Over A Hole
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If you like my writing here, you might like my novels. (Details here)The picture to the left, depicts a hole marking the cave where Jesus. It is in the floor of a shrine built over that spot
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Let’s not state the obvious, Isreal.” Quid pro quo, his own veiled disdain had to rise to hers. “It sounds so poetically trivial when given words. Words… So, so inadequate at times.”
He passes off the hollow echo of his words to the cold marble surrounding him. She, the soldier, sweeps her hand under the drape of the alter, over the hole, close enough to feel the cool draft huffing from it, missing the warmth the Palestinian would have felt. “It is nothing more than a hole.
“It is so much more.” The Palestinian would have liked to have grabbed her hand and pulled it away from the hole as if her gesture could be considered sacrilege. “Things fall into holes, disappear, only to be known later in how they are spoken about.
The woman gives this careful, purposeful thought. Truly, words could be so inadequate. “Then it becomes of matter of who has the more accurate memory.”
“I suppose”. The man is forced into the same level and manner of consideration; or, the moment could become as ugly hundreds upon thousands of previous moments have become. “However, some say the voice of salvation can be heard coming from that hole.”
The woman listens, long enough, she believes to be a fair opportunity to hear what the Palestinian suggests. “What does it sound like?” She listens for what she believes to be for too long, but the man believes to be too brief. “I hear nothing.”
“It sounds like a child, a newborn child.” A fair answer. “And, you wouldn’t.”
The Palestinian couldn’t help himself, he had been only three days old, when the Six Day War had ended but had lived with its instruction all his life.
“Are you saying I can’t?” The woman hadn’t even been conceived on the day that war ended.
“I’m saying you chose not to.” The Palestinian’s reciprocal mandate for fair consideration prompts him. “It is a fair choice.”
“I don’t believe that you believe that at all.” Sometimes impulse spawned from lifelong exposure, overrules consideration. “I don’t believe you think there is any thing fair about my choices.
“Words, words, words, so, so dangerous.” The Palestinian bridles his response. Détente? Prudence? “What do you think I believe?”
The woman opts for prudence. “I think you really believe that down there, in that hole, lies…
“…the spot where the Christ Child was born.” The man cannot let her speak for him – absolutely cannot “Yes!”
“I was going to say, “your destiny”. The woman cannot let him speak for her – absolutely cannot.
The Palestinian reaches out taking one tassel of the purple tapestry that frames the alter, because he had to reach out for something. “I know, but… Words…so dangerous. “Destiny” is a word that might have you pulling your weapon from your holster and pointing it at me.
“I would not.” But, her hand had flinched again, toward her sidearm, when the man had spoke with fervor.
“But,” the Palestinian had noticed the way in which she had flinched, “you already have. Remember in 2002 when you trapped 200 in here in this very church, under siege.”
“But, I was in Tel Aviv not Bethlehem. You mean…” She fought the impulse to reach for her weapon again, this time out of anger; resenting that the Palestine should remember transgressions without remembering transgressing. Instead she lay her hand on the fit of her uniform, smoothing it with her hand. “Could you know me for some way other than my uniform?”
“How else can I know you?” The Palestinian stepped closer, risking it to be misinterpreted as aggression, but hoping… “How do you know me at this moment?
The woman stands firm before the alter, not moving toward or away. Did she resolve to do that for the sake of the moment, or perhaps there was something compelling about the Palestinian. “I – I – know that you believe this hole belongs to you, by virtue of your beliefs in what you think happened in that hole. What do you know of me at this moment, besides my uniform?”
The Palestinian found the Israeli to be evocative. “I know that you believe this hole belongs to you, by virtue of your beliefs about it being dug, here in Bethlehem, in the West Bank.” No, she possessed the sensuality of mutual understanding. “What I don’t know is why you hate my belief?
Each stood their position before the hole, each separated by the same alter cloth from the fourteen pointed gold star.
The woman held her hand over the hole, as if warming it over a fire, but in fact letting the cool draft dry the sweat of her palms, fighting the protective urge to place it on the grip of her sidearm. “Because your belief excludes me. Why do you hate my belief?
“Because your belief excludes me.” Something had to be said, the man truly believed this to be one of those moments where the woman might unholster her weapon; then he opted to not say, but ask. “Does your belief embrace forgiveness?
