Mixed Feelings at the Arab-American Film Festival

a little piece I wrote that just went live...

http://newvoices.org/2012/11/12/mixed-feelings-at-the-arab-american-film-festival/

Jerusalem Bus Ride

Standing in line for the 74, I untangle my ear buds in the palm of my hand. The cold night air cuts deep as I dodge the elbows and bags of encroaching passengers. Walking to the back of the bus, I pass rows of Israelis. Religious women have their hair wrapped in patterned cloths that extend a foot above their head. Bundled up old men with plastic bags at their feet stare at themselves out the windows. The bus pulls away from the curb and speeds through Jerusalem, encased in orange lamplight. Suddenly, a melody lifts above the engine. Faces freeze. Someone is singing in Arabic.

            Everyone starts shifting in their seats. A man wearing knotted tzit-tzit cranes his neck to stare. The voice rises louder and louder, twisting in the air until my ears ring. A soldier stands up. I tilt my head slightly over my shoulder and see a girl wearing a leather jacket with long black hair and red lipstick. She grins widely, perched on the edge of her seat. I look back at the passengers in front of me. A man yells at her to be quiet from the front of the bus.

            “Enta Omri! Oum Kalthoum! A classic!” she yells back. “What do you want?” She snaps at the crowd in Hebrew. Everyone tries to ignore her. Then the girl begins clapping and singing in Hebrew. Whispers spread. She scrunches up her face and mimics an American accent. A few people chuckle. The Haredi boy sitting to my right giggles and leans onto his arm to hide his smile.

I look back at the girl and smile too. She stops and speaks to me in Hebrew, but soon begins again in English:

            “What’s your name?”

            “Catie.”

            “Kitty? That’s my name,” she laughs loudly. “Kitty, Catie, Kitty, Catie,” she points back and forth between us. At the next stop, she swings into the aisle. She starts singing in Arabic once more, this time a little quieter. The doors open. She steps off. I put my ear buds back in and look out at the cityscape. The drone of the engine rises and I pull out my ear buds. 

Valley of the Kings

            I cross the threshold into the cool limestone burial shaft. A mustachioed Egyptian guard wearing a long grey robe eyes me as I pass. Light fills the first part of the passageway and dissolves into aquamarine shadows. I walk along the board ramp that slopes down to the sarcophagus of Seti II. Reliefs of human figures are carved into the chalky walls, many of which are rimmed coral and cobalt with residual paint. I can see ahead that the ramp drops into a steeper second slope that leads to the entrance of the tomb.  From afar, the entrance’s doorway glows apricot. For a moment, I see movement. Hypnotized, I walk slowly towards the coffin. My body is soaked with calm. The coolness spreads to my neck, arms, and cheeks, and suddenly I am six years old resting my face on my grandma’s marble table.

            Above the entrance are images of the Mehen snake coiled into a hundred figure eights. Its tail turns into a rope that is then pulled from Osiris’ mouth by strong young men. Time reverses and death rejuvenates. I slide my fingertips into the grooves of the pharaoh’s chiseled face. The Egyptian guard appears at my side. He tilts his flashlight to show me a mirror underneath the lid. Together we read the reflected glyphs. And then I realize I can’t stay here forever. Hesitantly, I walk back towards the sunlight.  

The Real Thing

“The Bedouin who’s doing the kidnapping is Ali. One time he shot everyone at a checkpoint. So the military took his mother hostage to try to catch him. They got a phone call warning that if she was not returned unharmed in two hours he would do it again.” Our Egyptian guide pauses. “They believed him.”

It’s 2am and we’re winding through the jagged silhouette of the Sinai desert en route to St. Catherine. The road is blocked ahead by three oil barrels painted red, black, and white with the Egyptian flag. My tour group is fast asleep, slumped into the corners of our minivan. We wait in the pumpkin glow of the checkpoint as passports and faces are confirmed. The soldiers drag the canisters away and inform us a military convoy will escort us back when we’re done hiking.

 I’ve wanted to climb Mt. Sinai since I was five years old, when I first saw Cecil B. DeMille’s “The Ten Commandments.” I imagined standing at the peak alongside a white bearded Charleton Heston to a soundtrack of glorious trumpets. Seventeen years later, I’m risking my safety because of a Hollywood movie filmed in the 1950s. Not just that, I’m risking the dream evaporating into reality.  

