“Exile is when your mind is off one place, you are
talking about some place else, and your body is here,” my Hebrew teacher says
as she grips the steering wheel. We
speed down the desert highway, passing through lamplight puddles and rock
shadows. Suddenly she breaks hard to pick up a hitchhiker with peyos and
glasses. He silently slips into the backseat and together we drive up the
winding hill to the tomb of the tzadik, the prophet Shmuel Hanagid.
The building that houses the tomb is surrounded by a
patchwork of partially excavated mikvahs and altars. The archeological site was once converted into
a mosque and from time to time, Muslims still try to come and pray there. Behind
the crumbling labyrinth, stretches a valley of luminous Arab cities. We walk
along the edge and the night wind lifts our hair. A few dogs that
have been sleeping in the ancient rooms rouse themselves and trot over.
The
tomb itself is cloaked in embroidered cloth covered with plastic. My Hebrew teacher
walks over and drapes herself over it, pressing her forehead to the tomb. Her
prayers come out in short gasps of breath. I pray for five minutes and then go out to
wait. In walks a family of three. An old woman wearing an auburn wig and bandage
around her leg sits down across from me while her daughter, a young lady wearing
a long denim skirt and Reeboks, takes her baby inside to pray. Soon the old
woman tries to speak to me in Hebrew, but I tell her,
“Ani
Medaberet Ivreet Kisat.” I speak little
Hebrew.
“At Yehudit?” You Jewish?
“Ken, Ken.” Yes.
“Baruch HaShem”
she says in a raspy voice and pushes her fingers into the air to praise God. When
my Hebrew teacher finally emerges, I peek inside one more time. The baby’s
face is gently pressed against the tomb and giggling. The mother turns to look
at me. She pats her son’s back and supports his legs. Grinning, the baby hugs
the tomb.
Driving
back home, my Hebrew teacher and I discuss many things. Closed doors inspire
confidence. I begin to realize that if I leave this car, nothing will ever be
clear again. Everything will escape out that tiny crack. The birds spiraling
around the Kotel, guns slung on hips, shimmies to doumbeks, the wine on
Shabbat, the smiles that push your eyes out of the way, the friends, the
prayers, the soft touch of his skin, the emotion of freedom, the hope of a
happy life,
the knowing who you are,
the night air.
Click.
No comments:
Post a Comment