to put it plainly. It has finally hit me ,after days of incredible indifference to the fact that I am leaving for five months. All alone. Because I am nervous, I am contemplating strange things, like what being ‘alone’ means to me. I generally enjoy some sense of solitary when I am around large numbers of people, like at school or when I am on a plane. However this time, I am yearning for anything and anyone as I sit in my empty 3 seat row. Now don’t get me wrong, I am really happy, ecstatic actually, that I have a whole row to myself so I can lie down and sleep for the next 6 hours. However, part of me is questioning, “What are you thinking?! What the actual is wrong with you?! You’re a closet homebody and you want to leave for a month alone in Bolivia and Guatemala? You can’t even speak Spanish beyond a survival level. Oh my gosh.” A brief announcement has just sounded over the intercom that we will be leaving soon…I continue to question my sanity until I finally get into the air and am forced to realize that there is no going back. Thus, a more positive pep talk is ensuing as we are now racing down the runway. It is surprisingly calming me down. True to form, I am ready at the last possible second… We are now in the air and I am finally starting what I am sure is going to be a life changing month.

“Daddy, what’s Palestine?”

January 12th, 2016 by Phifer Nicholson

Those were her words that rang through the chilly air. Her father’s eyes and mine met, and a small, strained smile appeared on his face. “Well…that’s a bit complicated.” Her young voice pressed onward, “But daddy, are we in another country? Did we cross a border?” “Well, yes, yes we did. Did you not see that we traveled through a wall?”

On Christmas Eve, I had the opportunity to travel to the place where the Christian story began, that little town of Bethlehem so oft sung of. It is now a city, built up and bustling, but hollow. Buildings lie half-finished. Tensions flare up regularly near the Aida Refugee Camp. A weight presses down on all that live here, a similar weight that I see in each of my Palestinian friends.

This weight could be felt in the play called New Middle East I saw in October at a local theatre in Haifa. In the play, a masked man is in the process of burying a woman alive (with real dirt). The entire dialogue is centered on her plaintive cries to know exactly WHY she is being subjected to such a terrible fate. Satisfying answers are never uncovered, and a tragic story of love lost and suffocating pressure rules the day.

That same night, after getting some drinks and food, our motley crew made up of five loud Americans and one Palestinian made its way back to campus. There are security checks at each entrance to the dorms, and we opened the door and began to proceed through as usual. People are almost never stopped. I think in my entire three months at the university, I was told to show my ID two or three times, and only then when the guard was new. However, he told my Arab friend to stop and show her ID. Only her.

This weight can is seen in the scar that marks another close friend’s arm, a scar left by a sound grenade that detonated at her feet. She acquired it a couple years ago at a protest, which was pushing back against the Prawer Plan, a bill that (if passed) would allow for the depopulation and destruction of thirty-five Bedouin villages in the Negev Desert. Dubbed, “Anger Day,” this protest comprised thousands of people, from teens to Knesset members. Obviously, it ended in violence.

I was shocked by it when I saw a monument in a neighborhood not far from the university. On it were emblazoned the words, “Haifa Liberation 1948.” What is disturbing about this phrase is that what is cast as “liberation” to one group is another’s el-Nakba (catastrophe). This disparity in experience and historical lens is staggering.

And, perhaps most plainly, this weight can be tangibly tasted when confronted with The Wall. It is a short walk from where I am currently staying in Bethlehem, standing as stark reminder of the systemic separation that plagues this piece of dirt which I have begun to call “The Unholy Holy Land,” as a result of the, frankly, ungodly actions people perpetrate against each other in the name of God or any other myriad of religious or secular reasons. Graffiti marks The Wall’s surface, which artists from Banksy to unnamed locals have added to the collective voice calling for justice.

I had the unique privilege of spending the summer in the Galilee on an archaeological dig with Dr. Byron McCane of Wofford’s religion department. He is a man that I highly respect and admire, and I am unendingly thankful for his influence and wisdom concerning this land and the many problems that perniciously press on the people, both Jews and Palestinians, that live here. I will never forget his advice as we asked him about how to relate our experiences to people at home that possess stalwart opinions about Israel/Palestine. “Sometimes all I can say is, ‘I have been there, and it is not that simple.’”

It is not simple. The brokenness runs deep. So deep that it takes my breath away at times. People on both sides of the conflict have committed heinous acts of violence, from the burning of a Palestinian family (with their newborn son) alive last summer, to the random stabbings of Jewish civilians going about their daily lives that has characterized life here for the past few months. I could list example upon example of atrocities committed by both sides, all which point to a sobering reality: unless changes are made, the people here will continue to suffer.

However, Alhamdulillah (thanks be to God), the story does not end here. I have seen with my own eyes the beauty that still lives in this divided land.

