Our women's group traveled between Israel and the Occupied Territories/Palestine, meeting people on both sides of the on-going battle for homeland and security. We listened to the stories of a diversity of people as we were hosted, fed, housed, and educated to "the truth"--as they each perceived it. We tried to understand the rationale for the actions that are taking place on both sides and see if there were things that any of us could do to promote peace in the Middle East. We marched and held vigils on both sides, to stand for the idea that killing from either side is not likely to bring anyone closer to peace and security--a fact that seems to be increasingly obvious, day by day, as the killings intensify in recent weeks.
Wherever I went, Muslims asked why I was not afraid to be in their presence. My hosts were acutely aware that they are typically depicted by the US media as terrorists and seen as "the enemy." They were very appreciative that I would "risk" coming into their reality to learn first-hand what was really going on! On my side, I was amazed that they would graciously welcome me into their lives, even though they were being impacted each day in negative ways by the policies of the current administration of my country. And yet they understood that the fact that "my" government was making decisions that adversely affected them did not mean that I necessarily supported those actions, nor feared and hated them as people! Besides, there is an ancient desert tradition--which pervades the culture even to this day--of inviting even your "enemy" into your tent under your protection for food, water, shelter, and warmth. I felt welcomed with a generosity and hospitality rarely seen in our wealthy country.
In truth, I learned a great deal about many facets of this complex story that would take decades to understand at their deepest levels, and now I am motivated to read and study to try to make sense of it all within the context of my own experience. Clearly, reading and trying to visualize something that I have not yet experienced is quite different from the reality of seeing, hearing, tasting, and generally walking in the footsteps of another on their own home turf (or sand and rocks, as the case might be!).
Of course, I still will never really be able to put myself in the mind and body of a Turkish grandmother going to visit Rumi's tomb for the first time, or a Bedouin selling dates in the streets of Palmyra, or the 93-year-old Grand Mufti of Damascus who sees the US as exporting the western consumer mind to his people. I won't be able to really understand the despair and frustration of the 105-year-old Palestinian man who has held tight to the old-fashioned metal key to the home he owns in Israel--which he hasn't been allowed to see for the last 55 years! And I can't "grok" the fear and hatred of Israeli Settlers who believe that they have the God-given right and responsibility (as stated in the Holy Book) to make sure that all of the disputed land belongs to them--or of the secular Israeli who argues that the Palestinian people don't really exist as a nation and therefore have no rights to the land! And it still seems irrational to me to think that terrorist bombings will bring positive world attention to the suffering of the Palestinian people. After only a brief glimpse into the lives of these people--but with a deep connection between our hearts--I have returned to soul-search, ponder, dream, and discuss what I saw, as a way of working out my own appropriate relationship/responsibility to my new friends and their situation.
I did learn how much land, the spirit of place, religious beliefs, and age-old (and fairly modern) history have to do with the struggles taking place in the areas I visited. In Istanbul, which is a big and modern city, there seemed to be a great striving to show their European-style sophistication, with women wearing unbelievably long and narrow-pointed dress boots, revealing mini-skirts and see-through tops. The wearing of scarves by women has been outlawed in the university and at certain jobs (as well as at the official 80th Birthday party for the country, which was happening on the day I arrived). This is all to show the EU nations how "westernized" the Turks have become, so that they will be admitted into the big new club of European Nations!
However, on my 14-hour overnight train trip to Konya in the Anatolia region of Turkey, I was able to get glimpses of the farming peoples and their lifestyles--which were quite a number of centuries apart from their counterparts in Istanbul. In the farming villages, the women still wear the baggy pants made from many yards of patterned cotton, padded vests, and head-scarves--all of which were quite sensible for the frosted winter mornings, when the sky was filled with steam coming off of the sugar-beet harvesting factories. The men wore equally serviceable home-made clothing that kept them warm while herding flocks of sheep and goats through fields and villages, looking for available grass and water. I was, however, surprised and pleased to see that many of both the old and new houses had water storage tanks on their roofs and a set of solar panels to heat the water when the sun decided to shine! So, some things remain the same over the centuries, while others are up-to-date with modern conveniences and styles.
