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By Mhambi B. Musonda, WSCF-US Leadership Team 2026-27 This summer, I had the privilege of traveling to Paris, France, to participate in the WSCF-Europe Youth Perspectives for Democracy Summer School, an experience that brought together 34 young leaders from across Europe to reflect on faith, justice, civic engagement, and democracy. I participated alongside Hannah Beard, a member of the WSCF-US Student Leadership Team, and together we were the only two participants representing the United States. Being among young Christians from such diverse national, cultural, and political contexts made the experience particularly meaningful. It challenged me not only to think about democracy as a political system, but also to consider it as a moral and communal responsibility. The summer school created a space where questions of faith and public life could be explored honestly. We examined what it means for Christians to participate in societies shaped by political disagreement, inequality, polarization, and competing visions of justice. Rather than treating faith and civic engagement as separate spheres, our conversations invited us to consider how Christian convictions can shape the ways in which we understand human dignity, justice, community, and responsibility toward one another.  One of the most significant aspects of the experience was our engagement with the public space. We were challenged to think beyond traditional understandings of political participation and to ask what it means to be active citizens in our everyday lives. Democracy is often reduced to elections, political parties, institutions, and government. Yet our exercises encouraged us to recognize that democracy is also lived through relationships, communities, conversations, advocacy, and the ways we respond to people whose experiences differ from our own. Through various interactive exercises and critical reflections, we were encouraged to confront an important question: How do we make the promise of democracy real? It is easy to speak about democracy in abstract terms—to celebrate freedom, equality, participation, and human rights. It is much more difficult to translate those ideals into the realities of everyday life. Democracy becomes meaningful when people have a genuine voice, when institutions are accountable, when differences can be expressed without dehumanization, and when communities work intentionally to ensure that no one is excluded from the public life of society.  For me, this question carried particular significance because of my own interest in civic engagement and public leadership. The experience reminded me that leadership cannot simply be about occupying positions of influence. It must also be about cultivating the conditions in which other people can participate, speak, organize, and exercise their own agency. Public leadership, at its best, is not merely about being heard; it is about creating space for others to be heard. Being one of only two Americans in the group also gave me an opportunity to see the United States from a different perspective. Conversations with young leaders from across Europe reminded me that democracy looks different depending on a society’s history, institutions, culture, and lived experiences. Yet beneath those differences were remarkably similar questions: How do we address political polarization? How do we ensure young people have meaningful opportunities to participate? How do we respond to injustice? How do we build communities where differences do not automatically become divisions? Paris itself provided a powerful backdrop for these conversations. A city so deeply associated with ideas of liberty, citizenship, revolution, human rights, and public life became more than simply the location of our summer school. It became part of the reflection. Walking through the city while discussing democracy and the role of faith in public life made the themes we were exploring feel tangible. The public square was no longer simply a theoretical concept; it was something we could observe and experience. Perhaps my greatest takeaway from the summer school is that democracy requires participation, but participation requires formation. Young people need more than invitations to vote or join political institutions. We need opportunities to develop the critical thinking, courage, empathy, theological imagination, and civic skills necessary to participate meaningfully in public life.  The training included experiential learning at sites of democratic importance around Paris. Mhambi and his small group braving the heatwave to learn about the city! As Christians, this responsibility is particularly important. Our faith calls us to take seriously the dignity of every person and to pursue justice not simply as an abstract principle, but as a lived commitment. Engaging the public space therefore means asking how our faith informs the way we treat our neighbors, how we respond to injustice, how we listen to those with whom we disagree, and how we contribute to the communities of which we are a part.
The WSCF-Europe Youth Perspectives for Democracy Summer School reminded me that democracy is not something that can be taken for granted. It is a promise that must continually be renewed through the participation and commitment of ordinary people. For young Christians, that means refusing to retreat from public life. It means bringing our faith, questions, convictions, and compassion into the spaces where our communities are being shaped. I left Paris with more questions than I arrived with—and I consider that one of the greatest gifts of the experience. The summer school did not simply give me answers; it gave me a deeper sense of responsibility. It challenged me to think about the kind of citizen, Christian, and leader I want to become and, more importantly, how my own life can contribute to making the promise of democracy more real for others. The work of democracy does not begin and end at the ballot box. It begins wherever people choose to participate, listen, organize, serve, and stand for the dignity of others. And that work is ours.
