First I hear the echoes of Jamal saying “Brother Don” or “Brother Ted.” I hear us chanting the single thread that linked our days, Shalom, Salaam, Pacem.” I hear that chant filling the underground chamber where Jesus was imprisoned.

I picture us sitting on the shores of the Galilee waiting in patient lines to perform the rituals of Baptism, bathing in a Mikveh, or standing with Jamal to follow the order of ablutions to purify our senses and actions – noting the quiet tears of a few as they responded to the deep meaning of these practices. I recall being on the Mt. of Beatitudes welcoming in the Sabbath just as the sun was going down, and how Ted conveyed the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount, taking each blessing in turn, with the birds saying Amen in the background. I can hear Kate’s voice, strong and clear singing a Gregorian chant, and how the acoustics of the Church reverberated with the rich undertones.

Music linked us together, Don’s guitar and “Goodnight Irene,” songs from each of the faith traditions, the impromptu folk sing on our first evening at Ein Gedi.

From the front of the bus, Marla giving us a seamless flow of history and culture for each site we passed. Memory of her with arms outstretched to give us a tangible picture of the time line, the full extent of Israel’s long history. I see her in tree pose with one finger pointed to the North to show us the shape of Israel.

The silence of our walk through a nature preserve and how restful it was to come back to ourselves feeling the support of trees and green after the white of Jerusalem.

Dinners and breakfasts with each of you, trading in earnest discussion the full moment of what we were seeing from the pain of Yad Vashem to more light-hearted conversation.

Yad Vashem where five candles became a multitude of stars representing the children who were killed in the Holocaust. How my belly felt as I listened to one too many stories in the museum, how man’s humanity can turn so easily to cruelty when survival is at stake.

Recalling Don’s story about how human Peter was when he, almost without thinking, denied Jesus three times to preserve his own life. Acknowledging that we are all imperfect.

Witnessing life on the other side of the wall in Bethlehem. Swastikas scrawled on that heavy white cement barrier. Cars at night in long lines waiting to get through the checkpoint. Buses driving in reverse to observe the boundary-the tough line that permits no easy access. Unemployment high, men eager to do business with the few tourists who come to Bethlehem. How grateful Zoughbi was to see us, and how he greeted us with such a bountiful feast. How proud he was of his community. How he spoke of dropping vengeance and hatred, replacing them with accountability, pride, and real livelihood, designing programs focused on youth and women to give them a chance.

En route to the Sufi Sheik’s home, we walk the meandering route of the Arab market, not a series of tourist souvenir stalls, but real commerce: smells, touches, tastes of the Middle East. Mounds of colored spices, tapestries, bold colors.

I touch a card given to us by Zoughbi, “Flowers from the Holy Land,” and feel the belief in a future of peace, the fragile hope expressed in the beauty of flower petals hand pressed by a Palestinian woman. Eliyahu’s card, blue, white and purple, describes him as a Rodef Shalom, a pursuer of peace through the most elemental teaching in all faiths, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Pursuers of peace begin with respect for each other’s teachings, and are even willing to call Israel by a different name to release the nationalistic claims to her territory.

One of our leaders says that peace cannot come from repeated efforts by the ego, for if this were the case, we would have had peace a long time ago. Peace comes from living our faiths with full trust and love for one another-not from merging or diluting our traditions, but from living the essence of each faith’s teachings. Peace comes from trusting in the heart’s wisdom and compassion. There is space for all of us. There is space for Yonah, and the ultra-orthodox, living in closed communities- radiating ecstatic fulfillment in study and love for God.

I hear Jamal in our last circle redirecting our attention to the elephant in the middle of the room, the longstanding conflict between Palestinian and Jew. Throughout our trip, the blue sky and warm sun made it easy to forget that this was still a land where at any moment renewed fighting might break out or an act of terrorism that would kill innocent civilians.

As a group, we seemed to resonate with open spaces in nature, the Garden Tomb, or with lovely churches - their vaulted interiors and beautiful artwork in sharp contrast to the heavy hand of divided spaces in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher or the immutable effect of the wall that divided one people from another.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall
Robert Frost in
Mending Wall

We Are All One.

Miriam Bassuk
11-23-05