I have seen the lasting ripples that the faith of Kamil and Agnes Shehade, and their life’s work, House of Grace in Haifa, has left on the community at large. Their vision of working to selflessly serve ex-convicts (who are also recovering addicts) as an outpouring of their Christian faith’s mandate to serve the “least of these” has touched the lives of thousands, and given hope to the most hopeless individuals and families.

I see how the House of Grace plods on, faithfully working as the only halfway house for the Israeli Arab population (on request of the government), in the midst of Kamil’s death in 2000 from cancer, governmental threats to cut funding, and the ever-shaky political climate.

I see a Palestinian woman who grew up as a refugee as a result of the creation of the State of Israel who now refuses to pick sides, based on the belief that a “Pro-Israel” or “Pro-Palestine” stance necessarily excludes the other. Instead, she has chosen a path of “compassionate listening,” one that has helped her overcome deep-seated wounds and truly see the humanity behind each “side.”

It was tasted in our inaugural “Arab-American Thanksgiving,” in which the cuisines of the “East” and the “West” (phrases that I generally like to avoid, because they can insinuate a kind of irreconcilability, but for the sake of artistic flair, I will utilize here) met. Pita was defrosted and hummus olive oiled (yes, “olive oiled” is a verb now), pesto pasta with chicken was scarfed, and salata (Arab salad) added some balance to the carbs being consumed. Finally, it was topped off with what I have dubbed the “pecan loaf,” my failed attempt at baking a pie in a toaster oven that, surprisingly, turned out fairly well.

I have also seen this beauty, this hope, in one of my dearest friends here. She has sought out relationships with both internationals and Jews, seeking to share her story and heart with each of them. This quest has put her in places like local salsa dancing nights in Haifa, where she is (as far as I can tell) the only Palestinian present. It has led her to share personal and collective stories and histories about this region with people from every place and walk of life, being faithful to her cause and her people, yet open to listen and answer each difficult question with patience and conviction.

I believe that this kind of embodied engagement, undergirded by humility, is desperately needed in this place at this time. The barriers that exist here are insane: be it from language and cultural differences to the governmental mandatory military service from which Arabs (except Druze, which introduces many new nuances) are exempt. Furthermore, media creates fissures ideologically, and dangerous political discourses heap dry wood and gasoline onto already-blazing flames.

The people here, both Jews and Arabs, do carry a weight. I have experienced a bit of this reality first-hand. It is not pleasant, but it has changed me…for the better, I hope. The lives that have invited me in have taken a piece of my heart, and I have grown to truly love individuals and groups on both sides of this murky conflict.

Therefore, my answer to the questions, “What is Palestine?” or “What is Israel?” is this: people. People with hearts, hopes, dreams, fears, and yearnings for peace. People who enjoy good food, beautiful music, and the company of those they love as much as any of us. People who desire for a safe environment, a home, in which they do not have to worry about rocks or knives when they send their children to school.

I could go on and on. However, I will close with this. Which people do you and I need to strive to see as this: simply people? What kind of change could come if we could look in the eyes of the “other,” be they brown or blue, and see a mirror image of ourselves?

This world will not change in an instant. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict will not be solved in a single moment. However, I posit that something beautiful could come to pass. Let us compose a song. Let us paint a picture. Let us write a story. Let us create beauty, and, hopefully, thereby walk into new measures of shalom, salaam, and peace together.











November 12th, 2015 by Phifer Nicholson

A couple weeks ago I was walking back to my room from the Moadon (the dormitory central location) when I was stopped by a peculiar sound. Guitar plucking and strumming reverberated across the stone ground, the soothing vibrato of a violin danced through the air, and a young woman’s voice echoed under the vast night sky.

I froze, and an inner dialogue began:

“Will I disturb them? Well, I was already going to bed anyways….it is about that time…”

A step forward to descend the stairs to my room.

“But…it’s so beautiful. Who are these people?”

After a few seconds, I decided to follow the beautiful voice. When in Israel, right?

Those of you who know me (and maybe even read my last blog) can affirm that I love music. I find much joy in the simplicity and complexity of song: be it in the howling voice of Kurt Cobain, the lyrical mastery of the Avett Brothers, the spiritual honesty and exploration of Josh Garrels, the drums of Dave Grohl, or the harp of Sarah Pagé.

Hans Zimmer’s masterful soundtrack carries us through the emptiness of space and its harrowing realities in the film Interstellar. Music brings laughter and joy as one sees Drake Michaelson dancing up and down the streets of Istanbul to “Uptown Funk” (and may even inspire you to join). It signifies place and occasion: there are songs to be sung at joyous occasions such as weddings, and sorrowful moments of deep heartbreak, loss, and grief. It channels our inner emotions and fuels desire, buries us in pain and lifts us to the heavens.

Song also possesses another powerful quality, which brings us back to the story:

It turned out that the voice and violin belonged to my friend Arielle, who is from New York, and is studying at Davidson College. The strumming fingers belonged to Aehab, who is studying for a Masters in Geography, and Amicam, a PhD candidate in the field of marine biology. They graciously allowed for me to stay and listen, and revel in the notes they were creating.

I sat for about 15 minutes listening to them jam, and through conversation, learned that we shared similar musical taste. I believe it was then that Aehab began strumming the chords for the song, “Where Did You Sleep Last Night,” which was one of the last songs performed by Nirvana a few short months before Kurt Cobain took his own life. I began to sing along. And, lo and behold, I am now the male singer in a newly formed band.


We practice often, and are planning a performance sometime late November or early December. Let’s just say that I laugh to myself a bit when I reflect on this new opportunity. There is no way that I could have ever thought this would happen, let alone in Haifa, Israel, of all places!

This is a completely new experience for me. However, I can liken it to a football team: something with which I am well acquainted. Each member is dependent on each other—the drummer must hold the rhythm, the guitarist and bassist form the musical structure, and the singers work together to make mere words melodious.

If one falters, the music ceases. If one seeks to steal the spotlight, the others are harmed.

And, if there is any intra-band conflict, the chemistry is hindered, relationships flounder, and friendships can sour. Any potential of making music would be killed by failed fellowship. This is the case even if the members are world-class musicians.

Relationship, therefore, is the key to beauty.

Oh, and I forgot to mention one thing: we are a pretty mixed bunch. Amicam, the lead guitarist/bassist, is an Israeli Jew. Doron, our drummer, is the same. Aehab, the rhythm guitarist, is Druze from a nearby village called Dalia. Arielle is from America, but is of Jewish and Filipino descent.

The only thing missing is just a touch of Minnesotan…don’t cha’ know?

I have found that music transcends all of these “differences.” Although we may have diverse tastes and preferences, we can come together under the banner of song and, in a sense, become one. One’s background truly doesn’t matter—what matters is if Aehab can nail the transition from guitar solo to rhythm on “Californication,” if Amicam can shred on “Comfortably Numb,” and if Arielle and I can perfect the harmony on “Creep.” A common goal inspires us. The task at hand unites us.

Music, therefore, possesses the power to unify.

Furthermore, the most beautiful songs possess harmony. That is, different notes that come together to compliment each other. Difference doesn’t have to mean dissonance. In fact, it can create something more attractive than anything “sameness” could produce alone.

I may be beginning to sound like a broken record, but I must reiterate that one of the themes of my time abroad has been a heightened understanding of the depth of the brokenness that exists in this world. It is not just in the Middle Eastern problem. It is a people problem. Wherever there are humans, there is suffering and sadness, with it being spread and maintained through inequality, prejudice, greed, racism, classism, selfishness, fear…I think you get the picture.

However, in the midst of these realities, there exists music. Lyrics dance off the dirt and stones, communicating joy and grief, love and hate, peace and fear.

I also must mention that among the backgrounds and stories that are present in our unique group, there is one glaring omission: that of the Palestinian narrative.

Therefore, I am not claiming that this particular group of identities is serving to solve a part of the ongoing conflict here, the reason being precisely that there is no representation of this unbelievably important minority community. In my short time here, I have had the distinct privilege of making many Palestinian friends, and will dedicate my next blog to reflect on their situation, their stories, and the immense personal joy it has been to forge these relationships. There is much music to be heard there, and I look forward to the sharing it with you.

I am suggesting this, however: maybe we would do well by learning to sing together. Or, just quiet down enough to hear the songs that reverberate off the forgiveness shown to Dylann Roof by the families of the dead faithful, the sacrificial service of Dr. Tom Catena in the Nuba Mountains of Sudan, the continuous impact of my friend Jeremiah Tate’s life well lived on the Wofford community and world at large, and even the band one can hear practicing on Mount Carmel in Haifa, Israel.











October 12th, 2015 by Phifer Nicholson

I met many in Turkey. I believe that we humans live in and through stories, and so here are a few pieces from my time in the beautiful city of Istanbul.

There is a priest in Turkey who is swamped by his duties to the church and the school in which he teaches. Nevertheless, he managed to connect me to seven of my nine interviews, all free of any charge or gift. Furthermore, he opened his home to me, checked in on me throughout my stay, and shared much of his heart and wisdom with me, which is one of the most precious gifts one can give.

There is also a hospitable Turkish man who dreams of living in Costa Rica, in order to (1) get away from the current government and (2) because he plain loves traveling the world and experiencing people. On my last night in the city, he gave me the necklace he had around his neck. I am wearing it now as I write.

One can also find a Kurdish man whom I met early on during my stay, whose favorite phrase is “rock n’ roll,” and spent much time with me swimming in the Sea of Marmara and wandering around the city. He was arrested at the age of seventeen for uttering his mother tongue outside of his school. During this two-month ordeal, he spent ten days being tortured with electric shocks. He endured all this unjust suffering as a result of simply speaking the Kurdish language, which was banned in Turkey until 1991. Now, he has forgiven the government, citing the forgiveness mandated and made possible by his Christian faith.

In the Taksim area, there lives a Syrian man who fled Damascus at the end of 2013, a month after his wife emigrated to San Antonio because she finally received a visa. He hasn’t seen her since them. Almost two years. After major disappointment in Jordan, he is praying that he will receive a visa soon while he works as a translator in Turkey. He refuses to allow this circumstance to stifle him; instead he is working to serve his fellow Syrian refugees that number about 330,000 in Istanbul.

What is the common bond between each of these unique backgrounds and stories, and my relationship to them? Friendship. These men, along with many other men and women I met throughout my time in Istanbul, I now count as friends. Instead of saying “goodbye,” I prefer to say; “I’ll see you when I see you.” I do not know if I will meet some of these people again in this life. However, I deeply desire to, and am praying this hope will be made reality one day.

I will treasure all of these friendships and the stories I heard from them and created with them as long as I love, and I look forward to the day (hopefully) where we will meet again.

They also share another bond: their nation was recently attacked. On Saturday, two bombs exploded at the central train station in Ankara, the capital city of Turkey, which is mere hours away from Istanbul by train. This horrific event took place during a peaceful protest by the Peoples Democratic Party (HDP), a pro-Kurdish political party. As it stands now, almost 100 people were killed and 245 people wounded. 48 of those survivors are currently in critical condition.

My Kurdish friend lost fifteen people from his hometown, three of which he knew personally. The priest reached out to me Saturday morning with these words; “You see what goes on…anywhere…anytime…anyone…no safety.” Even as I repeat them, tears are welling up in my eyes. These are my friends, and they have lost friends. They do not feel safe in their home, and this is an experience that is largely alien to me.

This is a hard world. It is a broken world. And, this brokenness runs deep. It is everywhere: be it in the civil war in Syria, the race riots in America spurred on by systemic racism, sex slavery that is that is driven by industries like pornography, bombings in Ankara, and the current violent clashes between Israelis and Palestinians in the Holy Land.

In the last ten days, just kilometers from where I am sitting right now, at least 27 Palestinians have been killed and approximately 1,900 injured. Furthermore, 4 Israelis have been killed along with at least 67 injured. All of these numbers stem from clashes in Jerusalem, the West Bank, and Gaza. Years of fighting back and forth, oppression, and separation have boiled over once again into open violence.

It is one thing to have these problems pop up in your news and another to experience limitation in travel, the necessity of bomb shelters, and the reality of such hate-filled violence that exists in the world. However, I think I ought to begin to get used to these contexts, for I believe that I may end up working in places like this long-term. This is a realization that has materialized more fully in my travels, and is one that ultimately excites me, but I look towards with a sober mind. All in all, I am safe and well here in Haifa, and my heart is in a very good place. I do not feel in danger, for I know I am right were I am supposed to be.

One of my favorite bands is called Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors, and I had the chance to see them live in Greenville with one of my best friends, Tom Bove, before I shipped out. About halfway through the concert, Drew Holcomb stopped the concert and talked a bit about the world we call home. His brother, he said, worked with an NGO in an African country. The depth of poverty and brokenness there deeply impacted Drew, and he made a statement along these lines, “Sometimes, when I look at the world, all I see is darkness, and that sometimes leads me to despair. However, I see music as my way of seeking to shoot ‘arrows of light’ into that darkness.”

Right now, I taste a tiny bit of that darkness through the experiences of my friends in Turkey and the people that surround me here in the Holy Land. It sometimes leads me to despair. There are problems like this all over the world that may lead us to question the possibility of positive change.

However, we each have a choice. We can either allow these realities to paralyze us, or we can choose to shoot our own, “arrows of light” into the darkness we face.

What arrows do you hold in your quiver? What weapons do you hold when you are confronted with hate? Will you respond with fear, racism, ostracism, xenophobia, and ultimately violence? Or, will you seek to take the road of the peacemaker, seeking to reconcile and restore the brokenness we face?

There are no easy answers to these problems, and I do not claim to have any or all of them in my young, limited understanding of this world. But, may we continue to do the hard work of trying to find the answers.

It is not easy. But, in my opinion, nothing worth it is ever easy. Let’s endeavor to shoot some light together, and labor to see some of this darkness disappear in the light of day.