There are two ways to scale the mountain. A steep 3,700 step staircase or a gentler, curvier camel route. Of course I want to take the stairs. When we arrive, we’re told by our Bedouin guide that it’s too dangerous to climb them at night. His name is Musa, the Arabic pronunciation of Moses. I ask our Egyptian guide if a little Baksheesh, tipping, will help. He talks to Musa in Arabic, and I can tell he is not talking about money, but dreams. Musa’s head is wrapped in a thin white cloth and underneath his mustache is a firm, peaceful smile. Then suddenly he nods and we’re off, passing the huddled mass of tourists.

We ascend under the moon and stars. The staircase twists through shadowed boulders and the mountains rise like velvety stage curtains. We scramble up the broken stone steps. Our hands tingle from the cold wind.  The desert is silent except for heavy breathing. I take the lead. Musa tells me right or left when I stray too far.

A thin line of tangerine light appears. It expands into two layers of peach and apricot. Then the half dome of the sun emerges, fiery and crisp. Honey sun pours into the cobalt mountain range. People try to snap the colors up. To be honest, the scene does not exactly match the image in my heart.

The trek back goes too quickly. I feel the moment slipping away. Dreams change, it’s a part of them coming true. Later our Egyptian guide confesses how worried he was that something terrible would happen. Nights before, he dreamed that Ali captured us. I stare at him, shocked that he took us anyway. I feel a surge of gratitude. He believed in my dream more.

Makhtesh Ramon

We lie on our backs watching the underbellies of army jets roar above us. Below is a drape of desert, heaps of charcoal and red sand. The day before we hiked past turquoise striped cliffs and magenta pits of dirt.  Walking back to our campsite, the cold night air caught in our mouths as we gazed in awe at the diamond studded sky.

The bowl of the crater is sealed off from all noise except for the king, king of sliding rocks around our feet. The Romans marched through this prehistoric playground long ago, but today we run up and down dinosaur-back ridges and hold stone slabs above our heads like Moses. Now this is our land and our fun. 

Gilgamesh

My close friend has just left. Icy rain splatters onto my scalp and trickles down my face. My fingers and toes are bloated and turning purple from the cold. As she drives away in a taxi I feel the loss immediately. I’ve been anxious over this impending void all week. You see I used to think Israel was inherently powerful and beautiful, but lately I’m realizing that my friendship created a large part of my experience. My priorities have shifted to happiness. Last week my friend and I hiked the largest crater in the world. As I stared into the shimmering desert sky I found myself very wrapped up in the story of my life. I had to stop myself. As a little girl, I imagined Middle Eastern scenes of comfort and bliss. I stretched these static images into a linear timeline of life goals. I had forgotten that the original purpose was not achievement but relaxation and happiness. It occurred to me that Chris McCandless’ deathbed conclusion was right: Happiness is only real when shared.

            Tonight I’m debating with a Yale graduate about technology. He tells me technology improves the quality of life of people across the globe as well as grant equal access to knowledge. I tell him such advancement is inextricably linked to a system that requires many to suffer. He describes advancements that will eventually lead to the end of disease, to the elimination of suffering due to physical ailments. He conceptualizes a world in which death becomes a choice. He dreams of transferring experiences and memories from person to person so that the world becomes truly empathetic. He talks of shared consciousness. In truth this man wants what religion has been advertising for a long time.

All I hear is return.  There is no difference between Gilgamesh and the scientist who dreams of perfecting the human body to the point of postponing death indefinitely. If we stop getting caught up in the narrative of history and focus on our day to day actions, to the implications of our current choices, then maybe we’d understand the resulting negative effects. It’s when we start telling stories that sacrifices are made.

            “Yes, technology patches a problem without fixing it,” he agrees with me. The rate at which we address flaws is exponentially increasing. The lapse between the problem and the answer is decreasing, don’t I know?

            But it seems we are covering our tracks at a faster rate. We are trying not to feel the consequences of our world and we are able to seemingly erase them faster and faster. We have no time for morality. I imagine a person sweeping away their footprints until it looks like they’re not even walking. And then I find myself arguing for the utter necessity of death, for the value of loss.  And the words come from my own mouth, “We have to die.”

