The Middle East Conflict- One Mothers Perspective

This is a  fictional story that shows my perspective on the conflict.

Even the Trees Cry Out

In an isolated area of the Judean wilderness there stands a lone tree.  Looking more like a scraggy bush than a tree, it grows at the edge of a wadi in the desert.  The wadi is part of the great rift system, a yawning in the earth where the earth is being ripped apart by unknown forces controlling the universe.  The soft belly of the earth is exposed and its secrets spill forth.

The lone tree grows in an area uninhabitable for man or beast.  In summer the Sun parches the earth and the tree.  The stubborn tree fights the earth for any moisture.  In the end the defeated tree achingly yields its dessicated leaves to the earth, one by one.  When all the leaves are gone, the tree is reduced to little more than a dead stump.

In winter the wadi swells with the rains from the hills.  The water rushes through the sandy soil, pulling bits of rock and dirt with it.  The torrent of water tears at the roots and the tree fights for survival.  The scrubby tree clings to each bit of soil to keep its moorings.  After the storm the water subsides; the tree remains.

About twenty kilometers east there is a small village whose main feature is a minaret, forever pointing upward.  As morning settles on the land, a wailful call to prayer arouses the sleeping inhabitants.

Miriam arose quickly and silently.  There was much to do.  She looked over at her son Musa, no longer a boy but not yet a man.  His foot protruded from the coverlet.  Looking at that foot, she remembered how it had looked nineteen years ago.  Miriam gave a wry smile at the remembrance and wondered at the changes that life produces.  After adjusting the blanket, she went into the small kitchen to prepare breakfast.  On the small stove she made a pot of tea and then set out goat cheese, olives, and flat bread.

Miriam went into the sleeping room to rouse Musa.  Touching him gently on the shoulder so as not to disturb the others, she whispered, “It is time.”

Miriam watched Musa as he washed the sleepiness from his face.  There was a boyish shyness reflected in the hesitancy of his actions.  Miriam knew that he would be a gentle man as had been his father.  They ate together in the small kitchen.  They did not speak much.  Their thoughts and feelings were communicated without words.

She said things like, “While you are gone, I will start to make the pickled eggplant that you like so much,” meaning, “I want you to come back.”

He said things like, “Next week I will plow again around the olive trees,” meaning, “I will come back.”

He rose to leave.  He brushed her cheek with a customary kiss, and then went into the sleeping room to take leave of his brothers and sisters.  While he was gone, Miriam’s eyes studiously avoided the gun leaning in the corner.  She did not want to think about that.

Musa returned, picked up his weapon, and started out the door.  Miriam watched him go.  She stood at the door a long time until he disappeared down the road.  Somewhere in her heart there arose a deep sigh, and she turned to start her daily work.

Musa headed west, toward the tree.

About twenty kilometers east of the tree, there is another small farming community.  Small, identical box homes dot the hillside.  In one of these boxes Mary was awakening Moshe.

 “Moshe, it is nearly time for you to go.”

Moshe awoke with a start.  His movements were quick and light.  He dressed rapidly in the khaki uniform and heavy boots.

“How long,” thought Mary looking at the uniform, “how long must mothers continue to dress their sons in khaki uniforms?”

Mary prepared a breakfast of tea, olives, and a thick sour cream for the bread.  During breakfast they spoke of girls, songs, and the neighborhood gossip.  Their easy banter belied the depth of feeling between them.  In a few moments of silence they looked at each other and their eyes spoke.

Mary’s eyes said, “Be careful, I love you.”

Moshe’s eyes said, “I love you but I must go.”

Moshe rose to leave.  He was humming a popular tune as he sauntered out the door.  Mary stood at the door and watched him walk down the dusty road.  His figure grew smaller, and with a sigh in her heart she turned to attend to the other children.

Moshe headed east, toward the tree.

Desert evenings are surprisingly cool, a release from the scorching heat of the Sun.  The night clouds and the moon compete for control of the blue-black sky.  The distinctions between heaven and earth are obliterated.  The stars seem a little closer to earth and mix with the distant lights of the villages in the hills around the rift valley.

Near the lone tree there is a rough path frequented by a desert patrol.  In the shifting darkness Musa noiselessly crept to the path near the tree.  He bent over, shrouded in the darkness of the tree.  He carefully placed his gun within reach.  In his hands he held a circular object with a plunger on top.  With a small shovel he quietly dug a small hole in the sandy earth.  Carefully he placed the object in the cavity.  He covered it very gently with a light layer of sand.  As he prepared to leave, he grasped his gun.

The moon made a momentary appearance, and a slight reflection from his gun was seen by Moshe, the soldier walking the path.

Moshe said, “Identify yourself!”

