4:30 AM. Wake up call for the overnight crowd. They’ve been sleeping—napping?—since 1 AM, their heads resting on cardboard, to soften the blow of the metal grates. Cardboard, isn’t that for homeless people? These men have jobs.
There are maybe 2000 men, 50 women. Where are all the women? What happened to feminism? No women in this workforce. And the men, they aren’t meant to be like this. They aren’t meant to be treated like this.
Like a human cattle call, men are herded through the queue. The clock strikes 5 and the push begins. No room to breathe. Bodies stacked vertically, limbs contorted, sticking out of the metal bars that rein them in. The queue is like a long and twisted prison.
Bodies slam into the turnstile, which spins like a carousel, until it brakes, with a start, unpredictably. At the whim of a child—sometimes the soldier, he falls asleep. How can you blame him? The monotony is exhausting.
Awaiting the metal detector’s rejection, the men remove their belts, shoes, watches. Good thing the floor is clean. Mess would be bad for tourism.
The final step—the handprint. So if you blow something up, they’ll know it was you?
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
15.6.09 Poetry reading at T’mol Shilshom
Haaretz reporter: The wall was a mistake. The Palestinians don’t belong there. This is ours. It should all be like this. Segregation is wrong. Don’t be racist. The Arabs can live here, too. I mean I want them to go. I want them to die. But I don’t hate them.
17.6.09 Rachel’s Tomb
We ride on a bulletproof bus. We are safe. But what are we afraid of? Aren’t we still in Israel? Isn’t danger on the other side of the wall?
The walls rise up on either side of the bus. They flank us like enormous bodyguards. So tall I can’t even imagine what’s waiting on the other side.
Dress modestly. Cover up. This is a holy place. Don’t women know what bodies look like, though? It’s not like we pray next to men. We wouldn’t want to distract from the important prayers.
Take a picture. Right there, next to the tomb. Amid the prayers? Yes, go on. But where is it? Under the donated covering, commemorating a bar mitzvah? I guess so. If they say it’s holy, it must be. Pray faster, harder, until you believe.
I feel like a voyeur, peeking around corners. Look, there’s a bunker. More soldiers than worshippers. Who are they fighting? Who are they fighting for?
The walls rise up on either side of the bus. They flank us like enormous bodyguards. So tall I can’t even imagine what’s waiting on the other side.
Dress modestly. Cover up. This is a holy place. Don’t women know what bodies look like, though? It’s not like we pray next to men. We wouldn’t want to distract from the important prayers.
Take a picture. Right there, next to the tomb. Amid the prayers? Yes, go on. But where is it? Under the donated covering, commemorating a bar mitzvah? I guess so. If they say it’s holy, it must be. Pray faster, harder, until you believe.
I feel like a voyeur, peeking around corners. Look, there’s a bunker. More soldiers than worshippers. Who are they fighting? Who are they fighting for?
16.6.09 Jewish-Arab Women’s Healing Circle
11 women. Palestinian, Jewish, Israeli, American—these designations are overlapping, redundant? We’re all humans.
Professional healers. Amateur learners. What does it mean to be trained in healing? Can we train ourselves? Heal ourselves?
Women coming together. Sitting together. Eating together. Touching each other.
Women in veils, unwrapped. Women in veils, touching me. Head shoulders knees and toes. Warm hands. Universal energy for universal problems?
My hands on her uncloaked body. She wears a purple sweat suit, but seems naked. Her breath, it slows, and she rests. I wonder how often she gets to breathe.
The woman next to me, they touch her and she cries. As if she needed the energy just to cry.
People who touch each other are no longer strangers. But what are we? I hardly know your name. Could we all touch like this? Is this what it means to be a neighbor? I could never hate you.
Professional healers, critiquing each other. Digging at each other. Spying, lovingly. They want to save the world, in their own ways. I wish they could work together.
Professional healers. Amateur learners. What does it mean to be trained in healing? Can we train ourselves? Heal ourselves?
Women coming together. Sitting together. Eating together. Touching each other.
Women in veils, unwrapped. Women in veils, touching me. Head shoulders knees and toes. Warm hands. Universal energy for universal problems?
My hands on her uncloaked body. She wears a purple sweat suit, but seems naked. Her breath, it slows, and she rests. I wonder how often she gets to breathe.
The woman next to me, they touch her and she cries. As if she needed the energy just to cry.
People who touch each other are no longer strangers. But what are we? I hardly know your name. Could we all touch like this? Is this what it means to be a neighbor? I could never hate you.
Professional healers, critiquing each other. Digging at each other. Spying, lovingly. They want to save the world, in their own ways. I wish they could work together.
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