It Strengthens Your Heart To Be Alone In The Wilderness

Lifting the gate hatch, I cross into church territory and tuck my camera deep into my pocket. I quietly pass the monastery and walk towards the trail head that plummets to the Aegean Sea. Cold wind catches in my mouth as I begin to hike alone, down a muddy eroded staircase that twists and winds. Goats stop and stare at me, their collar bells chiming in the wind.

At the bottom of the staircase is a cave dwelling, a quiet place where monks stay on certain soul-full nights. There’s an altar set up inside with golden icons and beeswax candles.  As I continue walking, I realize that I’m standing atop a giant ancient archway that overlooks a gorge. So I swing my purse over my back and scramble down the side, using branches and roots for support. My boots  crunch against the marble rocks and the sound hurls itself like a slingshot. Slab walls tower above me. In the center of the stone valley, I’m completely exposed.

It strengthens your heart to be alone in the wilderness. And I've never been so alone. You can lose your identity in vastness.

The gorge opens onto the sea and everything is crooked. Moon-rock cliffs shoot out at odd angles from the shoreline like beached flying saucers and the sea seems to be tipping onto land.  I sit down, thinking I’ll meditate or at least contemplate this feeling. But nothing comes and I get up— almost too nervous to make the trek back. Marching through the gorge, I envision mythical heroes wandering through these landscapes, courageous people who never blurred boundaries. They kept their categories, their culture, their position, their limits, their strength. 

But with the sea crashing at my back, 

I find myself evaporating into impermanence with a rapidly beating heart. 

The Imam and his Wife

      The Imam and his wife sit as a king and queen in folding metal chairs. The young leader has long slender fingers that open and flick as he speaks. He makes an L-shape with his thumb and pointer-finger that twists by his head to express an idea. In between questions, he reaches for his wife's hand. The woman is draped in a black robe, bird-like and still. But her stillness makes the entire room fidget. Her skin is white as the walls and her painted down-cast eyes belong in an illuminated manuscript

       The audience is not used to this kind of beauty. They’re unsure whether to regard this woman as princess or slave. The California boys stare at her intently, waiting for her to move, for small signs of suffering and oppression. They are lost in exotic mystery and their ears close up as if underwater. Suddenly the wife’s laughter crashes in. She crosses her legs and the hem of her robe rises to reveal a pair of blue jeans and white socks with red hearts on them. And with this flash of red, white, and blue the boys chuckle and breathe easy.

Two Twenty Minute Writing Exercises

 #1. Description of Abraham from Jordan:

     Abraham is one of five local Bedouins allowed entrance into the touristy “Cave Bar” located right outside the gates of Petra. His dress is part gangster, part Bedouin. His jeans are slung low on his thick hips and his head is wrapped with a thin white cloth. This man constantly moves. When he sits and talks, he rocks back and forth. He acts out his stories, occasionally gripping the armchair to show someone’s surprise. He lets his words gain momentum as he swings and the tourists glare when he laughs with his tongue stuck out. His dark arms are not inked with a tribal roadmap like the rest of the Bedouins that pinpoints their site-specific heritage, their blood tie to the land. His movements are Western. He mimes out gestures from movies and magazines, but he tells me he will never visit America and he tells me he is stilling waiting to be allowed back into Jerusalem.

 #2. S.Y Agnon was the author of “Fable of the Goat,” a symbolic short story that describes the connection between Jews living in the diaspora and in Israel. In the story, a son travels and finds the Land of Israel. He sends for his father by tucking a note inside a goat’s ear and directing him back home. When the father fails to find the note, he slaughters the animal and thinks his son is lost forever. The goat represents many things, including the “easy” pathway to Israel, which has been destroyed. Below is an imagined dialogue between S.Y. Agnon, who came to Israel in the early 1900s and Abraham about the story. (Btw, the goat is magical and its milk tastes like Eden.)

           “It was stupid to kill the goat with milk and honey flowing from the udders,” Abraham puts his hands up to his chest, pats, and gestures milking his nipples.

            Agnon smirks and nods, shifting in his seat.

            “I think this goat was my brother actually.” Abraham lifts a glass of frothy beer to his lips. “The son killed my brother, sent him to his death. My goat brother, used to live in the mountains, caves—a happy life.” Abraham sets the glass down and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “The Bedouin have a saying: strong as the desert, soft as the sand, move like the wind, always free. Now his blood is spilled all over,” Abraham claps his hands and spreads them out in the air. “The old man killed the messenger.”

