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.
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