Rome.  The city of great men, great monuments, (great shopping), the Pope, a slew of amazing artwork, and a pro-Palestinian rally?  Um, sure why not?  It is Europe, after all.  At the end of a very long day of monument hopping and window-shopping, Eric and I were headed toward the Vittoriano, the large white columned building dedicated to the first King of Italy.  It was hot.  I was tired and dehydrated.  I wanted Eric to carry me.  Not surprisingly (and not for the first time in this trip), he said no.  As we neared the colossal building, the feeling started to change.  Flags were beginning to wave, though their colors were not green, white, and red.  People were starting to gather peacefully, but there was obvious tension swirling as well. 

(Now after all these months traveling together and for the year before this, I have learned that willfully or not, Eric seems to stumble into areas of conflict.  I can’t tell you how many protests just “happened to be going on” during a random Tuesday out in Madrid.  I’m starting to suspect foul play.  Anyway, back to the protest at hand.)

The signs were in Italian, so I couldn’t make out the exact wording, but a Palestinian flag is a clear symbol in these times.  So is a giant Jewish star with an X through it.  Fabulous.  I’m tired, dehydrated, and hated by the masses.  Oh, and yes, we’re staying for the speeches.  As the crowd grew, their leaders became evident.  They sang in solidarity, responded loudly to any voice booming over the megaphone, and followed dutifully as the march led down each stone street.  Tourists turned to stare and though I was walking with the photographers, I felt ashamed.  Did they think I was pro-Palestinian/anti-Israeli?  Some visitors were even filming the march.  I turned away and tried to hide my face.  Eric asked if I was ok.  “Yes.”  What was I supposed to say?

The diplomatic side of me started the internal debate first. ‘They’re allowed to speak their mind too, you know.’

The emotional side responded. ‘Yes, I know that, but I don’t necessarily want to be caught in the thick of it.’

‘It’s not America.  They don’t even know which side you’re on and they will assume theirs if you don’t say anything.  Besides there are more of them than you.  You’re on their turf.’

‘Well, technically it’s Italian soil, but I see your point.’  Even if I don’t like it.

‘Um, this is an internal debate. I can still hear you.’ Good point.

And I do agree with the diplomatic side; they should get their say as well, even if I don’t see eye to eye with it.  It was my choice to walk with them, my choice to be mistaken as a supporter by tourists and police.  And that’s all it would be if I was in the background of a picture that made it to the web: a mistake.  But it would be an uncomfortable mistake.  I was uncomfortable being there. 

And as that emotional side started to clear its throat to speak one more time, the diplomatic side wisely intervened.  I didn’t go on this journey to be comfortable mentally, emotionally, or (sometimes) physically.  I wanted to be thrown off kilter and confused and lost in the world as each country and culture moved around me and I just tried to find my way into and through it.  If I understood it all, I wouldn’t be here.

Just like that, I found security in my discomfort. 

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel