Of Peace and Prayers; Last Days in Jerusalem

The courage to make a step towards the suffering of others is not to be taken for granted. There is no peace without empathy. Dalia Landau, author of The Lemon Tree

Praying at the stone that is said to have covered Jesus's grave in  the Church of the Holy Sepulcher

Prayers at the Wailing Wall, from the women's area

Early morning Old City, Jerusalem

The falafel stand before breakfast

Early morning prayers before the Talmud study begins

Peaking through the barrier on the men's side of the Wailing Wall

Ultra Orthodox boy in school

Sunday morning in Old Jerusalem

Travel can be a very unmasking experience, bringing us suddenly face to face 
with ourselves---as when we are gazing out of a train window at the endless
line of telegraph poles whipping by, and we find that part of what we are looking at
is our own reflection. ~Frederick Buechner
 

Devotion and ritual on the women's side of The Wailing Wall

Going to evening prayers, The Muslim Quarter of Old Jerusalem

Leave Your Memories HERE

Jerusalem in April by Nancy Farese

Damascus Gate, Jerusalem

Wind whistles through a cracked window frame in my hotel room in Ramallah; an evening call to prayer sounds guttural and belchy to my linguistically challenged ears; the occasional police car screaming past reminds me of the instability we saw today in the West Bank. It sets a mood of exoticism, risk, and amazement that life goes on so calmly. Welcome to Palestine.

Jerusalem, from the West Bank

Church of The Nativity

Jesus hung out here as a child, reports my guidebook, said of Nazareth which is 40k down the road. We visited the Church of the Nativity today and as none of us were biblical scholars we had an embarrassing conversation about where was the nativity, and was the Sheep’s Meadow (“shepherds watching over their flock by night…”), visited by the Star and the Magi, closer to Nazareth or Bethlehem? I’m just fascinated that it is all right here.

Similarly, I walked Old Jerusalem this morning, and learned that it continues to harbor 4 quarters that are owned exclusively by 4 disparate faiths, each claiming their corner of this sacred spot for thousands of years: Jewish, Muslim, Christian and Armenian. It is quite peaceful at the jetlagged prime time of 6am, lovely light for photos and sleepy hellos. The biggest challenge is not getting lost in the maze of streets, though it becomes convenient that there is an armed Israeli soldier on most every corner who speaks good English. Convenient, till it gets scary….

I spent the day today whizzing through checkpoints and visiting schools and happy homes with Right to Play. The sky was ominous, as was my budding understanding of all that I don’t know about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. At a stop sign, the car in front of us sticks his hand out his window and wiggles his finger – the universal signal for gunfire ahead, I’ve learned. Sure enough, on the distant hillside we see a fleeing (Palestinian) figure, Israeli soldiers in full combat gear close behind, tear gas flying, and screeching cars as we join the rush of cars to clear the area, fast.

 The Separation Wall loops and meanders around Bethlehem and is a backdrop for political commentary: Banksy is well represented here.

This was the first of 3 such incidents today; just another day in the PT where things can turn on a dime. Interestingly, Bob and I discussed later which was safer, the PT or New Haven, Connecticut where he is right now, one of the most violent cities in the US. I’m thinking it might be the Palestinian Territories.

On the Way

Colors and concepts in India 

by Nancy Farese

Though they may take various roads, all are on the way   -Swami Vivekananda

Black eyes, green, amber, lined with kohl to protect  beautiful children from The Evil Eye; to protect boats from storms, trucks from accidents, homes from Evil Spirits. 

Red is the color of love; brides are dressed in red with hennaed hands and nervous eyes. A woman wearing a vermillion powder in her hair part indicates her marital status. Red is the color of celebration and tribute to the Gods.

Blue is the face of Vishnu, as infinite as the clear blue sky; immeasurable. A mother wears blue bracelets as she collects hair from a baby's first cut, done on an auspicious day and wrapped in a ball of dough to float on the Ganges for blessings of long life. A man seeks solace in Old Delhi; one of 1.2billion people.

