A day before:
Her: Can I share with you my impressions?
Me: Sure. But like this, on Whatsapp?
Her: I will not overdo it. Just, between us, a bit of transparency, familiarity. I'm good at writing, so for me it's okay. It is important to me to make things heard.
Her: "I am happy about the encounter and also excited about it. If I try, and I can't help it, because it is strong, to think what my immediate environment thinks or will think about it - I think for the most part, they will raise an eyebrow at it, at best. When I say close environment, I'm also talking about my family, which is important and very dear to me.If I put that aside and focus on what lives in me now then I'm also scared.
I told my eldest daughter about it. She heard me, expressed that she was not in favor and that she was also afraid for me. That fear. It lives. I have been wondering about it for many years. I'm so into it that it's hard to undo it. And look at the whole thing in simple humanity. I experienced, like everyone else here, injuries and death.
But I have no disgust or rejection for where I grew up and where I live. Nor to the people who live in it, even if my opinions are very different from them. I can identify with them. Although sometimes they also incite hatred in me.
Meet a neighbor. It's something I want and it interests me and it's important to me. And also scares me. Fear of getting hurt, I'm a mother of five. It may sound delusional to you that I will be so scared. But it's deep, it is rooted. And I would be very happy to refute it. And fear of what rejection I might receive from my surroundings.
And yet, to hear from my daughter, who opposes the matter but tells me not to let anyone else interfere with the choices I make, it makes me happy. She lives and contains complexity and that is probably the opening and the basic ability to start something. "
In the day of the encounter:
08:00 in the morning I arrive at the meeting point we set in a nearby settlement. We were both early. I call him, but he's not home yet. Went to get falafel and chickpeas for breakfast.
Me: "Well, call when you get home. In the meantime we are going to visit others."
08:10 we arrive at a Palestinian village, at first it seems that no one is home and then they come out of the cave with the sheep, a smiling couple, and despite the surprise we arrived without notice and even though they are busy they stop everything and sit down with us in a tent. "It's the difference between us and them," I tell her. "We live tomorrow and they are always in a kind of continuous present." They ask about the guest: "Where is she from, and how many children does she have?" The tea, pita and olive oil with the hyssop arrive. Laughter erupts when they find out they are the same age. The questions go on about marriage and living separately and how to live and what to do.
"He" calls: "I arrive home - you are welcome to come." When we break up, I pull out two pairs of shoes and hand them over to the family we stayed with.
We traveled a bit and entered another Palestinian village. When we stop, the eyes are on us. She feels them and says that if she had been dressed differently she might not have felt comfortable now. There's something in the dress, I think, that says something about us. About our belonging, about our social position.
"He" welcomes us warmly and they make a basic acquaintance. We heat the pitas on the wood stove in the center of the room, wipe chickpeas off the same plate and eat falafel - the way this simple food connects everyone. After exploring acquaintances they share feelings: Is it scary to meet the other? How will you feel when you enter the village of the "other"? What are you not afraid to enter the house of the "other"? "No," he replies. "I used to be excited and maybe even a little now if it's someone new but I'm already used to it. I've been with Eyal and other friends in their house and despite the differences between us I can feel comfortable with the other."
The session is short and seeps deep, we leave the firewood and chairs I brought and say goodbye until next time.
An encounter, simply human, honest and genuine. Without shielding armor. Thus, with an open heart, containing and also exposed - her, him and me, with the simplicity of the good in life.
After the encounter she writes to me:
"I woke up in the morning excited. Looking outside, while the house was dozing off, I held my breath. Clear air that can be seen every stream and stone in the hills rolling down and above them, heavy gray clouds, in the center a window of bright pink light, which grew stronger. I stood and watched and suddenly burst into tears. He's so old, so absorbed and so painful.
The thought of meeting old neighbors, for many years, living side by side without meeting, without looking into the eyes, without knowing at all, it hurts. Turns out it's hurt me for a long time. Quiet pain. The habits of life here, fed by words of separation, silence, this separated pain, the rupture. Just people and again, just people, by all means.
Stepping on my neighbors' land, entering their homes, sitting in front of them and with them, saying words and hearing, I had a cure for an ancient pain that is not only mine at all. The wounds of old peoples are being caressed. Without doing much, without shouting loudly. Thank you for that silence. "
* Only Fear Dies is the name of a book by Barry Long published by Shelf (Madaf) translated by Nitzan Michaeli
To donate to the project out of Israel: eyalshani@gmail.com
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