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?