A few years back I took a month long trip to Italy. After a few weeks, I made the classic day trip from Michaelangelos piazza, over the rise of the hill to an ancient church, down to the Forum and finally to the Coliseum. I remember looking down on the Forum from the bluff above and "crossing over" into ancient history. I saw or imagined I saw some of the slaves and patricians who came to the center of the civilized world 2,000 years ago. I could see their faces and body language. Was I one of the Jewish slaves brought here after Palestine was dismantled? The place resonated with power of teeming millions that had passed through it.
This leap into prehistory also occured the more I was exposed to the fancy churches of Italy. In some of the churches of Rome and finally in the massive church at Assissi I felt like I could see the faces and experience the emotions of the monks that toiled their whole lives on one aspect of the overwhelmingly ornate monestary.
When Anika and I toured Turkey on our honeymoon we found ourselves in the religious city of Konya in the dusty central plateau. We walked around at sunset and drank tea in the park. At one point, I saw or imagined I saw one of the Mongol hordes entering the city from east about to overrun the town.
Once, after attending a conference in Dallas, Texas, I drove a car through Mississippi. Eating breakfast at a diner, I had visions of being a social worker on my way my death in the early 1960's. I also had visions of being in the Marine Corp. basic training somewhere close by.
Its been a struggle to conjure up the exact vision I saw as we passed through the suprisingly lightly manned checkposts into the heartland of the West bank of the new Palestinian entity cum Palestinan state. But it finally came to me a little while ago. As strange as it may sound, the vision I saw was myself as a Jewish salesman in pale of settlement in the 1600's or 1700's. With fear and intrepidness that only comes out of economic necessity, I would enter a foreign place filled with people who dislike or hate me. But I would push on to the heartland to do what had to be done for my family, as we did last weekend.
We met the Palestinian trade unionists and the deputy mayor of Nablus. We heard the problems and the attempts to energize the economy. Signs of activity in the streets gave the appearance that things are heading in a positive economic direction. A city councilman came to speak. He explained that he was in an Israeli jail for 22 years. As he detailed his plans for the future he pointed his index finger calmly perhaps to emphasise his resolve. Subtly his finger and hand began to shake. Was this anger or resolve? What does 22 years in prison do to a person? A part of you has to be uncontrollably angry.
Our last stop of our visit to Nablus was up the winding streets to a windy cul-de-sac where the Samaritans have lived since the time of Moses. As the leader spoke of examples of their literal interpretation of the Five Books of Moses (and how they differ from todays religious Jews), I vaguely saw or imagined I saw myself among the tribe that passed through the area almost 3,500 years ago. For all our differences in belief concerning the origins of creation, I felt a deep kinship with the leader and the community.
With all my heart I wish for peace. When there is hate dreaming stops. When there is suspicion the imagination twists. When there is Peace the imagination has a chance to fly.