And everywhere On The Way there is prayer, mantras, shared public bathings for blessings and quiet peace amidst the crowd.  A sigh isn't just a sigh. We inhale the world and breathe out meaning. While we can. While we can. – Salman Rushdie, The Moor’s Last Sigh. 

―

We are on our way home today. We saw the Taj Mahal and the shopping mall, then boarded our long flight home. We have been impressed by amazing generosity and warmth, adding complexity to the stereotypes that we brought with us of corruption, income extremes, noise, dirt and religious confusion (the latter, I’ve realized, was mine alone, since the Indians seem to be quite clear on the integration of religion and daily life).  All those challenges are clearly here, but are often overshadowed by the openess and quick smiles of locals, our nascent appreciation for the historical richness in learning and the arts, and just the plain adventure of  having a window into a fascinating and vibrant culture. We are lucky indeed to have had this experience.

Stay tuned for postings from our NGO shoot with Magic Bus India –

Nancy and Julia 

Kumbh Mela

Khumb Mela Festival, Allahaba, India

The fifth tent fell just after lunch. Once we were moved to “higher ground” we felt a bit more secure, and fell to the pulse of the rain on tent-canvas and failed electricity to nap and read and wait in the dark for the storm to break. Lighting flashes; our bags are prepped to dash if our tent falls in the wind (where to go? The reception tent has already fallen, and the dining hall is a swamp); I think of the Nagas Sadhus mystics– “Naked Nagas” we call them- and realize that life would be so much easier if we had less stuff to worry about.

Julia and I are having a slow start at the Khumb Mela. Hindus by the millions make the pilgrimage every 12^th year as they have for thousands of years to wash away their sins and be blessed by the sacred waters of Mother Ganges. Estimates range from 25-100 million– no one knows exactly how many- but it is considered the largest religious gathering in the world.

So here we are as witness to a powerful display of faith and community, on a sandy riverbed at the confluence of 3 rivers – one of them mystical.  We think of Burning Man x 100, with a carnival atmosphere of lights and color. Tent cities and elaborate, entirely temporary temples to various gods are populous and active. Leave your shoes at the door. Fall to the rythmn of the mantra. Show your respect for the saint/sadhus who will bless you (though you have to pay first).  Sit in a line of hungry pilgrims to eat dal and rice off a banana leaf.  We are always greeted warmly with offers of chai; come sit; come bathe. “From Where?”

Logistically it is a marvel. There are roads; trash retrieval; water pipes laid for the tent cities, and of course electrical lines to support the vast light displays. There is a security force of 70,000, and we feel very safe. We note that there is even clean-up for the “Squating Deacators” (sounds like a rock band) who have found their spot on one sandy bank. While westerners might frown on the extremely high pollution levels in the river, most bathe, drink a few drops, and take a bottle of sacred water home with them.

Thousands of naked mystics, a.k.a. Nagas Sadhus, have come out of their caves in the Himalyas for the event. They are covered in sacred ash and marigolds, and thought to be spiritually powerful. They attract huge crowds – and money- by performing acts of asceticism that demonstrate detachment from human pain, like standing on one leg for 30 years or lifting bags of cement with the penis. Wild.

Once the rain stops we walk to the river and crouch through the bamboo fence to approach some bathers; Julia ready to capture ambient sound of chanting and splashes, me wondering where the line of intrusion is into personal space, and discovering that there is none. Every bather welcomes us into their ritual, unabashedly tucking their sari a bit tighter and wading in, or stripping the saffron robe down to the basics and taking the plunge. They were both somber and vibrant.

The weather does lift, and the riverbed dries. Wandering the tent cities we realize that we were all suffering similarly through the storm, though I suspect we were less equipped to deal with what nature has thrown us. Maybe we should take some strength from Mother Ganges.