Musa moved further into the darkness of the tree.  A volley of shots rang out, and one found its mark.  The projectile, designed by the same men who pass out khaki suits, entered Musa’s chest, lacerated a portion of the heart and lungs and came to rest between two vertebrae in his spine.  He was completely immobilized.  After a few terrorized breaths, a pinkish froth issued from his mouth.

Moshe flickered a flashlight around the area, a moving intrusion of light seeking its prey.  Moshe saw the twisted figure on the desert floor.  He slowly approached the motionless body.

Moshe’s stepped on the sandy spot where Musa had been applying his art.  The plunger on the instrument of death went down, and there was a violent explosion.  The land mine accomplished what men had designed it to do.  Shrapnel ripped through Moshe’s body.  One piece ripped through his abdomen, moved upward, and severed the aortic artery.  Another piece ripped through his knee and totally destroyed his right leg.  Moshe’s body was flung into the air and landed inches away from Musa.  Both Musa and Moshe made the terribly grotesque sounds of approaching death, deafening in their enormity.

There, on the desert floor, Arab blood met Jewish blood.  Corpuscle met corpuscle.  Their blood mingled together in an awesome, awful silence.  There was no more fighting.

The parched land quickly drank the life juices of its sacrificial victims, and only a brownish residue remained on the desert floor.

The rising Sun pushes away the shadows of the night.  The barren tree stands there, immobile, silent, and seemingly eternal.  On the desert floor are these three figures, all with limbs in grotesque supplication to an unknown god.

An Unabashedly Evangelical but Theologically Sound Prayer for the Palestinians and Israelis

Recently I attended a conference where a woman from a distant country - neither Arab nor Israeli - offered a prayer in a joint Israeli Palestinian prayer meeting. Her prayer consisted mainly of repeating in a strident voice, “Bless Israel”. What does that mean? I was disturbed to the point of tears by her prayer and decided to create my own prayer in accordance with what Paul wrote, “My heart’s desire and prayer for Israel is that they might be saved.”

God,

Bless Israel by revealing to them the reality of Jesus Christ so they might be saved.
Bless the Palestinians and other Arab countries by revealing to them the reality of Jesus Christ so they might be saved.

Lord, in Romans your work says that you have ordained the powers that be.

Bless the Israeli government and give the leaders wisdom to make decisions that lead to the safety of the citizens and their ability to live freely.
Bless the Palestinian government and governments of other Arab countries and give the leaders wisdom to make decisions that lead to the safety of the citizens and their ability to live freely.

Lord, we ask you to intervene and stop the plans of those, Israeli and Arab, who would seek to increase hatred through legal means, and those that would increase the hatred and rancor through violent actions. We recognize that all men are brothers, and the death of any man in violent actions diminishes us, for we are a part of mankind.

We recognize that there is only one name under heaven whereby we might be saved, and that we need to accept Jesus in this lifetime.

If either side controls the land from the Mediterranean to China, but does not have Jesus, it is all for naught.

Again Lord, we pray for the salvation of Abraham’s children.

Amen

The Big Hug

We have been living and working in the Holy Land since 1978. Recently, an event happened that deeply affected me.

One afternoon, there was a knock on our door. A man, whom I did not recognize, and a woman stood at the door. They asked if Pastor Munir was at home. I hesitantly invited them inside.

When inside, the stranger immediately gave me a bear hug and then he literally buried his face in my neck for an extended period.

I was taken aback and thought, “Who is this crazy man that is breaking all the cultural rules and mores by hugging me like this? He should not be doing this.”

It took a bit to sort out. He had been in the boys’ home 15 years ago. He remembers me as being his surrogate mother. I took care of him when he was sick, baked cookies, made spaghetti most Sundays, hid Easter eggs, and played Mrs. Santa Claus at Christmas for years. I was a there when he needed a mother. Thus the hug.

Boys change a lot between 15 and 30, and I did not recognize him. Now he came and visited us, who are an important part of his life, to see us and show us his fiancé. He wanted us to see how well he has done and be proud of our "son". We rejoiced with him.

I was glad that I helped him when he needed it. Not until I get to heaven and watch the video of my life will I once again see, and hopefully remember, all of the things I did as a missionary.

However, it is nice to get a hug as a thank you.

The Child is Father of the Man

Wordsworth wrote “The child is father of the man …” The experiences that we have as children determine the type of adults we become. I think of this when I look at the boys in the home and how their childhood experiences will affect them as adults.

----I remember one boy who had a face that looked like it was horribly scarred by a hot liquid. After a bit in the home, we realized all the scars were nothing but a very advanced case of ringworm that had been neglected, and his face cleared up with treatment (Although since it is very contagious, we had mini-cases of ringworm for several months popping up on the other boys too).

----I remember one boy whose brother had been killed in political events here. His heart was full of bitterness, but today he is in Bible College preparing for a life in the ministry.

