This excerpt is from the memoir Flowers in the Wind which describes the ten years I lived communally. The group broke up while we were in Israel. The experience of living there was so extraordinary that it deserves its own separate telling. Orginally written as memoir, revising it into a novel gave it wings. The novel Catch a Dream is slated for spring publication.
Ben Oren was convinced that a nuclear war
was about to start, with Jerusalem as a target. He interpreted the Scripture in
Matthew: “When you see standing in the holy place ‘the abomination that makes
desolate’, spoken of through the prophet Daniel…then let those who are in Judea
flee to the mountains…” to mean that we should go see the Dome of the Rock and
then flee to Egypt as soon as possible. I am not sure why he thought the
fall-out wouldn't land there. I suppose he thought Africa was our “safe” Third
World country.
The Intifada, the Uprising of the
Palestinian people, did not sputter out but flared up over and over and gained
momentum, with strikes and demonstrations in the West Bank, Gaza, and Jerusalem. Jerusalem was particularly
dependent on tourism and even though it meant Palestinian families suffered
from the decision of the community organizers to enforce closure of their
businesses, it became apparent that many felt they had nothing left to lose.
Daily incidents of violence became common. Demonstrations were followed by tear
gas, rubber bullets fired by Israeli soldiers and massive arrests. I had visited
Jerusalem three times at this point. Jerusalem the Golden was an accurate
description—at certain times under a pure sky the very stones were golden and
luminescent. The modern culture overlaying ancient history was intoxicating and
intriguing. In one afternoon you could walk the Roman pavings where Jesus
walked and have espresso in a gleaming modern café. You could bargain for
sandals or ceramic mementoes and pray at the garden tomb where Jesus had
resurrected. And the fantastic mix of
people: shopkeepers, scholars,
Hasids in their tall black hats, Arab vendors, falafel stand owners, young
Israeli women in tight skirts, Palestinian women in scarves, pilgrims from all
over the world, Coptic monks carrying books,
Catholic priests leading processions, tour guides with clusters of
tourists marching by. But the vibrancy
of this ancient contemporary city was crushed by the tension in the air, the
Wall surrounded by jeeps, the presence of soldiers in every street, the
shuttered shops when a strike was called, the possibility of a suicide bomb a
very real threat. But dutifully I made my last pilgrimage, to see the Dome of
the Rock and to say good-bye. This trip was a culmination in a series of steps
that barely made sense but I lived in a state of altered reality. Apocalyptic prophesies coming
true; landing in the country of my dreams only to be engaged in the constant
struggle to provide the basic necessities—all this kept me from articulating my
questions. What are we doing here? We
always provided for others, now we seem to be nomads drifting from place to
place. Are we facing the Apocalypse? Is this the End? Didn’t Ben Oren say we
should be far away from the epicenter of nuclear war, which seems to be under
our feet?
Had I just given up? Had
group-think strangled my rational mind? Unbelievably, I still trusted Ben Oren
at this point, even though it was becoming more and more obvious that he had
not a clue of how to truly bring about healing and harmony.
In Jerusalem frozen rain turned into snow
flurries. The longing for brotherhood and peace that shone from our eyes
connected us with the hearts of those who took us in. Conversations were
emphatic, volatile, bold, and political. They led to conclude that Jew, Arab,
Christian, each envisioned a different peace. The Israelis wanted peace so that
they could continue forward in their imitation of a materialistic America. The
Palestinians wanted the recovery of the land taken from them. It was not
permitted for lands previously Moslem to be usurped by the infidel. At least,
this was how I interpreted the PLO Covenant, a text that made it clear that
all Jews were to be cast into the sea. The Bedouins wanted the freedom to
continue their nomadic lifestyle. The Christians wanted the freedom to control
the holy places, which they had divided and fought over. But I believed these
were simply political foibles that would fall away if individuals listened to
each other's hearts, the heart that cries out for true peace. We brought a
message of the Messiah's return, of Divine Justice. We reflected the desire to
act as brothers rather than seek vengeance as enemies.
I had bought a journal to record my impressions,
to write down my thoughts for the first time in ten years. The experience of
being in Israel was too intense, too complicated, too powerful, not to try to
make sense of what I was witnessing.
The Dome of the Rock, gorgeous in
its structure and calligraphic décor, was supposedly where Abraham almost slew
Isaac in his utter devotion to God’s command and where human sacrifice came to
an end as a form of worship. I wrote in my journal: Held to a Fire eternally sacrificing children, promised to a freedom
never found and always sought for, seared by memory, loss, and grief too deep
to understand, chosen to a destiny of knowing the separation and in love and
pain mending the irreconcilable: God and man's contest of wills--these children
of an inheritance forged in a blaze that consumes the world. I walked through a cauldron of seething
emotions and aspirations, alert to possible danger from Arab boys throwing
rocks and Israelis soldiers responding with tear gas, bullets, and
arrests.
I traveled to “witness” the “abomination”,
the Dome of the Rock, with Ricardo, of Spanish-English descent. He had started
to live with us in Isleta. A gentle, sweet, serious brother. The sun and wind
browned his skin and made wrinkles around his blue eyes. I liked his eyes and
his British lilt. At some point, Ben Oren had simply said, “How can you guys
stand being celibate?” and we had stopped. Ricardo was easy to talk to and snuggle
against. When Carin and I traveled together in Israel, we were usually flirted
with or propositioned. Harmless Israeli attempts that could be responded to
with directness. Traveling with Ricardo was liberating. A fresh start with
someone who didn't know me from years of mistakes pointed out, whispered
gossip, witnessed frustrations. To do the work I believed in—spreading the “Good
News.” Sometimes we cooked a meal for people who were busy, we cleaned the
bathrooms of the hostel where we stayed, we performed simple tasks to make
things nicer. Extending ourselves as guests and as servants. We worked
flawlessly as a team, always mindful of our mission: to practice peace and then
to leave. Jerusalem was poised for yet another war and wept frozen tear-drops.
We fled, touching the place she had marked in our hearts one last time.
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