One of the special opportunities I had for the full month of Ramadan (Ramazan in Turkey) was to join in the breaking of the daily fast, with the ceremonial meal called "iftar." Besides its religious significance, celebrating iftar is a wonderful way to feel the deep bonds of community that hold families and friends together. My understanding is that during Ramazan, each family invites family and friends into their home to break the fast, pray, and reconnect with the relatives from near and far, while special dishes are prepared and eaten by all. Truly, breaking the fast with an iftar meal is a lovely ritual to be involved in--whether you are a devout Muslim, love delicious food, or just want to observe the family dynamics!
Throughout Ramazan, I was invited to iftar celebrations in a variety of venues. These included a humble apartment, with not an inch of extra space for the scores of family and friends, and an ostentatious, multi-storied "estate home" looking out onto the banks of the Bosphorus with leather divans and golden urns depicting the glories of past wealth. We were invited to the Hilton Hotel with a thousand noted personalities of Turkey, including movie stars, famous opera singers, and poets, as special guests of the wife of the Mayor of Istanbul. I dubbed this occasion, with its seven-course meal, "The Mayor's Ball." One evening, my hostess Esin Celebi and I had a nearly-private iftar as guests of a friend who sang Sufi illahis (love songs) to us in a vast vaulted underground water cistern left from Roman times and now made into a swanky tourist restaurant.
In Syria, our Interfaith Peace Pilgrimage group was invited to iftar at the mosque of the Grand Mufti (head of the Muslim faith in Damascus), where 1000 orphaned or poor children were being fed each evening of Ramadan. We had iftar in the gorgeous mosque and shrine of Lady Roqai'ya, the four-year-old daughter of Imam Al-Hussain, the grandson of Prophet Muhammad, who fell dead when her father's severed head was dropped in her lap after a particularly grisly massacre in early Muslim history. (The commemoration of this atrocity was recently marked by the deaths of hundreds of Shiite Muslims in Iraq.)
And I celebrated many nights of iftar in the Bedouin tent, and indoor spaces heated by a simple kerosene stove up on the mountain of the 6th century Christian monastery called Deir Mar Musa north of Damascus. There we had a simple fare of olives, homemade goat cheese and yogurt, dates, tomatoes, mixed spices and olive oil all dipped out of communal dishes with the ever-present pita bread. Later, after saying the Christian prayers and mass (in Arabic), and singing songs from various cultures, we shared another meal with these same dishes. Sometimes we also had a soup made of a newly-butchered chicken, or a mixture of vegetables, or perhaps the head of a goat, as well as cookies, halvah, or a homemade treat made in the little kitchen.
Most days, we were joined by pilgrims who had walked the hundreds of steps up the mountain to spend one or more nights in this amazing community where all visitors were honored, fed, and housed (without charge) regardless of their religious beliefs and practices--or lack thereof! This Roman Catholic monastery had ancient stone, castle-like quarters, where life was not too different from what it might have been in centuries past. Nevertheless, we shared wonderful dialogues, personal questionings of our various religious traditions and faiths as well as late-night discussions about politics, activism, and the environmental impacts of over-grazing the desert. Definitely, community was alive and well at Deir Mar Musa, and it attracted pilgrims from around the world and from nearby Muslim and Aramaic Christian villages who were fascinated by their bold attempt to create an opening for cooperative Christian-Muslim dialogue.
In the monastery, life was shaped by the sense of place and history. I had the magic experience of taking my bedding into the unadorned cave which had originally been inhabited by the legendary black Prince of Ethiopia, later named St. Moses the Abyssinian, who had turned his back on riches and power to become a monk several centuries after Christ. The walls of the ancient church had frescoes from the 11th century lit by candlelight and we sat on rugs and pillows on the floor during our services.
From the rooftop patio we overlooked a vast desert valley, which had served as a caravan route for centuries, with camels slowly traversing well below us carrying goods and people from faraway and exotic locations to the souk (the marketplace) in Damascus. Even today, one can find every sort of luxury item from those times including fine silks, gold jewelry, perfume, beads, birds in cages and fish in bowls, spices, hubbly-bubbly water pipes, chocolates, fruit, inlaid wooden furniture, ceramic pots from China, sheepskin-lined Sheik's cloaks, scarves, belly-dancing outfits, and even an ice cream shop within the miles of covered stands and stalls.