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By Hannah Beard, WSCF-US Leadership Team 2026-27 A few weeks ago, I had the incredible opportunity to represent WSCF-US at WSCF-Europe’s Youth in 4D training in Paris, France. The training brought together young people of many faiths from across Europe to explore the relationship between faith and democracy. Through workshops, Bible studies, group projects, and conversations over coffee breaks, participants reflected on the challenges facing democracies today and the role Christians can play in promoting justice, participation, and peace. Before this training, the topic of democracy felt like an abstract political concept, but throughout the week I began to understand it as something deeply connected to the Christian life and community.   In one of the workshops, we explored different case studies such as liberation theology in Latin America, the Confessing Church in Germany, apartheid in South Africa, the Civil Rights Movement in the American South, and so many more. In learning from these movements of resistance many questions unfolded: What does faithful resistance look like? When is nonviolence enough? What do Christians do when institutions cause harm? What does it mean that people have sometimes risked - or lost - their lives in the struggle for justice? What can we, as faithful witnesses, learn from these movements as we continue our own struggles for liberation and democracy today? Rather than answering all of these questions, we engaged with these ideas and I specifically wrestled with the question of nonviolence and whether there are limits to it. As we struggled with these questions, my thoughts kept returning to Palestine and my experiences traveling there. At what point does nonviolence become the thing that extinguishes a people? And do we have that sort of time? Midway through the week, a Coptic Orthodox priest joined us for a conversation. After days spent wrestling with difficult questions, I expected him to offer clear answers. Instead, he offered something even more valuable: a different way of thinking. One of the questions that someone asked him was, “There are a lot of loud and organized Christians with harmful beliefs…how do we be loud and organized like them?” I expected him to offer a thoughtful strategy for organizing movements or influencing political leaders but instead he gave this simple answer that shocked the group. He said, “You have to be you. Be efficient in grassroots. Don’t change yourself. If you aren’t somebody that is going to knock down the walls of Congress then don’t. Be a voice for change in your community and speak about issues the way you naturally do. Change happens when people are authentic to themselves.” Another conversation with this priest still echoes in my mind. He challenged us to consider whether democracy can survive if we refuse to hear voices we disagree with. “When you exclude”, he said, “you kill democracy.” I found myself wrestling with his words. What happens when those voices spread hatred or deny another person’s humanity? I still don’t know where the line is. But I left that conversation grateful that room was made for difficult questions instead of easy answers. The second half of our week shifted from asking difficult questions to practicing how to listen well to one another. We quickly discovered that listening is difficult work - especially when the people across from you come from different countries, cultures, and experiences, or hold convictions very different from your own. Yet democracy depends on this kind of listening. Listening well allows us to hear not only our own voices but also the experiences, wisdom, and humanity of others - and in doing so, we become more attentive to the ways Christ can speak through our encounters with one another.  I left Paris with far more questions than answers, but perhaps that was the point. Democracy, like faith, is something we practice. It requires courage, humility, and a willingness to remain in relationship even when disagreement feels easier than understanding. I am deeply grateful to WSCF-Europe for creating a space where young people from different countries, traditions, and faiths could wrestle with these questions together. My hope is that I carry this posture of curiosity, courageous listening, and faithful participation back into my own community, trusting that even small acts of justice and authentic witness can help shape a more democratic and more compassionate world. Photo credits to Marcos Dorneles.
by Angel Nalubega   Angel, Sarah, Erin, and Ailih bask in the sun in the courtyard of St. Phillip's under a flourishing orange tree. Our last day in Palestine was spent traveling to, exploring, and leaving Nablus, a city in the northern West Bank. Nablus is part of Area A, governed primarily by the Palestinian Authority, along with cities like Jenin, Ramallah, and Bethlehem. Nablus is beautiful.
On the way there, we witnessed the harsh realities of occupation. Israeli settlements surrounded Palestinian homes with white caravans placed like sentries every few meters. We saw the wreckage and destruction of Palestinian houses damaged by settlers, Israeli flags hung at regular intervals as a show of domination, and roadblocks thrown across roads by Israeli settlers attempting to prevent Palestinian workers from accessing main thoroughfares and their own communities. We even saw an olive tree at a rest stop, where the Star of David was carved into the tree dozens of times. It was a disturbing sight. For me, it felt like even the air was full of signs of occupation, rather than life. However, throughout the course of the day that would change. Our first stop was the Greek Orthodox Church at Jacob's Well. As soon as we walked into the compound, we were met with a gorgeous array of citrus trees, mainly tangerines, but also lemons. The lovely priest, Father Justinius, with his long beard, was carefully tending to the fruit trees. Something I continuously appreciated in Palestine was how wonderful the fruits were—everywhere we went, every day. I thought about how much love, perseverance, diligence, and defiance it must take for fruit grown by Palestinian hands to flourish. Of course, we had to see the well. It was beautiful, rickety, and totally surreal. Heavy with history. The well-loved cups sat on the side. We drank the water, and I captured wonderful pictures of Isabel and Nate from our delegation, pinkies up as they sipped. I had to drink the water too; just in case it did something. What affected me most was a story the supply priest told us (not Father Justinius, but another priest caring for the church that day). He explained that the previous priest before Fr. Justinius had been