            “It is not your messenger,” Agnon says and takes a sip of tea.

“You see honey and milk, I see blood and sand. I cannot visit where my family has been buried. My blood,” Abraham extends his arms to show his tree-root veins.

“Yes but every Jew is tied to Israel. Deep in the ground, every Jew that has ever or will ever exist, is connected. The internal Israel and the physical Israel. All their ghost souls, all the people, belong in Israel.”

“It is my home too. Rocks, sky, water,” Abraham shakes his opened hand.

“ I am talking of a promise.”

Abraham sits back, raises his eyebrows, and cocks his head to the side. He shrugs and looks away, drumming his fingers against the armchair. “Strong as the desert, soft as the sand, move like the wind, always free,” he murmurs in a sing-song voice.

            

The City of Lions

  Tonight there is a Medieval festival in the Christian quarter of the Old City. Dancers attached to pulleys run up and down one of the ancient walls at a ninety degree angle. Dressed up as knights, they mime out a literal war-dance in spotlight.  They kick off the wall and spin, entangled.  Below, two men fight, striking each other's shields with swinging balls of fire. Deeper into the quarter, a crowd gathers around a fire breather. The man is dressed in peasant rags and spins a torch lit at opposite ends. His dark face is slick with moisture as he blows out flames. Everything suddenly becomes alive--a scene straight out of 1,001 Arabian Nights.  The peasant drops his torch to climb a suspended rope that extends into the night sky. He twists the cord around his body, folding, spinning, balancing. As he dances above us, rain suddenly breaks and I'm forced to wrap my scarf around my head like a Muslim. The rain pours down harder and harder and I cannot help but throw my head back and smile with all my heart: I'm here, I'm here.

Protest Night

      Young hipsters and middle-aged couples are pressed together holding up printed signs of protest. A student shouts into her bullhorn at the top of her lungs, her neck tight and bulging. The crowd leaves the sidewalks to start marching into the middle of the street. Above us, people are taking pictures from their balconies.  Cars honk and children wave as they watch us pass by. Police lights flash and traffic stops. I am surrounded by singing, clapping, happy people and am suddenly struck by how beautiful my generation is. Drummers beat behind us and I can feel their sound rising in my chest. Suddenly we sit down in the middle of an intersection flooded in lamplight. I never cared enough to protest before and now that I'm here in Israel, I finally feel free. I wonder about what I've been missing all this time. Why didn't I have a community? Why did I feel alone? Why didn't I take a chance? Why did I continue to listen to my parents?  Why didn't I yell at the top of my lungs? Why did I ever let myself feel helpless?

Rome

            We weave our way through cramped underground tunnels hundreds of feet below the Muslim quarter. These tunnels follow the perimeter of the Western Wall that extends underneath the ground towards the Dome of the Rock. This is the closest Jews can get to the foundation stone, the stone where Abraham nearly sacrificed his son Isaac. The wall is soft and dimpled with age. It is made up of gigantic stones with the largest being forty-five feet long and weighing more than fifty-eight elephants. Somehow, they were all pushed and lifted to form one great partition around the Second Temple. We continue through a series of branching caves until we reach an ancient aqueduct. There the tour guide explains that King Herod built the Second Temple as an international holy space. Jerusalem, you see, was meant to be a true city of peace. Unfortunately, the Romans sacked the temple seventy years after it was built. “Today, we hope Jerusalem will become a city of peace again. Rome is no more,” he says, “You will not see any Roman soldiers when we go back out. On another note, we will be exiting through the Muslim quarter and will be escorted by two armed security personnel, this is no joke.”

Our group leaves the ancient ruins far below and walks out into the crisp night air. The cobblestones are slick with lamplight and there are few people on the street. All the Muslim minarets are lit up with glowing tubes of green neon lights. The walls are lined with Arabic graffiti and signs advertising Biblical treasures. The security guard walks in front of me in jeans and a sweatshirt.  I can see a hand gun peeking out between his belt and boxers. He swaggers and turns his head back and forth.  Old Arab women weighed down by plastic shopping bags limp past merchants closing up their shops. A few Hasidic men with long side-locks and dark coats rush past. And I realize that the guns are not really for my protection for I know that we must be ok, if these religious men can pass through unharmed. The guns are to send a warning.  A man drops a load of heavy boxes behind us and the woman in front of me quickly turns around with eyes strained and scared. I want to shake her and say snap out of it, I want to stop this guard and tell him to leave, but instead we all move in closer to one another and I cannot tell if we are sheep or a shield wall. 

