5 Broken Cameras

5 Broken Cameras is a brilliant film, a documentary begun with no purpose other than to capture the events in a small Palestinian village called Bil'in. The director, Emad, purchased a video camera to film his youngest son's development but quickly begins to record a passive resistance uprising within his home. Israel is moving further into Palestinian land and building complexes for what are termed "settlers," Israelis who are looking for homes in which to live.

The title comes from the events over the course of five years in which his camera is destroyed five times, forcing him to purchase a new one. On two occasions, the camera is destroyed by gunfire, likely saving his life both times. 

I loved this documentary because it seemed the most honest of many films I've seen. Very often, filmmakers set out with a purpose in mind to communicate with their footage. Not so Emad. He filmed hundreds of hours of footage for several years before realizing what he had on his hands. He presents what seems to me to be an incredibly unbiased view of what occurs in his village.

One of my favorite moments comes in a time of despair for Bil'in. They are attempting to regain their land and getting nowhere in their resistance; meanwhile, many of them have been injured and killed by Israeli soldiers. Emad arranges a screening of his footage within his village and his narration indicates that this unites them and draws them closer. I found this a profound statement about the nature of film as a shared experience. Certainly they were particularly drawn to it because it is a narrative of their own home, but I think there is something to be said for how film connects us.

There was a facet of this film that I found intriguing. It appears to me that Emad, while taking on the role of documenter, uses his camera to insulate himself from the harsh reality surrounding him. Of course, he is vitally present in it, coming close to death on multiple occasions. But I wonder whether or not his camera was the thing that gave him the hope to carry on.

While this film has potential to be very political, I think it is worth watching. Regardless of your opinion of the political situation between Israel and Palestine and whose land it is, watching this movie will enrage you when you see the deep injustice of how they are treated. As my friend says, I don't want to be pro-Israel or pro-Palestine, I want to be pro-people. This film should shock you into movement on behalf of the oppressed. Absolutely find a way to see this one.

Middle of Nowhere

This week I'm in Utah at the Sundance Film Festival, and I'll be posting my thoughts on each film I see. Here's the first one!


This was a beautiful film. The lead, Emayatzy Corinealdi, is in almost every shot and she has a powerful, vulnerable presence. This is her first film and she holds your attention like a veteran actress.

The story this film tells is a fascinating one that walks through a brief season of Ruby and her husband Derek's lives. It opens with Derek in prison for a gun charge and Ruby putting her medical career on hold in order to be available to their relationship. Early on, we see Ruby as a willing sacrifice on the altar for the benefit of their marriage. 

However, in the course of the film, it becomes apparent that this is not fully a healthy love between the two. More and more, Ruby's character reveals that she has a problem with codependency. Initially, she appears selfless in her desire to babysit for her single parent sister; as the film progresses, it seems that she needs to be needed. There is some hint at this in her chosen profession as a nurse. She desires to help others but it is fulfilling a need within her to be needed.

In many ways, this film is about Ruby waking up to the truth of herself and her situation. She comments at one point that she knew these things about her situation, but refused to acknowledge it. She says, "I wasn't blind." This scene is a pivotal moment for her into taking responsibility solely for herself. Late in the movie, Ruby says "We are caught between the expectations of what should be and what is." She comes to grips with what she thought life was going to be contrasted with what it truly is in this stage.

One of the ideas in this film is how loving from far away. The geographical and situational distance between Ruby and her husband is deep and has an impact on their ability to be in relationship with one another. It makes me wonder, what's our ability to love one another from far away? I got the opportunity to pose this question to the brilliant director, Ava DuVernay. She responded, "All things are possible with love. Proximity doesn't matter. It's about connection." I thought this was a profound statement of hope, particularly in light of the relational challenge we see in Middle of Nowhere.