After most of our Pilgrimage group had left Damascus, another member, Laurie, and I took a bus on the road toward the Iraqi border and headed for Palmyra, one of the world's greatest Roman ruins. We traveled on the day of Eid (the ending of the month of Ramadan) along with soldiers, men, boys, and a few women and babies. After several hours of unseasonable rain, we were dropped at an eating place/bus stop outside of town, just as it was getting dark and the final iftar meal was about to be served. We got a cab into town, which was totally dark and appeared completely uninhabited. It was very eerie, and even the hotels were abandoned as families went within their dark walls to be together.
Finally, after a few tries, we were able to find an old hotel, with a nine-year-old boy tending the business, while the rest of his family celebrated. He checked us in and pointed in the dark towards a lone restaurant that was open and served us a traditional dish for the season. We returned to the hotel and waited until we began to see lights and hear the sounds of people again moving about in the streets. We went out and visited some shopkeepers, who had decided to open in the hopes that some lone tourists would show up. For that night, we seemed to be the only Westerners in town! We went to bed and got up to explore the many acres of ruins, tombs, castles, etc. We rode camels and were taken by our hosts' cousins out several hours further into the desert to explore a castle, which pretty much had been abandoned and was crumbling back into the desert.
On the way back, we had hoped to stop by one of the hundreds of Bedouin tents, but it had already gotten dark and we couldn't see any candle-light, so we gave up that idea and stopped at a roasted-chicken shop of another relative in a little, dirty, and very muddy town along the way home. We wanted to wash our hands and use the bathroom, so we were escorted through town into the home of the shop's owner, where the whole family was celebrating Eid with the women in their best embroidered velvet dresses. We used the facilities (holes in the floor) and were ushered into the main room, where the women of the family sat and chatted. One was hooked up to IV tubes and obviously in poor condition, but they graciously invited us into their home and even wanted us to spend the night! We declined and set off on the dark, muddy roads back to Palmyra.
Upon arrival, we decided to explore the ruins at night and were assured that we would be safe. There were spotlights on some of the columns and the amphitheater and we enjoyed the crisp night air. We could hear loud music coming from somewhere in town, so with Laurie's bidding, we set off to find out who was having a party. I was feeling shy, but Laurie led the way and quickly made friends with the women who were all on one side of the street, handing out tea to everyone. Soon, they had pulled her out into an arc of men and teenage boys--presumably the eligible bachelors, who were doing a line dance in the street. We learned that they were enacting the ancient rituals of the pre-wedding night (kind of an all-community version of the bachelor party!).
I wasn't too sure that it was proper for Laurie to be dancing with the men in her dirty jeans and baseball cap, but they indicated that I should take pictures of her. I did and soon I was pulled into the dance as well, between two very high-testosterone youth who tried in vain to teach me the intricate steps, hops, and sideways movements. In the center was a dancer who held high a platter of something dark and gooey with flowers and fruit on top. This was passed around and each man or boy entertained the others with his antics.
After a while we were pushed and pulled down the street with a bunch of women, who were headed for the bride's family's home. We were shoehorned into a very crowded and hot room filled mostly with dancing women. The bride appeared and she seemed young, frail, and quite nervous. After some spirited dancing of older women relatives, the platter from the men's circle was brought in and the bride's pinkie fingers were smeared with the dark, muddy henna. Soon, Laurie and I had henna'd fingers as well!
The crowd now went back to the party outside, which had begun to die down. The groom's father with his black suit and silver pistol in his hand wanted to dance with me while chanting "Down Bush! Down Bush!" Then he asked if I was worth "more than 3000 camels" and Laurie and I thought that maybe it was time to excuse ourselves, and head back to the hotel! They begged us to sleep over and stay for the real wedding the next day at noon, but we explained that Laurie was flying out of Damascus the next evening and we needed to get the morning bus back to the city.