Resistance: A journal entry

            We sit around the table in candle light after all the dishes have been cleared. A girl mentions prospering pharmaceutical companies and I soon find myself revealing the ghost tracks between various business heads in America. The conversation zones in on cancer, and I mention some information a biochemist friend told me. Cancer is not so much the result of trace toxins in your food, your deodorant, your makeup, or your toothpaste, but your DNA breaking five times in the same place. Odds are, when it binds again it’ll get the code wrong and a mutation will occur. My friend looks at me with big hazel eyes, “So they know what causes cancer. You mean they can cure my Grandpa who’s on Chemo?”
            Our conversation flitters from soldiers, to AIDS, to animal testing. I mention a radio piece that made me cry: In the 1950s the U.S. government developed vaccinations by giving prisoners and patients in insane asylums various diseases.  One girl hesitates before she talks. “Think about it though,” she says, “I’m happy I don’t have Polio or Mumps. We’ve come a long way.”

            “You have to look at the origins of things,” I answer. “We accept these diseases as our reality, but they didn’t always exist. You need to look at how they got here. Some diseases are the result of living too close to our own shit, eating the brains of another creature, or feeding an animal its parent. Look 100 years into the future and civilization will have created one more disease we accept as a reality and who pays?”

            Suddenly, I feel I’m getting close to a tangible definition of what sustainability means. As my speech intensifies, I can see people withdrawing. It’s a fine line between preaching and explaining. As we all fall silent, I stare down at the table and can see the fluid line between government subsidies, banks, malnourished children, and wealthy pharmaceutical companies so well I could trace it. I sense I’m near the heart of the beast here in Jerusalem. And as I stand next to this wet, hot, beating organ I feel the urge to puncture it with my pen, to let thousands of years of blood spill out until everyone can see what they’re bathing in. 

Gilad Shalit

One prisoner for one thousand: Gilad Shalit was released today.  He looks like a holocaust victim.  His face is pale and pointy, his eyes are black as soot. His broken, timid smile makes him look like a goblin. How can this woman, this interviewer, ask him questions? This man was maybe raped, certainly beaten and brainwashed. Sitting in Bagel Bite Delicatessen, watching him on screen, I try to keep the salty tear fluid from clouding my eyes. The waiters are smiling and turning up the volume. Their brother is home. Everyone stops what they’re doing to watch. How can I eat knowing this man was in captivity for five years? How can you eat? The possibilities of his experience make me want to vomit. Go ahead, let yourself imagine them. 

Why We Fight: An open letter

Dear Friend,

           

This morning I woke up and had a strange urge to watch my favorite scene from “Dances with Wolves,” which I think you said you’ve seen. It’s the one when Kevin Costner dances alone around the fire with his arms spread out to the night sky. He twirls under the stars to the sounds of American Indian chants and mimes out being a warrior. And it hit me that the fight’s in our blood. We all wait for a battle that we sometimes never get to fight. I’m not talking about the “human need” to go to war with one another, I think that assumption’s bullshit. I’m talking about the burning drive to push against an opposing force, even the desire to die in the process. I think people pervert this desire with their fascination of soldier’s “glory,” cold mechanized killings and domination. I know people demonize their enemies to create a dummy to fight against. But I see now that that phenomenon is just a desperate search for something to fight for. I’ve been waiting, ever since I was a little girl, for that ancient battle I think we all dream of, leading friends and family and rising like shadow-children of the earth.

