Maze of Terror: a Settler's Diary
Fear and faith in a West Bank settlement
If that's not enough ... there's the problem that I do believe in the Bible. "Now when the spies were sent out to spy on Israel, and they spoke badly about this country saying, 'It's a land that eats its inhabitants,' their punishment was to die and not enter the land with the Jews."
The feeling here, aside from the trauma of Hava's sudden death, is anger against the Arabs. No one I know dares be angry at God. Yet if God does run the show here, as the people here believe, then he is using the Arabs to kill the Jews. MARCH 2, 1993. Bitterness causes illness. Yes, I am bitter. This land quakes. Yesterday, an Arab went on a rampage in Tel Aviv, killing several people and injuring eight others, two critically. Can you "walk the street" without feeling the ground crumbling beneath your feet, without knowing how you will go home, on your feet or in a hearse?
I am not alone. My neighbor Miriam Goldstein, the wife of Baruch Goldstein, told me this morning how she has no strength, how she feels she ages five years for every one, how women where we live have lost vitality--their skins don't look well, their eyes aren't bright.
I'm not a fatalist. Most Jews are. If it's written ... If it's supposed to be ... then it will be--Arabs throwing molotov cocktails or huge stones, or shooting or knifing do not alter one's fate. Jews only wish for better days and lay themselves at the mercy of a God whose ways they say cannot be known.
I have been meditating and doing yoga, trying to center myself in this maelstrom. From that, and a pretty healthy diet, I have some comfort. Not from the Bible, not from the existence of Israel, not from the Jewish euphemism that everything is for the best, not from Judaism at all. There is no comfort in Judaism, only unrest, disquiet, discomfort, the feeling of being hounded for 3,000 years and more.
Oh, to be in a treehouse in Oregon, or back again in the woods of Massachusetts worrying about the rhubarb patch instead of hearing: "Before the days of the Messiah, the days will be as they are--dark, turbulent, unsettling, unclear, unhealthy and unhappily confusing." Life is never normal here. MARCH 4, 1993. Another cause of my illness is Kiryat Arba's winter. The apartments here are small, not insulated, not centrally heated. Black mold grows on the walls and ceilings. Leave something against the wall, pick it up in the morning, and it's soaking wet. Now put seven people in this four-room dungeon, add their mess and clutter, add short, dark days, furious winds and rain and snows and heat that dissipates the moment the heater is turned off, add the smell of mold and chilled bones and circulatory systems made sluggish from the cold, and what have you got? Illness! JULY 1, 1993. I tried to write, to no avail. At 11:30, I heard that a frenzy had erupted in Jerusalem.
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