Apart from story, this film has two incredibly strong points. The music is one of the highlights. The style is varied and perfectly suited to every scene; I found myself being swept up into the moment because of the score. The second item is the cinematography. The shots were wonderfully long, giving the audience an opportunity to dwell in the emotion of the moment. The camera moves ever so slightly in important moments, giving me the impression that I was there observing the moment and not just watching it on a screen.

An excellent movie and one worth watching; I recommend finding a way to see it.

Break In

A few weeks ago, I came home to see this:

While I was running an errand, someone decided to do their Christmas shopping at my house. All in all, not much was gone. After the hassle of fixing the door and filing for insurance, things are pretty much back to normal. 

Some say the hardest part of a break  in is the sense of invasion, of your private space becoming public. Certainly, that has been frustrating. Particularly when I discovered that they were using my laptop and my Netflix account to watch movies…it's especially hard when you see their terrible taste in film.

Seeing my closet ransacked and my drawers dumped out has made me feel exposed, and even moreso when I realized that my journal from the past year was in my laptop bag and they now have access to my most personal thoughts. 

But that hasn't been the most frustrating part of this for me.

The thing that makes anger rise up in me is the selfishness of it. If any of the people who kicked in my door came home to find someone else in their house, they would go ballistic…and rightfully so. And yet, they have decided to do the same to someone else. They are so self-focused that it does not occur to them that what they're doing will impact someone else so negatively. Or perhaps they do realize it and have simply decided that their financial interests take precedence over my sense of security and comfort in my own home. It's possible that they know exactly what they're doing, but I think it's more likely that they are simply so selfish and inwardly focused that they don't even think of me as a person. 

As Christmas quickly approaches, maybe the lesson I'm learning is this. It's not a new one, but my broken front door has reinforced it. Don't be selfish. Think about others and put yourself in their shoes. The hardest part for me wasn't the finances or the stuff…it was that the ones who tossed my closet decided I wasn't really a person.

My Black Suit

I own a black suit. I don’t wear it frequently, because I have two other suits I like better. I don’t have to dress nice very often and so the other two are in a more regular rotation than my plain black suit.

I donned this one a few weeks ago to attend a memorial service and while there, I stuck my hand in a coat pocket and instantly knew when I last wore this suit.

It was January 29, about six months prior.

How did I know this specific date? When I put my right hand into the pocket I found a half dozen folded Kleenex and remembered that I’d put them there for a wedding I officiated on January 29.

This sudden recollection of being prepared for tears brought up a realization about my black suit: I only wear it at weddings and funerals.

Immediately after I had a deeper recognition, which is that we respond the same way to both our most joyful and painful events: we reply to those emotions with tears.

There were many shed on January 29 and there were plenty on September 14 at this particular memorial.

I must confess, when it comes to crying, I’ve had multiple identities in my life. As a child, I cried often. The smallest things would break my heart and overwhelm me, and my only response was to shed my feelings. As I became an adult, it became a matter of pride that I was immune to that physical response and I actually had a three-year stretch without tears.

Now I think I’ve found a fair middle ground and perhaps I’m a little more prone to crying that I give myself credit for. I trust that others have noticed a wetness to my eyes, particularly when I’m discussing people I care about.

As I’m discovering the connection between the events that make us cry, I think I’m seeing something arise; crying is our inability to contain ourselves. Whatever we’re feeling, whether it’s joy, sadness, hope, encouragement or loss, it is more than we can handle. We cannot enclose these feelings and so they pour out of us.

So maybe now my black suit is my favorite. When I wear it, that means I’m going somewhere that is likely to open my emotions. I will use tears to respond with enthusiasm because the cascades on my cheeks mean I’m more alive in that moment and more present to the world and people around me.

Being Incovenienced

My best friend was recently asked to preside over a ceremony where his grandparents renewed their marriage vows. They’ve been married 60 years. 60 YEARS! That is entirely beyond my comprehension.

As part of his preparation he asked close friends to write a sentence or two describing what we think it takes to make it 60 long years with someone.