murdered right where we stood by an extremist attacker, his body chopped into 39 pieces. It felt morbid yet sacred that this place where Jacob met Rachel, where Jesus met the Samaritan woman, could be so peaceful, calming, and centering. A cool cup of water in the midst of the desert. And yet, the priest repeated several times: "No one comes to the church anymore." The Christian community in Nablus is struggling. We saw more evidence of this when we visited St. Philip's Arab Episcopal Church. Founded in 1848, St. Philip's has been a Christian hub in this community for more than a century. Yet in Nablus, a city of 300,000 people, only 700 Christians remain, a tiny sliver of the population. Father Jamil, the Rector of St. Philip's, gave us a brief tour of the church and kindergarten. The altar displays a beautiful verse in Arabic: "God is Spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth." The kindergarten serves around 50 children and has to be regularly evacuated due to tear gas and shooting from the Israeli Army. Due to the shrinking Christian community, the church does significant ecumenical work, including an ecumenical Sunday school. They even have a partnership with a PCUSA church in West Virginia, where Palestinian youth travel to experience life there. They're working on building a summer program for volunteers. At one point during the tour, Father Jamil said something I'll never forget: "These children are surrounded by death. But we teach life." His words reminded me of a spoken word poem, "We Teach Life, Sir," by Palestinian poet Rafeef Ziadah, a piece I had watched in high school but never truly understood until I witnessed it firsthand. The signs of death and destruction were everywhere. The streets of the Old City are lined with posters of martyrs killed by the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) within the city walls. And yet, there were also signs of life: teenagers heading home from school, vendors selling tasty treats on the street (I ate the best thing—I still can't remember what it was, but I'll crave it forever), and a hole-in-the-wall Lord of the Rings-themed café. During the tour, we saw a clock tower that mirrored damaged towers we had seen in Haifa. There was a sense of continuity across all of the Palestinian cities we visited. The remnants of what once was were still there. We visited a family-run soap factory (Nablus is known for its soap) and encountered a regular customer, a Samaritan elder with a crooked grin. We then went to Burqin Church, the church of the lepers, which contains the oldest Anastasis (resurrection site) in Palestine. The baptismal font alone was 1,000 years old. The church was surrounded by beautiful fruits, some I had never seen before. As we toured the church, a group of children gathered near the door. I waved at them, and their smiles grew bigger. Eventually, I went outside and said hello. It was wonderful to see that even in an occupied land, kids are still kids. They just wanted to get my Instagram and Snapchat (or sneak a picture, or five), or race me up and down a hill. The thing I will remember most from this day is the defiance of life. The persistence of life. I think it's fitting that despite the separation walls, the acute suffering, and the constant devastation, there are trees that bear fruit—orange trees, lemon trees, tangerine trees. There are children laughing in the face of empire. The children we met in Burqin represented Christ's final word over death: love, joy, laughter, the complete refusal to be bowed down. These children, who are so fiercely loved and cared for—like the olive trees, like the fruit trees—will always stay with me. There is a reverence for life, a real love for life shown by the Palestinian people. The love that is shown is something I feel called to live into, respond to, and nurture within myself. On this last day in Palestine, I felt a deep sense of gratitude, of love, of life. I feel blessed and honored to have been welcomed so graciously by the Palestinian people. I must love the Palestinian people and the land itself as fiercely as I love God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. My time in Palestine has convinced me of the Gospel truth: that there is life in spite of death, and the love of life will overcome every death-dealing power. By Erin Hancock, former WSCF-US National Organizer  Our third day in the West Bank felt like an entire week packed into 12 hours. The day began with a 45-minute bus ride from where we were staying in East Jerusalem to Dar Al-Kalima University in Bethlehem, where we would be meeting with Palestinian Christian theologian and pastor, Rev. Dr. Mitri Raheb. We were fortunate on this day to be joined by Omar, the director of the grassroots Palestinian liberation theology movement, Sabeel, that was hosting us and had organized our trip. Omar never missed the opportunity for a teaching moment or a clever joke (and we learned that there was often a lesson contained within his humor), so as soon as we were all seated on the bus to Bethlehem, Omar hopped on the bus’s intercom and asked our group to raise our hands if we identified as Christian Zionists. We all laughed as Omar continued the bit, reassuring us it was a safe space for any of us who wanted to raise our hands. Eventually Omar went on to talk about settler colonialism, Christian Zionism, Jewish Zionism, and the ways in which each of these ideologies are intertwined in the logics and machinations of the Israeli state. Always steps ahead of us, Omar was laying the foundation for our upcoming conversation with Dr. Raheb as well as what we would be witnessing later during our visit to the South Hebron Hills and the Old City of Hebron. When we arrived at Dar Al-Kalima University, Dr. Raheb greeted us with a warm smile and tiny cups of Arabic coffee. We all gathered around a conference table as Dr. Raheb invited us to go around the room and introduce ourselves. Many of us were already familiar with Dr. Raheb either from reading his books or hearing him speak at our own seminaries or universities in the states. Almost as if it had been coordinated, Dr. Raheb picked up right where Omar had left off in our conversation on the bus, speaking about the four major challenges facing Palestine: 1) settler colonialism, 2) the Israelization of the world, 3) the Zionization of theology, and 4) the militarization of the region and the world. It would have been impossible to speak about these challenges without talking about the role the U.S. has played in each of them. Notably, just days before we left the states to travel to Palestine, Renee Good was murdered by ICE agents in Minneapolis. In response, Vice President JD Vance claimed that ICE was “protected by