The old city, where I am, is so beautiful on these moonlit nights with the narrow, whitish yellow walls. After dark, the streets are mine. In the day they are crowded with cars, people and merchants moving in a frenzy. At night, it is peaceful and clear, with weather not unlike Northern California.
I went to a demonstration against the wall this morning in a village to the south of here. Along with Palestinians, there were young farmers from southern France, Canadian and a few of us Americans who marched through the streets in solidarity to the beating drums of the young and in celebration of 20 years since the fall of the Berlin wall. The French marchers sang the words of a resistance song used during the Second WW which referred to the occupation by Germany. The parallels were obvious for those of us standing in front of the young Israeli soldiers with the barbed wire between us. The internationals were encouraged to speak to the soldiers face to face since the Palestinians could not do so without recriminations.
After the French farmers and others finished singing their song together which sounded much like the Le Marseilles- and done with same vigor! I was ready to march forward. I could not understand all of their words, but I could feel their youthful spirit. Rather than make a larger spectacle of myself than I was, I chose two young soldiers nearby at first, to share one of my poems about walls and barriers. They were ordered by their officers, not to say anything nor have eye contact. As I introduced my self as an American from the Washington DC area, who was concerned for the well being of both Palestinian and Israeli people, I could not help but notice a slight softening in their faces as they glanced from the Palestinians to my right, to direction of the sound of my words. They heard me I know. I recited from memory the poem that came to me some four years ago when I saw the walls here and felt their impact on the humanity on both sides. It was a gift to me. I shared it with them in the same vein. .
After I finished speaking to my soldier friends, I could sense their discomfort. I suspected that they didn't want to be there at age 18 or so in the face of a non-violent group. They were embarrassed if not a bit frightened, I know. I moved down the line to the others including a young African in uniform, who really seemed out of place amongst the ranks of white, European-like Israelis. I spoke to him with the first words I could find which referred to the fact that he must truly know within his heart from his own experience in this country, about the pain of a life separated by one's identity. He too seemed moved, or at least, I wanted to believe he was.
As I moved back to first young soldier, the wind shifted a little, and the razor wire caught the material of my pants, and I struggled to keep it from tearing the clothe. As I worked with my predicament, I glanced across the wire, and the young soldier with full battle gear on, had suffered the same bad fortune with his fatigue pants. There we were standing their holding the same wire and our world joined together in such an amazing way.
No comments:
Post a Comment