What I Will Remember
Shiny green meadows and dusty deserts. The golden dome of Al-Aqsa twinkling in the sunlight. The fog over the murky water of the Galilee, with a surface so smooth my footsteps send down ripples deep into the sea. Soccer jerseys, striped in red and blue, sold on the Via Dolorosa. Dimly lit hip restaurants that make me feel like I’m in New York City. Walls and barbed wire. People waiting in line to cross a checkpoint. Tanned men throwing frisbees that descend in a perfect arc to land in another person’s outstretched hand. The intersection of Rothschild and Allenby. Bonfires in the desert. Dark clouds over the Temple Mount: the Muezzin calls to prayer as I struggle to protect my makeshift kippah against the wind.
I stick a piece of paper into the Western Wall. Some scribbled note about peace and happiness for humanity and for myself. About wishing to love and be loved in this world, which seemed the most important. A spate of wrinkled papers flies from a crack in the wall. I tuck them back in, carefully.
The tingling sensation that remains after the water has peeled the tarry mud off my salty skin. Tears itching in my eyes as I exit Yad Vashem to feel the stunning sunlight shining on my face. Rain drumming on my hair as we scurry past the Garden of Gethsemane. The jolt I feel when the camel springs up under me. Hummus running down fresh flat bread. Falafel. Challah. Dates. Dried dates, fresh dates, date juice, date halva, date honey. Tables aching under the weight of Mediterranean delights while the lights of Jerusalem blink in the distance. Balancing on stones to cross a tiny streamlet meandering through a rocky gorge. Walking into the evening breeze of Tel Aviv in a thin U.S. army costume uniform. The cacophony of German monks singing Latin hymns and Orthodox Popes reciting from old books at 7 in the morning on the hill where Jesus Christ was crucified.
People. Wonderful people. A balding pudgy Israeli with a roaring laugh filling chocolate liquor into shot glasses. A saleswoman in a kitschy souvenir shop condemning the separation wall. A soft-spoken ultra-Orthodox Jew. A tired Palestinian peace activist. A tour guide with a weary smile. A friendly settler with a New York accent. Fathers sporting frock coats, fur hats, and side curls, walking hand in hand with their children. Amir’s stories. Conversations. About the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the meaning of life. Silence. After staring into the abyss. Stepping off the bus at Ben Gurion Airport as my nausea slowly fades and my shoulders straighten, carried by kind words and smiles, a shared emotion of not wanting to let go just yet. The raspy, dreamy voice of a young mother singing in Hebrew: lamenting and longing for the past, present, and future of Eretz Israel.