absolute immunity,” a phrase, Dr. Raheb informed us, that was borrowed from Israel. Not only is ICE being trained to use the Israeli military’s tactics of terrorism, they are also following their example of how to evade consequences for their own violations of the law. Dr. Raheb ended our time together by offering a few signs of hope as well as a call to action. The first sign of hope is that settler colonialism is failing. That is why Israel opted for a genocide in Gaza, as a desperate and strategic attempt to continue toward the goal of ethnically cleansing Palestinians from their land. Second, global Palestine is on the rise, particularly throughout countries that have suffered under settler colonialism, but also more broadly. For example, the watermelon has become an international symbol of solidarity with Palestine. More and more films centering the voices of Palestinians are being produced and viewed across the world. In my own circles, it’s rare to attend a social gathering where there isn’t at least one person wearing a keffiyeh. And yet, with this hope, there is a responsibility, particularly for those of us from the U.S. Again, harkening back to our conversation with Omar on the bus, Dr. Raheb remarked that as U.S. citizens, we are each, by default, cultural Zionists. I couldn’t help feeling some shame and discomfort when he said this. Should I have raised my hand on the bus after all? What began as a joke - which, in hindsight, was likely intended to stir up some feelings of discomfort - had become one of the main takeaways of our time together that morning. The reality is that Zionism - similar to racism, sexism, ableism, etc. - is built into the fabric of our everyday lives in the U.S. It is our responsibility to recognize and disrupt it, whether it is in our politics, our theologies, or where we spend our money. Palestine will be free. In the words of Rev. Dr. Mitri Raheb, “There are cracks in the wall, and it is our job to keep chiseling away to let the light in.  The WSCF-US group at Dar al-Kalima University. By Ailih Weeldreyer, WSCF-US National Organizer In January 1997, two young, white, American Christians from Michigan and North Carolina traveled from Union Presbyterian Seminary to the Holy Land, and were transformed. My parents witnessed apartheid amidst visits to holy sites, and were invited into conversation with Palestinian Christians from Sabeel. Disturbed and touched by the experience, their perspectives were changed. Later that year, I was born. Unlike many white, Christian Americans in a culture that is by default Zionist, I grew up with the word Palestine, with the knowledge of the occupation, and with a faith that encouraged me to be in solidarity with Palestinians. In January 2026, I made the same journey to Palestine. My time there has left me transformed in the way that we are called as Christians to continuously turn toward God. I have turned back towards a knowledge I have had since birth, and will orient my life towards it going forward. I am a testament to the power of the stories and ideologies we learn as children. My parents’ stories and those of the Palestinians they invited into our home were formative for my worldview before I could even fully understand them. In the same way, Israeli and Palestinian children are formed by their environments and the stories they are told. I and others in our delegation were struck over and over by the ways that children are taught, either to become oppressors or to resist oppression. On January 19, we visited the Tent of Nations, Bethlehem, the Walled Off Hotel next to the apartheid wall, and Aida refugee camp. At the Walled Off Hotel there is a museum which documents the occupation and Palestinian resistance, with barred windows overlooking an expanse of concrete. In this museum, there are artifacts that illustrate the ways that Israeli children are taught from birth to respond to the world around them with violence. An Israeli Defense Force onesie was displayed next to an elementary counting worksheet with cartoonish tanks and fighter planes. In a video sharing testimonies of soldiers, one recalled, “At 18 years old I was given a button, a big red button…You press that button and 4 kilometers away someone will die.” Another recounted, “I gave up on humanity, I gave up on who I am and just became more and more aggressive, to become a part of the society where I live.” Earlier in the week, two settler children shouted slurs at one of our Palestinian guides as he showed us the now-deserted streets of his home in occupied Hebron. I am deeply saddened for the children who are raised to be violent, taught to abuse people simply for their identity, and deeply concerned about the effects such a society has on the rest of the world. Our journey to the Tent of Nations was circuitous and brought us through “Area C” of the West Bank, where settlers are taking as much land as they can from Palestinians. The farm, which now serves as a faith-based community dedicated to nonviolent action, sits on a hill not far from Bethlehem which is the only hill in the region without an Israeli settlement. The farm is owned by the Nassar family, and we were privileged to speak with Daoud Nassar, who leads his family’s resistance to the attempts by Israel to take their land. For thirty-five years, the Nassar family has been in court with the Israeli government. Their orchard and olive trees have been destroyed and they have received 28 demolition orders despite holding documentation for their land from the state of Israel. Despite the constant threats from settlers and the state, the Nassar family remain steadfastly committed to their principles: We refuse to be victims We refuse to hate We act on our faith We believe in justice
The day I returned from Palestine, my heart was broken again by the murder of Alex Pretti in Minneapolis. I am struck that those scenes of violence mirror those in the West Bank, and it emphasizes to me the way the violence of empire is entwined across borders. In Palestine as much as in Minneapolis and our own communities, Christians have an obligation to speak up and stand in the way of empire. We must be a prophetic voice in this time, or - as Rev. Munther Isaac reminded us on Sunday - we render our churches and our messages of faith irrelevant. At the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, the main entrance to the church is kept intentionally short to require pilgrims to bend down before God. Entering the church, I was viscerally reminded of the humility necessary to admit our complicity with the sins of the world before God and our siblings facing oppression, apartheid, and genocide. May we all find this posture of humility and allow it to move us to action.
