There shall they offer sacrifices of righteousness: For they shall suck the abundance of the seas (Deuteronomy 33:19)

Not that I should care, considering that I am leaving for Costa Rica next year, but watching the reaction to a proposed an across-the-board 6 percent pay cut at my school has been an interesting micro-study of the psychological factors that might contribute to the prevention of Mideast peace on a macro-level. 

First, let me establish a few facts that everyone agreed upon as the pay-cut proposal was raised. 1) The school is in financial dire straits; both school and teachers union auditors agreed that strong measures needed to be taken immediately to prevent the school from having to declare bankruptcy. 2) If the pay cut were not accepted, costs would have to be trimmed in some other way. 3) The area that could put the biggest dent in expenditures is salary (both internal staff and external contractors). Therefore, 4) if a broad-based pay cut was not instituted, entire positions would have to be cut, meaning people would be fired. 

In general, the reaction to the facts fell upon party lines. A lot of local hires did not want to approve the pay cut. Quite a few local hires also supported the proposal, but I don't know of a single overseas hire who was against it. And this, I believe, is a result of the fact that the did not suffer the same conflicts of psyche. To name a few, one for past, future, and present: 

Never Forget: Perhaps the main agreed-upon fact is that a primary reason the school fell into financial ruin was the poor timing of the decision to build the new campus. I'm no accountant, but even I know that you don't pull money out of your contingency fund to cover unexpected extra construction costs, especially when a high COLA based on the dollar-shekel exchange rate is indicating currency instability. Thus, although the board and administration never admitted to it, there were many allegations of prior financial mismanagement. True or not, the damage had already been done, and although I think awareness as a result of past wrongs is good, I do not think stasis borne out the necessity to correct unfixable failures is. And yet, I signed a letter to the board containing the following the line: "True, one can never go backwards in time, yet, sometimes, doing the right thing takes the wisdom, strength and courage to undo the wrong thing." I took this as a plea to try to do better in the future, but I'm not so sure. I think some people will wait until the wrong thing is undone before they cooperate any further. It makes me wonder if some Mideast mediators are waiting on the same thing. 

Never Forgive: And some people are even making it clear that, even if the wrongs can be righted, they won't ever forgive the board for their problems with process: "We expressed great concern about the coercive manner in which the package was presented with a 'take it or leave it and be ready to accept the consequences' approach. ... This threat created a feeling of a 'hostage' situation that brought unbearable pressure on teachers and divided the faculty in an untenable way." Did I really sign a letter that called the board hostage-takers? Indeed, the board did offer a lesser-of-two-evils choice. But its alternative was to not offer us a choice at all; the members could've decided to start firing people without asking if we'd rather take a broad pay cut instead. This is perfectly legal and highly likely; just ask anybody in a U.S. public-school system. In my view, the board does not deserve forgiveness, but thanks. But even if there is some culpability, how is it going to encourage better negotiations in the past when one side continually attacks the other for not living up to their standards for the negotiation process? I'm talking about my school here, but some Gaza political groups might know what I mean, too. 

Never A Frier: The refusal to forget and/or forgive both seem dedicated to an ever-present phenomenon: the refusal to be a frier, or sucker. Any attempt, perceived or real, to pull the wool over people's eyes will get them itching for a fight. In this case, some teachers saw the cutting of sabbatical for new hires as not just another way of tightening the pursestrings but as a method of insulting their intelligence: "We were told that the school is in an emergency situation, yet the package included a non-emergency contractual item, sabbatical for new hires. We can only see this as the Board taking advantage of the situation by linking these two issues together in the same package." If I had line-item veto powers on the letter, I would've deleted this for sure. Another non-frier allusion in the letter is to the teachers' beneficence, or "willingness to help find solutions and make sacrifices." In actuality, when the teachers union requested suggestions to trim budgets, it received few besides mine. Some said they were afraid to submit proposals, fearing they would face those cuts along with the salary reduction. The fact that any extra eliminated expenditures would probably benefit the school nonwithstanding, these people hardly demonstrated the same "good faith" they sought from board members. In a compromise situation, someone always has to be the first to give, which certainly puts that person at risk, but without that risk, little reward can be received. Not a bad reminder as the new Israeli legislature starts its work. 

To be fair, the response from the board wasn't exactly stellar: "The Teachers’ Association letter, however, suggests the Board failed to act in good faith while negotiating. ... The facts do not support this claim." It, too, was laced with tinges of anti-forgetting, -forgiveness, and -frierhood. But when faced with such an offensive, it's hard not to be, um, defensive, which itself turns into a form of an attack. And thus, the cycle will continue, long after my part in the close 33-31 vote is forgotten.

... an image formed by the art and thought of man (Acts 17:29)

Perhaps Montenegro could've been just as colorful as Croatia, but we had some bad luck, making it feel imbued with the overcast-day dreariness of "Rain, Steam, and Speed" by J.M.W. Turner. The same muted smears covered the walls of our hotel room in Bar, an overpriced accommodation we suffered through when our plans to go into Albania didn't pan out. But in the painting, as in my image, there is a subtle hint of light shining through. Through the window behind the bleak beds in my vision, I see the glint of the Ulcinj shoreline sun prisming through a beer glass resting on the table in front of Tim, a glowing reminder that although we didn't get a true sense of the country, we at least glimpsed the positive while passing through.
The light is more pivotal in my view of Kosovo, as in "Philosopher in Mediation" by Rembrandt. Indeed, Prishtina is in the spotlight right now after the country declared its independence more than a year ago. Individuals, like the philosopher, are spotlighted in my three-dimensional perspective of Bill Clinton Boulevard. In the closest and brightest streetlight is the professor whose hostel we stayed at; he is encouraging travel by opening up more and more rooms throughout the city (albeit some of them are used for less-than-noble pursuits). In a slightly more distant streetlight is your typical Kosovar, a macchiato in one hand and a hamburger in the other, showing the infiltrating Western sensibilities. Smaller and less distinct is a KFOR (Kosovo Force) officer maintaining a clear but subdued presence. Farthest in the distance and least in the light is the NATO guard, trying to stay in the shadows but still clearly visible, like the fire tender in the painting.