We had hoped for an authentic connection with real people and we felt definitely blessed to have been invited into such an intimate family ritual by perfect strangers. My henna is now almost gone from my fingernails as it has grown out over the months--so I assume that I am off the hook in regards to any proposals, marriage contracts, etc. that may have been made inadvertently in my lack of language skills and cultural understandings!
Next I went to Israel and Palestine, where we went back and forth across the checkpoints and roadblocks, getting to know perfectly wonderful people who had been taught for decades to fear and distrust one another. We spent Christmas Eve with Yasser Arafat in the "compound" surrounded by bombed-out buildings, which has become his "jail" for the last three years, since the beginning of this latest Intifada. He seemed delighted to tell us stories of the good old days, with his buddy, Yitzhak Rabin and how they would have found a way to create Peace--if only Rabin had lived! We tried in vain to get an audience with Ariel Sharon or any Jewish members of the Knesset, but they were busy with their budget and refused to accept even a letter from our delegation. We could tell that our progress was closely monitored by the Israeli army and police, and they refused to let us enter either Nablus or the Gaza Strip--because they were actively carrying out raids where Palestinians were being killed and houses were being bombed. Besides being unsafe, it would not have been good press to have pictures and first-hand reports being sent back to the 22 countries represented by our group of mostly aging peace activist types!
We did have the opportunity to meet several Israeli organizations that are actively working towards peace with members from both Jewish and Palestinian sectors of Israeli society. While in the Negev, we were hosted by a women's group, which was dedicated to learning to live and work together in peace. After dinner in an Israeli restaurant in Be'er Sheva we went to a Bedouin town where families took groups of us in for the night in their communal family homes. I was in a group of 15 internationals ranging in age from 17 to 92. Our host family was made up of two obviously loving parents and their nine daughters and six sons, plus their spouses and several young grandchildren.
One daughter in her thirties, who had chosen not to get married but to become a community organizer, was our official hostess. She had been inspired by her grandmother to break out of the traditional women's role and some of her younger sisters were planning to do the same! We were ushered into a room with lots of rolled-up mattresses, heavy blankets, homemade comforters, and pillows stacked up in pile. We arranged them so that all of us could just lie down with enough walking room to go to the bathroom without stepping on anyone's head. Some of the older and more exhausted of us went to promptly to sleep, but others stayed up and got to know the family a little. The younger sisters, still in high school, were especially excited to share stories, cosmetics, and boyfriend pictures with the youngest members of our group.
In the morning, we all went out into the sunny courtyard of this large, extended family home made of stone and met the non-human members of the family--the cow, the sheep and goats now with newborn babies, the chickens, ducks, turkeys, doves, dog, and cats. Under a covered shed, the handsome father was making morning coffee over an open fire with his wide-eyed grandson at his knee, learning from experience about the code of hospitality honored as his Bedouin ancestors have done for millennia in their tents. Clearly, this was a family proudly carrying the strengths and values of the past into their lives as they were forced to change by the circumstances of power and politics. No longer are they allowed to roam the Negev at will with their flocks. Yet, rather than becoming victims of a fate not of their making, they seem to have found a balance between the old and the new that is healthy and inspiring!
Throughout my trip, I found that each time I met and interacted with people in a personal manner, we were able to discover mutual interests, beliefs, and life dreams. I was amazed at the generosity of spirit of people who obviously had so much less than I in material terms, who offered the very best that they had to share. Their only consistent request was "Please go back and tell our story to your people and your governments. Let them know that we are not terrorists and we are not your enemy!"
This I am trying to do to the best of my ability, with as little judgment as possible and with deep prayers that one day all people everywhere will have a life that feels safe, joyful, and abundant! I invite you to join me in this prayer.
Dianne Brause co-founded Lost Valley Educational Center in 1989 and has lived there ever since, with periodic sojourns to other parts of the country and world. She writes for various journals focused on intercultural exchange, understanding, and peace, and is working on a way to make her other articles and photographs available via the internet or on a listserve; if interested, please e-mail her at [email protected] .
©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere