After college, in my mid-20s, I was preparing to leave my newspaper reporter job to become a chaplain. My newspaper colleagues tried to talk me out of my decision by telling me stories of their negative encounters with Christianity. One person’s story haunted me — she had been a Jewish student in the Midwest and had looked forward to college for years. When she got there, three of her dorm neighbors befriended her, then proceeded to send her messages and notes trying to convert her to Christianity. My former colleague said she found the experience very threatening and oppressive. These experiences triggered her fears of antisemitic actions, the precursor to death and displacement for many Jewish families throughout history. Unfortunately, her Christian neighbors continued trying to convert her throughout her college career. “They ruined college for me,” she said. 

What I took away from that conversation was a new awareness of my complicity in antisemitism. I was in touch with my thoughts and feelings about being oppressed and discriminated against as an African American, but this was a new thing: being part of the oppressor group as a Christian. What could I do?

I thought, “What did I want white or majority culture friends to do when I shared with them my experience with racism?” I appreciated it when my friends tried to listen to me and learn more about my culture. I really appreciated when someone who had the power to change infrastructure helped me when I was caught in the cogs of racist machinery. From these experiences, I realized I wanted to learn how to be an ally to all oppressed peoples, for being an ally helped keep me from being an oppressor.

Sometimes, I think an ally has to admit their powerlessness and offer support and a listening ear. An ally can help oppressed people find the space to share their stories, which means learning to be uncomfortable, hearing the difficult reflections and stories, and joining in restructuring oppressive systems.

Instead of meaningful dialogue, we often find ourselves bullied into silence out of fear of retribution for interrupting dominant narratives. And yet, that silence is what will keep the various cycles of oppression spinning into yet another generation.

Thanks to my Jewish former newspaper colleague, when I did become a chaplain in my 20s, my recognition of my potential for harm against a person of another religion changed my Christian theology and practice. Instead of following coercive practices that had hurt my former colleague, I found ways of showing God’s love without being oppressive. I stopped being defensive about my faith and tried to be more loving and uphold the dignity of each person’s humanity. 

And that approach lasted for years until I faced a new challenge when I was a chaplain in my 40s: I was given an opportunity to travel to Israel and Palestine. I agreed to the trip because I like to travel — yes, I was that clueless. I thought Israel would be an interesting place to go, and I had no idea about the history between the Israelis and Palestinians (both Christian and Muslim). But by the time I traveled, I had learned more, especially about stories of violence and systemic oppression. The new knowledge made the situation even more confusing and devastatingly painful. 

Somehow, I received mail from a few unknown residents of Boston, where I was living at the time. The mail, not quite hate mail, were warnings against the planned trip to Israel and Palestine. 

This was new and kind of scary. I met with one of these individuals who sent me a letter, and we talked for hours. In the end, I decided I had to go because there was a historical pattern of silence that I found familiar in the stories of my African American family. For years, history books were silent on the lynchings and the racialized harassment against African Americans. Oppression functions best in silence. This silence was part of many acts of systemic oppression and genocidal acts — the Holocaust, Rwanda, and South Africa, to name a few.

This trip, which included a visit to the West Bank, was intense, informative, and devastating. When I returned, I could not speak about what I saw. And I still cannot, unless it is with others who have also witnessed the pain, suffering, and oppression of both sides. But I like to think that my trip helped break the systemic silence. For now, I have witnessed the complexity of the situation. But witnessing harassment and displacement, I have become even more quiet, but not silent. For silence is ignoring the issue, but quiet is a listening mode. Eventually, I may even figure out what to say.

But I still have hope that as we are watching the events in Israel and Gaza unfold, we can have reasoned conversation together, and not turn on each other. Let us have dialogue that leads to an end of the violence and the oppression, and not a naïve hope that things will just get better if we stay silent.

Rev. Valerie Bailey Fischer is Chaplain to the College and the Protestant  Chaplain.