On the left, in 1997, Ailih’s dad (Seth Weeldreyer) exits the Church of the Nativity. On the right, Ailih exits in 2026.
By Logan Crews I admit, I was a little surprised to learn we would be traveling to Haifa for one day of our delegation. The pretty, seaside city with palm trees and hip establishments that I see in propagandized social media posts to show off the “civilized,” Western oases of Israeli cities in the Middle East—why were we going there? I was humbled over and over again that day as we learned about the experience of Palestinian citizens of Israel who live in Haifa. Who have always lived in Haifa. These are people I often leave behind in my prayers and advocacy. I was angered and shaken that the Zionist project had done its job keeping the Palestinian identity of this place from my American view. The Haifa we saw on January 16 wasn’t the rubble of demolished homes and brandished assault rifles and military checkpoints we saw throughout the West Bank and Jerusalem. But the more we swept the dust from the surface of the city, as one of our guides put it, the more I could sense the claws of ethnic cleansing and occupation just underneath. “Persecution has many faces and many ways.”
As we traveled around Haifa, I wondered how many of the older homes and businesses I saw belonged to someone who is still waiting for the day they can return. I also saw new high-rise apartment buildings and office complexes and wondered what had stood there before. (To learn more about how the demolition of Palestinian homes to build luxury buildings is part of a plan to turn Haifa into the “Barcelona of the Middle East,” I recommend this Mondoweiss article by Jaclynn Ashly.)
In Haifa, I began to realize two things: the world’s rightful focus on the genocide in Gaza as the current “Palestinian experience” had given me a tunnel vision the last two years that left out other parts of the Palestinian story, and that what I was seeing in Haifa was a city under the same occupation I saw in cities in the West Bank, perhaps just further down Israel’s timeline. Our hosts from the Social Development Committee (SDC) in the Arab neighborhood of Wadi Nisnas and Adalah, the Legal Center for Arab Minority Rights in Israel, urged us to resist looking at Palestine through a lens of hierarchical suffering. There is no hierarchy of suffering. There is just suffering. The experience of all Palestinians—citizen or resident of Israel or stateless, in the land or in the diaspora, urban or rural—are connected. To see them as separate is to fall for Israel’s ultimate strategy of “divide and conquer”—if Palestinians are cut off from each other, it becomes more difficult to resist oppression. Palestinian citizens of Haifa live along lines of apartheid. Haifa is one of Israel’s “mixed cities,” where the population is made up of both Jews and Arabs. But we learned that “mixed” does not mean “shared.” The differences of Palestinian and Jewish experiences here reminded me of American cities in many ways: the infrastructure in Arab neighborhoods is worse than in Jewish ones, there is an achievement gap within education, etc. But I was most struck by how precarious everything felt in Haifa; even in times of calm between all the residents, there is real fear among Palestinians to speak the truth about the Israeli government, Palestinian history and culture, or even to call themselves “Palestinian.” The entire time we were in Haifa, I felt uneasy, as if the facade of the progressive city could collapse in one second. When we went to look over the sea (my first ever glimpse of the Mediterranean), I could only think about Gaza’s beaches that were a mere 2.5 hour drive down the coast. That Palestine is this Palestine, too. It was amazing to hear about the SDC’s projects to support the Arab population of Haifa through education initiatives and the creation of an Arab map of the city that includes past and present sites in an attempt to preserve Palestinian history. Adalah, although situated in Haifa, is constantly representing communities across Palestine, like the 37 unrecognized Bedouin communities in the Naqab who are threatened with displacement, Palestinian students who are disciplined for showing even an ounce of empathy for the people of Gaza, and most of the Freedom Flotilla participants, to name just a few. We also visited the church that houses House of Grace, an organization dedicated to supporting vulnerable groups such as the recently imprisoned. I left Haifa feeling disturbed, honestly. I learned so much that I could never relay in one blog post. It feels so bad to see the “clean” results of apartheid and ethnic cleansing right in front of you, in the middle of a trip spent witnessing these systems at different stages. But I was and am so grateful to have witnessed for even one day the resilience of the Palestinians in this city, many of whom survived the Nakba by hiding in churches and convents and remained to resist the erasure of Haifa as a Palestinian city. I continue to pray for their safety in a city where they are still not free to organize and speak out or from random attacks from settlers who infiltrate their neighborhoods, for their ability to find peace under the sharp watch and control of the Haifa municipality, and for non-Palestinians like myself to remember them, always. In mixed cities like Haifa, the criss-crossing lines of oppression throughout the land of Palestine all connect in a way that makes twisted sense and tied my own stomach up in a knot. The liberation of Palestine will never be complete without the liberation of these cities, too. Of Haifa. By Nathan Samayo, M.Div  Sticker found at The Gateway Café, Old City Jerusalem, which was recently raided by Israeli police. I am currently on my way to the airport in Amman, Jordan for the January 2026 Sabeel delegation to Jerusalem and the West Bank. I read “Gaza and Guatemala: Enfleshed Divinity in Women’s Ethics of Care,” written by a good from of mine from Nazareth. In the essay, my friend poses the question: Wenak ya Allah—Where are you, God, amidst genocide?