----I remember the 4-year old boy who knew where I hid the chocolate chip cookies in my house. With him I felt I was doing my job, passing out chocolate chip cookies and love.

----I remember the boys that came hurting, and full of despair, and today are competent adults.

----I remember one boy who had been deserted by his parents and was living with his 84 year old grandmother in a single room with neither electricity nor running water. When he came to the home, he sat on a chair and stared at me, wondering what this American was doing in Ramallah. I threw a pillow at him and we were immediately fast friends. For my birthday he used his own meager spending money and bought be the biggest, ugliest, conical birthday hat. I wore it proudly, and still keep it on a special shelf to remind me of him. However, his family kept on interfering and destroyed his future. There was abuse, and the boy left the home to work to help provide for and to protect his mother. It is terrible when children have to take care of adults. We eventually lost him, and could not help him anymore and his life has been going downhill.

Those are the ones that are like a stab wound in my heart of hearts.

Michael Track 8

Goodbye, Dear Friend

My 90+ year old Arabic friend in Ramallah is dying. We went to visit her yesterday. She probably weighs 80 lbs, is exceedingly frail and is curled up in a ball. She does not even have the strength to open her eyes. She knew who we were, but could not say anything but “yes” and “Amen” in response to questions.

Um-Rizek is a remarkable woman. She had many difficulties in her life, but I never knew her to be bitter or mad at God about the events in her life. I do not know if I could be as strong as her.

Um-Rizek was from the town of Jaffa, just south of Tel Aviv. By 1948 she was married, and she, her husband, and children left their home and business during the war - thinking they would come back in a week. The joke everyone says is, “We left the radio on.” However, because of the events of the 1948 war, she and her family were left homeless and without any source of income. Family pictures, family remembrances, everything was immediately lost.

The family made their way to Ramallah. Um-Rizek told me that there was no food for her children. Someone appeared at the door with a bag of groceries. Um-Rizek swears that this was an angel as she did not know the person.

Um-Rizek was a faithful member of our church. When I first went to Ramallah, she would translate for me on some occasions for Bible studies.

One day, when she was about 75, she showed up at my door, in tears. Her husband of many years was hospitalized with pneumonia. He was a quiet, hard working man who was bent over about half of his height, but still smiled. Um-Rizek wept and wept about her husband. I was touched by her concern for her husband, and honored to be able to pray with her at that time.

Then during part of the political turmoil in Ramallah, we were under curfew, no one was allowed outside of their homes. Um-Rizek’s husband again became ill, probably with pneumonia. All he needed was oxygen and an ambulance to take him to the hospital. No help could come because of the curfew, and this much beloved old man died at home.

Um-Rizek will relate these stories without bitterness at all.

A few years ago, Um-Rizek pulled out from her Bible a much worn black and white photograph taken in the 1940’s. It was a picture of a missionary, her mentor. Um-Rizek carried this small photograph for over 70 years, since when she was a teenager.

I wondered, whom have I impacted that would carry my photograph around for 70 years? Whose life have I changed or encouraged? I hope I as a missionary can leave a testimony like that.

Good bye my good friend Um-Rizek. You will soon be released from the surly bonds of earth and fly to the heavens.

The Colors of Poverty

There is a certain uniformity in the homes of the boys that are applying for admission to the boys' home. The identifying characteristic is poverty - a poverty that overwhelms and crushes the human spirit.

Poverty has many different colors and textures. It is one room with a rough cement floor and in which ten people live. It is walls that not only need paint, but are literally crumbling away. It is a hopelessly warped coffee table with mismatched legs. It is third-hand upholstery with huge tears, but neatly covered with a blanket.

Poverty is children running barefoot in spite of snakes and scorpions. It is dirty children with runny noses, rotted teeth, lice, ringworm, dysentery, and other repulsive diseases. It is the graves of children like the child who died of blood poisoning from a small sore on his finger, or diarrhea, or other ailments that are curable when properly treated.

Poverty is etched on the face - a grayish resignation. It is not a resignation to circumstances but a resignation from life. Continued poverty leaches out life and leaves an empty shell of despair.

In spite of this pervasive despair, there is often a spark of life in the depleted soul. It is evidenced by the one flower in a styrofoam cup on the warped coffee table, or last years calendar still hanging because it has an ethereal mountain scene. The spark that is still there is sometimes evidenced by warm hospitality and a light in the eyes that refuses to die.

Sometimes I enter a home and think, "How can people live this way?" Yet they retain that spark of life. I can only conclude that they must be made of sterner stuff than many of us.

I know that I alone can never put an end to this destructive poverty. However, I can do my part and make a ripple on the sea of humanity. Would God could that my ripple could swell with thousands of other ripples to produce a tidal wave that would wash away the scourge of poverty. Would you please join me to give hope to these helpless children of poverty?

Sharon