The city was known for its beauty and charm, its history and high hopes. The many mysteries that bind souls elevate hearts prostrate with head to the floor. Minarets pierced the sky—reminders of a faith that will not die. The women, the architecture, the music ALL placed Jerusalem on the map. It is not only known as the location where prophets were killed and tears flow, like sap. It is a place where believers still live together—set apart in homes destined for storytelling. Perfume lingers in the sidewalks due to passersby frequenting holy sites. Every individual makes a remark—a hello or goodbye, a greeting of peace or an untranslatable sigh. The Jordan River washed away the sins of Christians who believed in baptism. This Friday, Muslims gathered to pray and listen to a sermon. Jews rushed home to prepare for Shabbat, a weekly holiday which no one forgot. Everyone gathered at a table for a meal. Food tastes better with friends and family. We are one human family. Each one of us, real.
She welcomed me into her home where she undid the pins that tied her hijab, but she did not undo the process that made her Muslim. She would always be defined by her Islam. Her skin, the color of the pale moon. Mine, the color of cold-pressed olive oil—golden brown. We mixed hummus and tore pita bread. We used our hands to eat instead of relying on utensils. The fresh vegetables, heated up, covered the couscous and the chicken. She was Moroccan. Her cat sat in my lap and purred softly. She told me about her husband, her new live-in. God blessed our meal and the hands that prepared it. I was a stranger until this point, but then I felt it—the wide-open space of empathy, like a courtyard, embraced us both. And I melted.
Ethiopian, I dipped into our friendship for precious jewels of uniqueness and commonalities. I was aware of my surroundings. I gazed through a window where the sun shone, feeling less alone. By the windowsill was a stuffed panda bear strumming a guitar, as if he could sing to us a song. My laughter erupted at this pleasant piece of decoration. Humor humbles. And I stumble over my words—my tongue marching in a parade of Arabic and English. This conversation resembles pageantry and royalty. Each one of us an ambassador embarking on a journey someplace new. We are each responsible for uncolonizing our minds, but truly only the precious few do.
The cat meows. The citizens of heaven look within. I know I belong. I can dance to the rhythm of a wounded warrior. Life’s battles are not meant to be fought alone. We cook together, pray together, say together, “You are my home.”
When we need each other, we just pick up the phone…
- Yerusalem Work
Yerusalem Work again creates graphic imagery and descriptive mood in a setting of two women with commonalities and a beginning toward friendship.
Cool panda and guitar!😊. Another essay I enjoyed reading. Yes we are in this together. You have so much creativity in you writing, descriptive scenes captured perfectly. It makes me wonder how you do that. How can you describe these places so eloquently? I feel I am right there with you eating with my hands. God bless.