From our quick visit to Albania, a bus ride from Macedonia, my only impression is a collection of characters. And although our cast, crammed in a small coffee house, would've looked routine from the outside, there was much going on inside, as I've always interpreted "Nighthawks" by Edward Hopper. I see our waitress stealing our Lonely Planet book over and over again to express shock that her beloved Pogradec isn't highlighted. The town-drunk fixture seemed to share in this consternation, although some of his muttering and gesticulating was less comprehendable than his companion's; the off-color remarks still came through, though. In my perception of the cafe, our taxi driver Mario and the lazy-eyed border dog are also there, doing their part, through benevolence only, to help us negotiate this very non-tourist-friendly part of the country.

Between Lake Ohrid and Skopje, Macedonia melds into a distortion similar to "Print Gallery" by M.C. Escher. My optical illusion stems from a combined pedestrian street forking into two disparate directions. To the left is the wide, marbled promenade of Lake Ohrid leading to the Church of St. John the Theologian, a tiny, mosaic-filled altar situated on the perfect hill to look back peacefully on downtown. Our Serbian friend Luka, who jabbered us into the new year, beckons us to join him. To the right is the crammed, puddle-filled path of the Turkish Quarter in Skopje, leading to the all-male tea shop that accepted my female self for a drink. But in our way is a Roma gypsy and her son, who literally felt us up as they tried to pickpocket us. This disconnect reflects my overall feeling toward Macedonia: There, I had the best and worst times of our trip. It also reflects the overall ethos of the Balkans: The positive aspects will bring tremendous joy, but the negative aspects will creep in, reminding you of the hurt that has pervaded the place.

(As a footnote, I finally bought a new camera, but upon taking it to Greece, I realized that the memory card held unbearably few pictures. So when I tried to re-format the card so I could take more, I erased all the pictures I had taken in the three days so far. I decided to call the vacation a wash, in terms of photos. After all, you've seen one photo of the Parthenon, you've seen them all. And then I took my completely empty camera to Jericho, but I couldn't get in the photographic mood. But I make this solemn vow to all of you: I will be back in full snapshot shape for our spring break in Jordan and Egypt.)

We ought not to think that the Divine Nature is like gold or silver or stone ... (Acts 17:29)

Gold, silver, and stone are reliable. Divine Nature is not. Despite my best efforts to fix my camera by buying a new battery, it finally died at the beginning of our winter break trip to the Balkans. Sure, I could've borrowed Tim's whenever I wanted to take a picture, but that just seemed too complicated. Besides, it would ruin the spontaneity of capturing a moment. At first, I was extremely angry that I wouldn't be able to record the images of this trip in particular, where I felt like I would see things different than anything I had ever seen before. But every time I longed to take a picture, I realized that it reminded me of something I had seen before anyway: artwork. We started the true part of our trip in Serbia (after flying into Istanbul, Turkey, and taking the train through Bulgaria to Belgrade), which reminded me of "Village Wedding Feast" by Pieter Bruegel. The noisy friendliness from this painting is what I see in my own conjured picture, except mine is more focused on one jocund and rotund bartender near the market in Zemun who served us huge pints of dark beer. (Incidentally, I also picture him serving us a full pig, mouth stuffed with an apple, even though we didn't eat at his bar, because I remember eating so much pork, especially in the bohemian neighborhood of Skadarlija.) Behind him, through the bar window, is Kalemegdan Fortress, which now guards nothing but the river-raft nightclubs below, and a bombed-out downtown building, a strange juxtaposition of the country's dominance and submission. The friendliness continued into Bosnia, but the reality was much starker and superimposed, like "Church Aisle" by Scott Mutter. We met a woman at one train station who spoke to us at length, ruing her countrymen's attitude, dependent on falling back on a false identity that doesn't exist and that has led to many deaths already. She had high hopes of escaping the country, yet our conversation was tinged with the sadness that comes from being trapped. She is the central feature in my own Mutter creation: In a long dark coat, she walks past a cemetery, her shadow cast on gravestones that grow into four different apexes -- an Orthodox dome, a Christian steeple, a Moslem mineret, and the Sarajevo Brewery smokestack, representing the singular, hopeful unity amid a convolution of asserted traditions. In moving on to Croatia, we headed straight to the beaches of Dubrovnik, once again full of color and light, plus the breeziness found in "Interior with Phonograph" by Henri Matisse. The hues of the town lingered together like its influences. As we walk up the steep, stepped streets, I turn to look below. I see the country's native fish on a plate outside one door and the adopted Italian staple pizza outside another. The attempts at internationality are more palpable here, as my vision includes Tim taking a photograph of our new Japanese friend Hirosh, who shared mussels and calamari with us in Dubrovnik after catching up with us after we toured Mostar together the day before.