February 8, 2012

If We Lived in this House

              West Bank, Passover 2007

 

              When the Lord your God brings you into the land that you are

about to enter

              and possess, you shall pronounce the blessing at Mount Gerizim

and the curse

              at Mount Eval. Both are on the other side of the Jordan, beyond

the west road… 

 

Springtime in the hills above Nablus.

                    Mountain calls across

                    the green-and-brown slash

                    of city below

                    to mountain on the other side,

                    calls, then recants,

                    then calls again – despondent –

                               you are always turning away,

                    while we, sojourners

                    in this land of contested inheritance,

                    zigzag across the slant

                    & slope

                    in rental car,headed

                    toward the easy intoxication

                    of unfamiliar ritual.

Every diversion in its set season.  The crowd

                    gathers on top

                    Mount Gerizim to wait –

                              what will happen next? –

                    and thus wanders

                    into the hollows of history,

                    giddy

                    on this appointed day

                    of slaughter and unleavened bread,

                    cut loose

                    from life’s sulfur

                    for one afternoon.

Human hands feed the fire.  Dror parks

                    the car suddenly,

                    sensing

                    some invisible threshold,

                             (perhaps some edge of reason?)

                    and we pile out, Mount Eval

                    at our backs. Off we go

                    to applaud the entrance

                    of the 131st Samaritan High Priest,

                    to gasp & gawk 

                    as a hundred men

                    dressed in white robes slit, on cue,

                    the throats of several dozen

                    unblemished sheep,

                    drain their blood,

                    cut away the guts & feed

                    once-barren flames

 

                    as the expectant hillside erupts –

                    jubilant.

Springtime in the hills where time stops.

                    We walk back to the car

                    in satisfied silence,

                    ignore Hagit’s cell phone

                    as it rings once, twice,

                    again, interrupting our animal reverie

                    with buzzing reproach

                    & reminder

                    of all we would give up

                    if we truly lived in this house

                    we did not build,

                    and soon

                    we are laughing again –

                             wasn’t that a crazy day?

                    and Dror points

                    the car downhill

                    toward the promised land

                    of what we know.

The sun is red with easy license as we drive

                    through

                    Huwwara checkpoint,

                    past a dozen Palestinians in line

                    on the other side,

                    the far side, their eyes set on

                    Israeli soldiers –

                    the only ones

                    who can give them permission

                    to cross –

                    and mountain moans

                    from our ease of forgetting,

                    our inability to be another

                    people:

                             you are always turning away.

 

-Sue Swartz

 

Sue Swartz is a poet, essayist, and social justice activist from Bloomington, Indiana. You can find her commentary and poems about Torah, tattoos, and truth on her blog, Awkward Offerings.