“Yes, Does yours?”
“Yes.”
Such simple speech, short precise sentences. The man and the woman, Palestinian and Israeli silently faced each other, astonished by its simplicity, not knowing where to take it next, the aberration of commonality too great to digest. The relish of the moment disintegrating into discomfort, for it was a moment that begged for more words; words so risky.
“You don’t belong here.”
“You don’t belong here.”
Opportunity had been lost to damnable status quo of hate, worn like a tattered but loved blanket.
Perhaps it was because she bore a weapon and its responsibility, but the woman found a way to consider tossing aside the traditional comfort. “Perhaps that’s the solution; to mutually agree that neither of us belongs here.”
The man found it his turn to gave fair consideration, reflecting the cost each would have to ante up for détente. “Then, we would both have to – sacrifice our beliefs.”
“Yes. Simply to co-exist, we would.” The woman reflected upon reflection
Reflection upon reflection upon reflection prompted a modicum of humor, or so the man thought. “In my belief, that would be ironic.” He would never know if the woman appreciated, or even saw that irony. A baby cried. The mutual lifting of chins betrayed mutual hearing. “You hear that, don’t you?”
“Yes!” The woman turned away from the hole, gilded by the gold star. “It comes from outside.”
“No.” This time, hopeful desperation, not despise filled the man. He pointed to the hole. “It comes from within the hole.”
For reasons she will never know, the woman unholstered her side arm, but still kept wits enough to hold it to her side. “We never hear what the other hears.”
“Nor do we share the same description of what has been lost in that hole.” The man found her words reflected fear, not hate, which caused her to draw her weapon. He motioned gently for her to re-holster her weapon. “And for that we will fight over a hole in the ground.”
“No. We fight over the ground.
Perhaps it was because he was the one without a weapon, but the Palestinian found the means for détente. “If only I could have the hole without the ground…”
“…and I the ground without the hole.” The woman re-sheathed her weapon and stepped onto the burning hot sands of détente.
Man and woman look to each other, knowing to agree would be to agree to the impossible. Hole and ground must be separated in order to insure the possibility of other moments such as this one. Each searches into the eyes of the other, seeking to find a coinciding moment, then with a simultaneous nods, both speak in unison…,
“Agreed.”
…then step back away from the hole and each other, mutually turning away in an act of paramount trust, for the time being. The child continues to cry.
He passes off the hollow echo of his words to the cold marble surrounding him. She, the soldier, sweeps her hand under the drape of the alter, over the hole, close enough to feel the cool draft huffing from it, missing the warmth the Palestinian would have felt. “It is nothing more than a hole.
“It is so much more.” The Palestinian would have liked to have grabbed her hand and pulled it away from the hole as if her gesture could be considered sacrilege. “Things fall into holes, disappear, only to be known later in how they are spoken about.
The woman gives this careful, purposeful thought. Truly, words could be so inadequate. “Then it becomes of matter of who has the more accurate memory.”
“I suppose”. The man is forced into the same level and manner of consideration; or, the moment could become as ugly hundreds upon thousands of previous moments have become. “However, some say the voice of salvation can be heard coming from that hole.”
The woman listens, long enough, she believes to be a fair opportunity to hear what the Palestinian suggests. “What does it sound like?” She listens for what she believes to be for too long, but the man believes to be too brief. “I hear nothing.”
“It sounds like a child, a newborn child.” A fair answer. “And, you wouldn’t.”
The Palestinian couldn’t help himself, he had been only three days old, when the Six Day War had ended but had lived with its instruction all his life.
“Are you saying I can’t?” The woman hadn’t even been conceived on the day that war ended.
“I’m saying you chose not to.” The Palestinian’s reciprocal mandate for fair consideration prompts him. “It is a fair choice.”
“I don’t believe that you believe that at all.” Sometimes impulse spawned from lifelong exposure, overrules consideration. “I don’t believe you think there is any thing fair about my choices.
“Words, words, words, so, so dangerous.” The Palestinian bridles his response. Détente? Prudence? “What do you think I believe?”
The woman opts for prudence. “I think you really believe that down there, in that hole, lies…
“…the spot where the Christ Child was born.” The man cannot let her speak for him – absolutely cannot “Yes!”
“I was going to say, “your destiny”. The woman cannot let him speak for her – absolutely cannot.