I pondered my response. I wanted to say something better than commitment; we all know that you don’t make it to 60 without steadfastly standing by your promise. I wanted to say something more profound than compromise. Of course marriage requires that and 60 years necessitates more than most; but somehow that just didn’t seem to encapsulate what I thought would be hardest. Compromise seems to describe decisions and conflict but not the day to day.

After some thought, I came up with this: it takes a willingness to be inconvenienced.

I realize that seems like a foolish response, almost insignificant. Surely a good marriage is more than being inconvenienced.

But I said that because frankly, I’ve found that being inconvenienced is one of the things that happens most in my close relationships. Being married, choosing to live with someone and share your most intimate space with them…you will invariably run up against them being in the way as if there were a redwood growing in your living room. It’s unavoidable and everything must account for that presence. They’re in the shower when you want to use it, they left something on the floor of the room AGAIN, they aren’t ready to go to dinner while you’re in the car starving…inconveniences.

I chose this one to share with my friend because I believe that is what is at the heart of all my best relationships. I don’t really want to help someone move into a new apartment, but I choose to be inconvenienced. I don’t necessarily want to sit with someone dealing with grief, but I choose to be inconvenienced. I don’t particularly want to help my friend process through that same break up again, but I choose to be inconvenienced.

Why do I choose that?

Because that’s what love looks like in the day to day. Allowing someone into your space enough that you cannot avoid what they want and what’s best for them. And it means they’ve let you in enough that you too are an inconvenience.

Yet, for some reason, they love you more than the inconvenience. 

Thank You

One of the most dreaded times of my childhood started a week after Christmas every single year. For the most part, the novelty of all my new goodies had worn off and that meant I had plenty of time available for a task I loathed: writing thank you cards.

It was never a long to-write list, but aunts, uncles, grandparents and family friends needed to receive something to show that I appreciated their generosity. The problem was not that I wasn’t grateful; I just never knew what to say. I would sit there with a thank you card that seemed the size of a billboard and all I had written after 15 minutes was “Dear Uncle Jim…”

That’s it. Sad, I know. At least I got his name right instead of having to scribble out “Uncte Tim” which probably wouldn’t go over well.

I always felt inadequate to say thanks to the extent that I appreciated them, but I particularly lived in fear that if I didn’t show enough gratitude then I wouldn’t get another present in 358 days. If I didn’t say thanks, they might even think that I didn’t really love them.

Now, I love writing thank you cards. I think they’re possibly the most underrated tool in my job. While I still struggle with what to say, I’ve discovered that the small effort of capturing in words why I’m thankful for someone or their contribution means much to the recipient.

It shows them that I noticed their presence, that their work was seen. It’s less about how eloquently I can praise them and more about the fact that I recognized their thoughtfulness, sacrifice or devotion.

So go to Target and spend $10 for a box of 50 thank you cards; then start looking for reasons to send them to people.

Cafe Truth

A friend of mine has been traveling through parts of the Midwest and told me about a small place she saw. It’s called Good Day Café and Bad Day Bar. We both chuckled about it but as that name rattled around in my head I decided that it was actually an interesting commentary on our nature.

When things are bad, we tend to want to drown our sorrows. That doesn’t just mean drinking; sometimes we drown them in ice cream or TV or food or the instant Netflix subscription. Regardless of the anesthetic, we tend to enact solitude and avoid our issues.

On the other hand, when things are good, we can’t wait to share them. I’ve found that the best sharing happens over a meal.

Recently, I had a few people over for dinner. I’ve discovered that when I have company over we invariable end up talking in the kitchen and attached dining room rather than sitting in the living room. There is an unavoidable attraction to the room with the table. This past dinner, I even put appetizers out in the living room to no avail; we were drawn to the dining room. There is something profound about a table and the act of sharing it with someone else that is linked to a deep part of us. So, the Good Day Café connects two important things: sharing of joy and the sharing of food.

The Midwest just might be on to something.