Walls (Hannah Lynch, Hasbara Fellow, University of Georgia)
I’m standing at the border between Israel and the Gaza Strip.
I’ve been here before, but not like this.
The Mediterranean sun is bright and cuts through the December chill like a hot knife through butter. My peers stand around me and digest the information being shared with them- information that hits like machine gun fire and a ton of bricks all at once. Information about the dire situation that lies beyond the towering structure that divides the two regions.
A long list of facts followed by the realization that the families that live on the flowering kibbutz on the Israeli side and the families cramped together on the side governed by a terrorist organization share the same fear, the same hope.
We are unsettled. We are sad. We are uncomfortable. And that’s the point.
As we gaze upon the wall separating these two places, absorbing the history of the area, we hear the adhan, the Islamic call to prayer. It is faint and wavering, but it is there, just a few kilometers away. Our minds again go to the families. One side trembles as its members daven, wondering if there are tunnels being dug beneath their homes, while members of the other prostrate fearfully, not knowing exactly what the future holds for them, feeling that cold insecurity.
It is not all bad news- I hear about incredible efforts for peace being made by people like our guide, Israeli and Palestinian students and business owners, and religious leaders of all stripes. And they remind me that even when all seems bleak, there are still signs of hope; faintly flickering, but never truly extinguished.
These individuals are necessary. They have never been more needed.
The dust gathers around our feet as my group, my newfound friends, and I stagger aimlessly until we reach the bus. For a while, we’re silent. Pictures are taken, monosyllabic conversation is exchanged, but we are all lost in our minds; we are all raw from the emotional battering we’ve just endured. The unasked questions remain, What will become of this place? and What will we do about it?
I am at the Kotel.
I’ve been here before, but not like this.
It is just before Shabbat, and the air is electric, alive with anticipation. It is as though the world where I am is inhaling in preparation for a great sigh. I approach the Wall. I squeeze through the crowded pavilion and brave the frosty evening to pray. I look up, marveling at the miracle that is this moment, and the sheer size of the structure. I look around me, and I see amongst the swarms of women in the throes of some frenzied emotion- pleading for something, rejoicing in the majesty of Shabbat, crying out for help, sobbing with joy- and I notice that many nations and creeds are represented here.
They are all here.
We are all here.
United, in some small way.
After I finish my prayers, I sit in one of many white plastic chairs, my mouth slightly agape.
It is the end of my trip.
I had begun my Hasbara Fellowships experience at this very same place, jet-lagged and delirious, and a little bit skeptical. I had gone through every possible emotion, from fury to devastation, to unabashed joy and deep bereavement.
And here I was again, surrounded by the warm, familiar embrace that is so characteristic of shared experiences. The other participants dance, some head back to begin services, but I linger.
Just a few days ago, I was at a wall not unlike the one before me now. A wall meant to protect, yes, but ultimately serving as a divider between two peoples grappling with their respective and shared realities.
The unfortunate situation at the Gaza border made me want to grieve. Despite the colorful stones reading “Path to Peace” that decorated a part of the wall, meant to be seen by the Gazans living on the other side, I still felt uneasy and like something had been lost.
Now, looking at this wall, one that is often wept over but that serves to unite, a respite from the mundane and profane and a sanctuary for the sacred, I feel at peace.
I feel a warm, golden hope.
It trickles out of me until it breaks loose and I am gently crying.
Even with all of the pain I’ve seen, and even though everyone in my group has good reason to despair, I have hope because of these two walls that are so opposite in form and function.
I have hope because of the training I have received over the past two weeks, and the people with whom I have spoken about the conflict.
I have hope because even though I’m not naïve and know that the road is long and treacherous ahead, we still find ways to unite and come together, even in the smallest of ways.
I have hope because I am now ready to defend this place and these people back home.
I have hope because I know, deep down, that walls can never truly divide us.