The Palestinian reaches out taking one tassel of the purple tapestry that frames the alter, because he had to reach out for something. “I know, but… Words…so dangerous. “Destiny” is a word that might have you pulling your weapon from your holster and pointing it at me.
“I would not.” But, her hand had flinched again, toward her sidearm, when the man had spoke with fervor.
“But,” the Palestinian had noticed the way in which she had flinched, “you already have. Remember in 2002 when you trapped 200 in here in this very church, under siege.”
“But, I was in Tel Aviv not Bethlehem. You mean…” She fought the impulse to reach for her weapon again, this time out of anger; resenting that the Palestine should remember transgressions without remembering transgressing. Instead she lay her hand on the fit of her uniform, smoothing it with her hand. “Could you know me for some way other than my uniform?”
“How else can I know you?” The Palestinian stepped closer, risking it to be misinterpreted as aggression, but hoping… “How do you know me at this moment?
The woman stands firm before the alter, not moving toward or away. Did she resolve to do that for the sake of the moment, or perhaps there was something compelling about the Palestinian. “I – I – know that you believe this hole belongs to you, by virtue of your beliefs in what you think happened in that hole. What do you know of me at this moment, besides my uniform?”
The Palestinian found the Israeli to be evocative. “I know that you believe this hole belongs to you, by virtue of your beliefs about it being dug, here in Bethlehem, in the West Bank.” No, she possessed the sensuality of mutual understanding. “What I don’t know is why you hate my belief?
Each stood their position before the hole, each separated by the same alter cloth from the fourteen pointed gold star.
The woman held her hand over the hole, as if warming it over a fire, but in fact letting the cool draft dry the sweat of her palms, fighting the protective urge to place it on the grip of her sidearm. “Because your belief excludes me. Why do you hate my belief?
“Because your belief excludes me.” Something had to be said, the man truly believed this to be one of those moments where the woman might unholster her weapon; then he opted to not say, but ask. “Does your belief embrace forgiveness?
“Yes, Does yours?”
“Yes.”
Such simple speech, short precise sentences. The man and the woman, Palestinian and Israeli silently faced each other, astonished by its simplicity, not knowing where to take it next, the aberration of commonality too great to digest. The relish of the moment disintegrating into discomfort, for it was a moment that begged for more words; words so risky.
“You don’t belong here.”
“You don’t belong here.”
Opportunity had been lost to damnable status quo of hate, worn like a tattered but loved blanket.
Perhaps it was because she bore a weapon and its responsibility, but the woman found a way to consider tossing aside the traditional comfort. “Perhaps that’s the solution; to mutually agree that neither of us belongs here.”
The man found it his turn to gave fair consideration, reflecting the cost each would have to ante up for détente. “Then, we would both have to – sacrifice our beliefs.”
“Yes. Simply to co-exist, we would.” The woman reflected upon reflection
Reflection upon reflection upon reflection prompted a modicum of humor, or so the man thought. “In my belief, that would be ironic.” He would never know if the woman appreciated, or even saw that irony. A baby cried. The mutual lifting of chins betrayed mutual hearing. “You hear that, don’t you?”
“Yes!” The woman turned away from the hole, gilded by the gold star. “It comes from outside.”
“No.” This time, hopeful desperation, not despise filled the man. He pointed to the hole. “It comes from within the hole.”
For reasons she will never know, the woman unholstered her side arm, but still kept wits enough to hold it to her side. “We never hear what the other hears.”
“Nor do we share the same description of what has been lost in that hole.” The man found her words reflected fear, not hate, which caused her to draw her weapon. He motioned gently for her to re-holster her weapon. “And for that we will fight over a hole in the ground.”
“No. We fight over the ground.
Perhaps it was because he was the one without a weapon, but the Palestinian found the means for détente. “If only I could have the hole without the ground…”
“…and I the ground without the hole.” The woman re-sheathed her weapon and stepped onto the burning hot sands of détente.
Man and woman look to each other, knowing to agree would be to agree to the impossible. Hole and ground must be separated in order to insure the possibility of other moments such as this one. Each searches into the eyes of the other, seeking to find a coinciding moment, then with a simultaneous nods, both speak in unison…,
“Agreed.”
…then step back away from the hole and each other, mutually turning away in an act of paramount trust, for the time being. The child continues to cry.