While the U.S. and Israel exercise the familiar mechanisms of state-operated genocide—executions, kidnapping and disappearance, sexual violence, counterinsurgencies—another tactic of genocide that often goes unnoticed under the “specter of physical violence” is the destruction of social fabrics and collective psychology. Genocides can destroy the “sense of community” where mass pain and suffering incites overwhelming feelings of helplessness, shame, guilt, and loss of control, especially in moments when people are unable to protect their loved ones. This can lead to hopelessness, isolation, and the loss of motivation. This reality challenges Christians theologically. For Christians with humanitarian sensibilities and desires for “social justice,” theological narratives of liberation can often dismiss honest confrontations with horrific realities. I’ve noticed that Christians have a hard time sitting with the question: if God is with the oppressed, where is God in the genocide? It is easy to quote Munther Isaac and say “God is in the rubble.” What does that actually mean? I don’t ask that question rhetorically. I also don’t ask that question because I disagree with Munther Isaac, nor do I believe that Munther Isaac asked that question uncritically (obviously he is very theologically informed). What I’m talking about here is how such theological claims often get appropriated by Christians—especially those with humanitarian sensibilities and the inability to sit in the “uncomfortable”—giving them quick theological justifications to explain horrific realities that lay in front of us, rather than doing the deeper, theological and practical work to attend to those horrific realities. But my Palestinian friend points us into another direction, one that sheds light on the practices of remembrance and caretaking that Palestinian and Mayan women practice in the midst of genocide; practices confront reality. Under genocidal violence in Gaza and Guatemala, particularly sexual violence which strips women of their dignity, forcing them to deal with shame and alienation in secrecy, women have taken on the practices of remembrance and care for the well-being of their kin: restoring the remnants of their relatives; offering dignified burials; seeking justice through the legal system for crimes against humanity, when possible. These practices reknit social fabrics, collective psychology and the “sense of community.” These practices sit at the intersection of agency and victimhood, creating new spaces that nurture life to the best of their abilities. I leave us with a quote to reflect on: “while theologians connect resurrection to the cross, I assert that liberation is not a predetermined event following suffering. The aftermath of genocide in Guatemala has not brought total liberation or justice, and the genocide in Gaza continues. Highlighting the invisible work of care and leadership embodied by Guatemalan and Gazan women exposes glimpses of the divine in our world, where God works in and through the violence that lays before us” (from Gaza and Guatemala). During the last week of October, WSCF-US joined students and leaders from the WSCF-Europe region of the global WSCF in Sarajevo for a peacebuilding training. A central aspect of WSCF's mission is to connect movements of young Christians and give exposure to the realities of life around the world. The Frame the Future series brought together representatives from student Christian movements in Finland, the UK, Austria, and Germany, and from partner organizations in France, Georgia, Lebanon, Brazil, Colombia, and Azerbaijan. By Deidre Allen (she/her), WSCF-US Student Leadership Team I was recently honored to represent the World Student Christian Federation-US in Sarajevo, Bosnia in Europe as a member of the Student Leadership Team. We attended Frame the Future, a youth peacebuilding conference held by the World Student Christian Federation-Europe. With young leaders from many countries in Europe and beyond, we learned different methods and practices, such as the difference between discussion and dialogue and understanding that people will have different definitions of these based on their region or context. It was important to practice being open to learn or see things in a different light and viewpoint.  Thinking as a group about themes encountered over the week and in the tour of Sarajevo. (photo by Marcos Dorneles, 2025) In 1984, the city of Sarajevo hosted the Winter Olympics that brought the world together for winter sports. Almost ten years later in 1992, there was a war that broke out in this same city that killed many Bosnians. This war lasted until 1995, and there was a genocide of Bosnian Muslims. The World Student Christian Federation-Europe region hosted their conference in the city of Sarajevo so we could learn more and bring awareness to others about the war from thirty years past and what peacebuilding and storytelling can look like. In memory of the genocide and torment that took place in Sarajevo, one of the things on this trip that stood out to me was discovering the meaning behind the concrete roses throughout the city. These roses were formed from craters left by daily explosions during the war. The areas were filled in with red resin to symbolize the scars, bloodshed, hope, and resilience from the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina. While taking a group tour with a Bosnian native we learned the history of the city and one of these Sarajevo concrete roses was pointed out. There appeared to be a fresh blood stain on the concrete, yet it was from a recent rainfall. It was as if the ground was continuing to cry out and display its war scars many years later. This symbolic statement of the concrete roses really made me pause and think of all the innocent lives lost during this three- and half-year war.  A Sarajevo Rose glistening from the rain.
