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.

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.

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 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.