Jerusalem Journal # 180

Beyond my curtain, the thunder of artillery fire rumbles in from the east across the Golan horizon, resonating over azure waters of the Sea of Galilee. The explosions jolt not only the foundations of our home, but also the corridors of my mind. Here, images of the three-year Syrian Civil War hang like unwelcome photographs in frames jarred askew, provoking my sense of order to straighten each portrait upon its hook. The faces stare back with fear, hopelessness, and pain, as though pleading for me to respond.

Apart from the maelstrom of distant explosions and military helicopters, a surreal serenity reigns over northern Israel, reminding us to pray

The only tangible touch I have with Syria is a couple of inlaid wooden chairs (engraved in Arabic with “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom”), a few tablecloths, and an antique mural tapestry purchased in Damascus by my great grandfather on his 1925 journey to “The Holy Land.” That tapestry, after decades in the U.S., is now at The Place of Stories. An entry in Robert E. Lee’s handwritten travel journal about the tapestry purchase describes a walk down Damascene cobblestones of “the street called Straight.” New York Times journalist, Ann Barnard, described it a year ago, “Straight Street, the most storied thoroughfare in Syria, huddles these days in a wary calm, marred now and then by mortar attacks, and every day by anxiety.” Once the Arab height of cosmopolitanism, it is now a boarded-up, rubble-strewn war casualty.

This Syrian tapestry was woven by ancient artisans and sold in a warren of treasure troves during more peaceful times

An important element of our life in Israel is sharing our table with both friends and strangers from far and near, looking for avenues to be community; to pour out a little of God’s love which has been deposited in us. Last week, a coffee break for one of Gary’s famous cappuccinos by a friend and her mother was their calm before the storm. Days later, the 84 yr. old mother, Margaret, was rushed to a local hospital with a broken elbow and femur.

When we arrived for a hospital visit, the room built to accommodate two was swelling to a population of four, plus relatives. Beyond the curtain on Margaret’s right was an elderly woman who appeared to be Druze (a mystery religion whose adherents are scattered in northern Israel, Lebanon, and Syria). Beyond the curtain to Margaret’s left was a Jewish woman, and shortly after we sat down, another bed was rolled into the corner with a young Arab girl and hijab- covered mother in tow. It was a portrait of Israel…Druze, Christian, Jewish, and Arab…all sharing space, each receiving care for her own sufferings, as cries and sighs of one reached the ears of the others through the flimsy curtains that offered a scant modicum of privacy.

That day we heard about Syrian war casualties being treated behind curtains just down the hall from Margaret. Israel has been reaching out medically to be the hands of healing for Syrian casualties left at the Israeli border. Word has spread among Syrians that there is hope beyond the invisible and nearly impenetrable curtain of their hated enemy, Israel. Hospitals in northern Israel are crowded with the most seriously injured. We heard stories of “Ahmed,” a Syrian man in a wheelchair whose legs had been blown off in an explosion and how our friend had been able to communicate briefly in broken Arabic as he brought the man a cup of cold water. Gary and I were hungry for that kind of interaction, but were told the curtained divider was strictly guarded.

Our handmade card to Syrian patients