As a Black American Christian, another thing that resonated with me during our tour of the city was how the people are identified by their religion and not the color of their skin. There are three major religions with which Bosnians identify: Orthodox Christianity, Roman Catholicism, and Islam, which is the largest religious group in the region.
Using race categories to identify populations creates a further separation between individuals and communities, then continues to strip them of their cultural and spiritual identities. I believe there is a better way to view and appreciate a person, based on their faith versus an ever-changing label placed on a person or communities based on their skin tone. I am grateful for the opportunity to experience the beauty of Sarajevo, from the mountains that surround the city, to the rich history of resilience, seen in our visit to the Tunnel of Hope that supplied the residents with food and other materials during the war. May God continue to bless the city of Sarajevo and surrounding areas and those who reside there and visit. During the last week of October, WSCF-US joined students and leaders from the WSCF-Europe region of the global WSCF in Sarajevo for a peacebuilding training. A central aspect of WSCF's mission is to connect movements of young Christians and give exposure to the realities of life around the world. The Frame the Future series brought together representatives from student Christian movements in Finland, the UK, Austria, and Germany, and from partner organizations in France, Georgia, Lebanon, Brazil, Colombia, and Azerbaijan. By Ailih Weeldreyer (she/her), WSCF-US National Organizer The greatest gift of belonging to a global movement is that we are given the opportunity to see God at work through people across the world. Our global neighbors teach us that though we may be far from one another, we are united by our hope for peace and justice. We are not alone in our efforts to bring about the kingdom of Heaven on Earth. Last week, I traveled to Sarajevo in Bosnia-Herzegovina to fellowship and learn alongside friends and colleagues from WSCF-Europe. This was the final installation of their Frame the Future peacebuilding training series, which brought together young people from around Europe and the rest of the world to learn about peacebuilding in contexts throughout the continent. In Sarajevo, we learned non-violent communication skills, practiced dialogue, and studied the city’s history of war, division, and reconciliation.  Ailih and Deidre in conversation with peers from Brazil and Germany. (photo by Marcos Dorneles, 2025) On Wednesday, we took a tour of Sarajevo led by a young historian whose depth of knowledge - both academic and lived experience - painted a picture of a city and a culture with a legacy of interreligious harmony. We learned that for centuries, from ancient times through the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires, Bosnians who were Catholic, Orthodox, Jewish, and Muslim coexisted peacefully. The idea that people living in the territory that is now Bosnia-Herzegovina should divide themselves according to the faith community to which they belong emerged only in the 20th century, as a response to oppressive Austro-Hungarian policies. The three main ethnic groups within Bosnia-Herzegovina are Croats, who are mainly Catholic, Bosniaks, who are mainly Muslim, and Serbs, who are mainly Orthodox. As nationalism rose in resistance to Austro-Hungarian rule, people began to identify with their ethnic groups through the signifier of religion. These divisions grew until the fall of communist Yugoslavia in 1992, when war broke out amongst the national groups. The war was brutal, reminiscent of the conflicts we see on our screens today. All parties committed atrocities, with civilians bearing the worst of the violence. During the siege of Sarajevo and the Srebrenica genocide, civilians were starved, shot by snipers, and systematically removed for mass murder by the Bosnian Serb military. Their nationalist struggle for power was fueled by the dehumanization of other groups. Because Serbs in the military could not see their Bosniak neighbors as human, policies of ethnic cleansing and genocide became part of the attempt to win control over territory. Echoes of the conflict remain in plain sight in Sarajevo. Apartment buildings with giant mortar scars, bullet holes peppering concrete walls along the largest road through the city, and red paint splatters represent the memories of war which linger along with feelings of division. We learned that while the Dayton Accords officially ended the violent conflict, the peace agreement lacked policies aimed toward reconciliation of people. Thus the war has been frozen in place, like the “Sarajevo Roses” which mark with red paint the locations where people were killed by mortar fire.