          I don’t expect a response, I just for whatever reason thought to share this idea with you. I hope you’re doing well,

Catie

Honesty

Middle-Eastern music floats in through my window tonight, watery and hypnotic. Everything is different here in Israel, nothing is the same. I’ve been living in a dream world for way too long, keeping life at an arm’s distance. I know if I don’t turn that world into art there’s really no point. The music grows louder; the voices rise and harmonize in the streets. I regret that people missed my joy, I kept it so well hidden deep in my solar plexus. I would cave in my chest as if to hide my heart and conceal my smile with a smirk. It doesn’t matter now, because I’m in the center of things. With a vision of a shimmering coast, traveling truck-caravans, laughing and music I suddenly remember the person I wanted to be, the life I wanted to live. I remember what it’s like to touch, to smell, to breathe. The music is crashing in now and it forces me out of my apartment. There I see the source of the sound: the messiah-mobile. The black van has green, pink, and blue neon tubes and a net of flashing lights attached to its sides. On top of the roof sits two giant lit-up sculptures of crowns. Music is exploding out of the vehicle and the Orthodox Jews are jumping around with the Torah. A man’s voice cries out to God and I see that we’re all just people here, flesh and blood, dancing together in the streets, waiting for rebirth. 

The Christian Quarter

                As I walk through Jaffa Gate a man selling pita bread calls out to me. I attempt to ignore him, but as he persists I turn my head. He rushes up very close and says, “Hello, don’t be scared. Why are all of you always scared, always white people.” I try to look directly into his eyes that are hidden behind sunglasses and say in an even voice, “I’m not scared. I have some place to go.”

            I hurriedly make my way to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the supposed burial place of Jesus. Entering the church, I’m hit by the scent of beeswax and frankincense. I wait in a line full of Russians with molded high cheek bones, painted eyes, and wet whispers that remind me of when I was a little girl. Only a few people are ushered in by the priest at a time. Inside, the stone tomb is dark and smoky. Dozens of golden lamps with long chains hang from the cave-ceiling. There’s a hobbit-sized arched doorway that leads to a second room. Bending down, I pass through into an amber glow of icons and candles. Tilting my head back, I look up into a cluster of lamps suspended in a dark void that extends into nothing. Suddenly, I feel deep down in the center of the Earth.

            Walking back to Jaffa Gate, an Arab shopkeeper asks me where I got my dress. This time I stop.

             “You’re beautiful and you’re wearing a beautiful dress, let me make you earrings to match.”

 I hesitate as he ducks inside his shop. “I’m not here to spend money.”

            “It is alright,” he waves me in. Small rectangles of woven rugs line the ceiling. All of the walls display strands of turquoise, carnelian, and tiger’s eye. A Muslim alarm clock that plays the call to prayer sits above the doorway. As he fiddles with two lapis beads and a pair of thin metal pliers I ask the man questions about his work.  When he’s finished, I try on one of the earrings.

            “Here, let me,” he picks up the other and before I know it he pushes my hair behind my ear to get the hook through the opening. I don’t know what to do and I know he won’t be able to do it without force. After a second, he gives up. I thank him for the gift. He says it’s good for business, that maybe I’ll come back to buy something and bring a friend. “I’ll make you a necklace next time.” Suddenly, he brushes open my button-down sweater and touches the skin below my neck. “You like them short or long?” I quickly close it and jerk my head back.

            “Yes, cover up if you’re more comfortable.” His brown eyes are wide and I cannot read his expression. I shake his hand and leave. Alone with eyes forward, I walk down the empty cobbled stone street past the leering men.

Nashim

            At 9pm we cross the checkpoint into the West Bank. Three of my friends and I are crunched into my Hebrew teacher’s little car on the way to see Kever Rachel: Rachel’s tomb. The holy site sits in a small bubble of Israeli territory on the other side of the partition wall. An Israeli soldier approaches us with a machine gun slung loosely across his hip and Odelya rolls down the window to speak to him in a fast riff of sing-song Hebrew. He quickly smiles and waves us on without questioning.  “I just kept blessing him so there would be no questions, he’ll think she’s one of those,” Odelya laughs. We drive down the short road guarded by high-wall security fences. This area used to be verdant groves and rolling hills. Now, busses transporting families from Jerusalem weave between police jeeps.

Rachel is a tragic matriarch in the Hebrew Bible who waited seven years to marry her true love Jacob. After seven years, she was then compelled to give him to her older sister. When they finally did marry, Rachel died giving birth to her second child. She bled to death and since it’s unholy to touch a corpse that has lost blood, Jacob was forced to bury her on the side of the road, isolated and far from her family. Rachel represents the person who is on the path, but is not getting to where they want to go because of obstacles. 

