Reflections from the West Bank

From September 2001 until December 2005 I was a member of the Christian Peacemaker Team (CPT), working in the Israeli-Occupied West Bank. Much of my time was spent in the Old City of Hebron, where the Team lived in two apartments – one for men, one for women – in the Chicken Market. The buildings are very old, many of them dating from the Ottoman era, and there are numerous lanes and “tunnels” leading to and from the market area.

Our immediate neighbors were the Arab merchants and their families who lived in the market and surrounding lanes. It is from them – and their children – that I learned my minimal everyday Arabic. Their welcoming hospitality has to be experienced to be believed. I also spent some time living and working in one of the Palestinian farming villages (a small town, really) about eight miles north of Hebron. The time I spent living and working in the Israeli-occupied West Bank has changed my life. It has also strengthened my resolve to work for peace and justice through non-violent direct action – and prayer.

Writing poetry became a way for me to express my feelings as I lived among the Palestinians and the occupiers of their land, the settlers and the Israeli Defense Force. These poems occasionally appeared in the weekly newsletters I sent out; I have now collected them into a booklet, Reflections from the West Bank. If you wish, you can view and print a copy of the booklet in the Adobe PDF form (using the Adobe Acrobat Reader) by clicking here.

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Two of the poems are printed below.
Blessings,
Mary

Note: The illustration for Hebron Kites was created by my grandson, Tristan.

Hebron Kites

The late afternoon breeze begins to blow.
I go outside and lean out over the balcony
and feel the wind cool my neck and ruffle my hair.

Looking south, over the Old City,
I see the kites beginning to climb into the sky
high above the white houses on the hills.

Two rooftops away, a boy sends up his kite.
It is made, like most, of scavenged, synthetic stuff:
a scrap of plastic fabric
     from the old awnings of the market stalls.
Others are mostly black,
but his is colorless, transparent,
     hardly visible at all
           except for its long frayed edges,
           which flutter and catch the sun,
           glistening like a hexagonal halo
                 around this magical toy,
as it dips and dances on its string,
     moving in graceful curves
high above the houses.

The boy tugs the string, and tugs again.
His kite dips and swirls and soars,
and dips and soars again.

And I rejoice to see that here,
in his curfew-cramped world,
this child has found a way to play,
high above the imposed constraints and fears:
    the checkpoints and the jeeps,
        the walkie-talkies and the guns.

From the roof he can let his child-spirit fly and dance
     on the string of a kite,
         borne on the wind,
            which blows wherever it will.

Dear God, just for one instant, please,
     let it touch   
         let it brush
             the gates of heaven.

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The Shopkeeper

March 28, 2002.
I returned to Hebron this week after my three months of leave. The grocery storekeeper seems pleased to see me back again. He is so helpful and kind. He has taught me the Arabic names of almost everything in his shop.

Under grey clouds I walk
    past the soldiers at the checkpoint,
through the gap with barbed wire on either side.

I slip into the little shop
edging my way around sacks of rice and yellow peas.
The old man sitting at the counter,
    almost hidden by the weighing scales,
    smiles and nods:
    “Ahlein,” he welcomes me.

His son, dark and sturdy, waits.
Slowly I wrap Arabic words around my needs,
    saying them carefully, one by one.
Each time he understands, he smiles,
    broader and broader until the list is done.
    “Halas!” I say.
He laughs out loud.

He shapes Arabic numbers on a pad,
    looks up at me.
“Hamastash,” he says.
I find two coins and drop them in his hand;
he looks at them
and nods approvingly,
    then puts the change into my hand.

As I count it into my purse I see
among the coins
    a small, shining wrapped candy.
Now I laugh.
    “Shukran! – Thank you,” I say.

In the street again
I walk toward the checkpoint, the soldiers, and the wire.
    The candy in my mouth is sweet.

©April 2006, Mary Lawrence