And yet, according to our tour guide, people choose in this state of frozen conflict to remember the spiritual resistance of wartime. The moments of joy and hope were precious, and many people who lived through the Siege of Sarajevo will recall that while it was the worst time of their lives, they also experienced the best moments of human connection and beauty. At the level of daily interactions, Bosnians of all ethnic groups have returned to coexistence. But political divisions and fearmongering remain a threat to peace in the country today. I was strongly reminded of the heightened anxiety and division pushed by political leaders in our own country. I saw how we exist at a time when political violence and tactics of oppression could lead to more widespread violence. At the same time, the continued coexistence of Bosnian people in Sarajevo regardless of their national or religious identity demonstrated enormous potential for restored communal relationships on the political level. Relating this to the American context, it showed me that there is always hope for reconciliation and violent conflict is not inevitable. Experiences like Frame the Future above all remind me to live with a posture of humility. Learning about the many experiences of people from around the world takes me out of my focus on the US and reminds me that we are not special in the problems we face. This is humbling and comforting, in a way. We are not special in our problems, which means that we are not alone in trying to solve them. We can learn from people in deeply divided societies around the world, who have lived through terrible, heartbreaking violence and who are still seeking ways to live more peacefully alongside their neighbors. In our movements in the US, humbly recognizing our un-exceptionality, we can take strategies and courage from those working for the same justice and peace around the world. This reflects our Christian worldview, as well. God’s peace and justice are not limited to one people, one nation, or within borders. As Christians, we draw on a scriptural foundation and a legacy of action that calls us to reach out to others, building peace in our own communities and for all God’s people. On the last day of the training, participants were invited to make a “peace pledge” for the months to come. I pledged to build peace in my own community, knowing that in a deeply interconnected world, the ripple effect would reach places far away. And trusting that the efforts of my friends on the other side of the globe would come to touch my community, too. And now I ask you: What is your peace pledge, for your community and for the world?  By Nathan Samayo (any pronouns), Princeton Theological Seminary, and Emily Carle (she/her), Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary We began the assembly this morning with a devotional time led by Idael Montero Pacheco, pastor at Iglesia Bautista Ebenezer in Habana. We split into groups by geographic region to discuss Luke 24:13-33, the moment when two disciples met Jesus on the road to Emmaus. The North American delegation had a lively conversation about suffering, grace with others, and the nature of transformation in light of political and economic turmoil between the United States and Cuba. Our bible study and morning devotion was a wonderful way to begin our day. For out afternoon activity, we started at Iglesia Presbiteriana Reformada Dora E. Valentín in Varadero (Presbyterian Reformed Dora E. Valentín Church). We were greeted by one of their church elders who, of course, was also a long-time participant of Movimiento Estudiantil Cristiano de Cuba. While learning more about the history of Pres. Church in Varadero, we were shown images of the different SCM events held at Pres. Church in Varadero, of congregational leaders who attended the Evangelical Theological Seminary of Matanzas, and also of Fidel Castro accompanied by Rev. Jesse L. Jackson attending a Methodist Church in La Habana. What a blessing it is for these churches to have these archives—one that paints a historical outline of the ways in which ministry, politics, and revolution have all intersected.
Just down the street from Pres. Church in Varadero, we spent the rest of the afternoon (and into the evening) at Playa Varadero (Varadero Beach). Unless you’ve been to a beach on an island, it’s hard to imagine being able to see the curvature of the Earth. It was a wonderful site to see. The water was warm, and the sand sank between your toes. If I have to be honest, when it comes to solidarity trips like the one we did in Cuba, I am initially skeptical about doing things like spending time at the beach, going to restaurants, and other activities that seem “pleasurable” and borderline, “touristy.” However, while at the beach, I remembered just how important it was to experience joy, recreation, and connection with those you are organizing with. This is not to de-center the significance of why we went to Cuba in the first place—but it is to recognize that connection, solidarity, and relationship happen in numerous ways—some of those ways being through rest, relax, and fun. We stayed at the beach for about four hours—swimming in the water, enjoying a snack, and taking many pictures to archive this wonderful moment. However, we couldn’t escape from casual conversation regarding staying connected and working together to fight the vicious U.S. blockade. Even while swimming in the water, we chatted about “what’s next,” if Cuba has ever done solidarity trips like this with other Student Christian Movements, and what we foresee in the future as we keep this relationship going. Spending time in the water with Movimiento Estudiantil Cristiano de Cuba and the Student Christian Movement of Canada not only solidified our commitment to end the nightmare of the U.S. blockade—but also made us desire, even more, how much we want to see our Cuban family free. As we wrapped up our beach time (and the rest of the day because we were all so tired), the image of all of us laughing, hugging, and being silly is never going to leave my mind and my heart. This is just the beginning.  Cuba, U.S., and Canada delegations at Playa Varadero, November 24, 2023 |
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