As we enter the site, we slowly submerge ourselves into a group of religious women. The cave-like room has white-washed walls that stretch up into a domed ceiling. The huge arched tomb rests at the very back and is covered with a white embroidered cloth. Women and whispers forcefully press in on all sides. We follow Odelya hand-in-hand as she expertly wades through the crowd. Reaching the front, she wraps a white knit scarf around her shoulders and prays into her small Siddur. When it’s my turn to touch the tomb, I press my left hand into the cloth and close my eyes. I feel a thin electric trickle down my vein and think:  your blood is my blood, bone of my bone, life of my life, death of my death. And then it stops, I feel nothing.

 I wander back through a sea of foreign faces: haggard, paunchy, sharp, strange. Outside, women are sifting flour in big plastic bowls. Odelya explains that in ancient times people brought bread sacrifices to the Temple. Today, women symbolically continue the tradition by preparing bread at the tomb and baking it at home. Baking Challah is one of the three things women are compelled to do in Judaism.  “When women come together to pray it is very powerful. We are not allowed to study Kabbalah,” Odelya says, “we are not required to study Torah. Why?” She looks at all of us in the eyes. “Women are more spiritual than men. Men have to work to get to a spiritual place. They need the book to help them get there,” she curls her hand into a fist and motions an imaginary line from her heart to the sky. “Women are always there, they just have to open their mouths and speak it. According to Torah, man is light that grows and spreads everywhere. Women are vessels, the containers. Some men resent being contained, but those borders make the light concentrated and exact, like a laser beam,” she puts her hands together and cuts a line of air in front of us. “Otherwise they are only light that does nothing. A man is compelled to marry a woman, but a woman is not compelled to marry a man in Judaism. They need women’s help you see.”

            “Then why do women have such a small part of the Western Wall?” my friend asks in a quiet voice.

            “Men do not know...they still do not know...people do not understand,” she answers.

            Odelya is beautiful and as she speaks other women turn to look at her in wonder. I know very little about her, only that she is Yemenite, not married, university educated, and religious. Mostly, I know that she inspires me.

            “Can we take a picture with you?” my friend asks.

              “Yes, yes,” she quickly walks over to the sign that says Nashim: Women.  She points and grins. “Here, this’ll be a feminist picture.”

          

Nationalism

Today we had a seminar on the history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict since the 1993 Oslo Peace Accords. That year marked a real turning point in which the Palestinian Liberation Front finally acknowledged Israel’s right to exist and Israel finally acknowledged the PLO as an authoritative entity over a unified people.

            The teacher shows us film clip after bloody film clip of the First and Second Intifadas. I’m shocked by a room filled with a shallow lake of bright blood being swept up by an Israeli emergency response worker, two cowering Palestinian boys being shot point-blank, and lynch mobs on both sides. The seminar ends with footage of an Orthodox Jewish family being removed from their settlement homes in the Gaza Strip. In 2005, that narrow piece of land was transferred back to the Palestinians. The mother and children scream in rage and claw as they’re gently carried out.

            Tonight, I hear our Madricha talking in our dimly lit apartment. The girl I live with mentions that someone in class asked if the Palestinians must have felt the same way when forced to flee their homes in 1948. The counselor pauses before answering.

            “With my humanity glasses on, yes, I can see the similarities, but no, I don’t think so. At the end of the day, I see it from my side and I want to protect my country.”

            I slip into my bedroom. I scowl until my brain hurts and I feel like I’m going to suffocate from all the contradictions. There has not been peace in the Middle-East since the invention of writing. A state by its nature will fall and when borders turn to vapor we’ll maybe see each other as the herds we’ve become. So if you have them, why the fuck would you take your humanity glasses off.

I was just thinking

     The last time I drove Highway 1 I caught a glimpse of the sun peering like a giant eye through smoky clouds. I pulled over and parked on one of those raised sandy turnouts that overlook the ocean. The pearly light was spread over the grey-green water as it sloshed up on the sand. Suddenly, I saw the ancient golden statues I had glorified liquefy into the blood that built them and all of the stone temples crumble into the bones of our first ancestors laid open and unburied under the sun. And as civilization reversed its flow in one deafening inhale I sat in the burnt out fields of California. Even so, I still traveled over 7,000 miles from my home,  even if it's just to see really good magic.