Three Moments Of Silence

 

Street Art, Bethlehem (Bansky)

Three moments of silence

I walked the trail in the terraced hills and found the rock I usually sit on in silence. The outer sounds were faint. I felt that they were mere vibrations of the universe, and they didn’t bother me. After a while, I fell into utter silence.

I focused on the sensation of my breath and softened my body further. The hill beneath me joined my spine with each inhale; it came together like an accordion and then released musical silence with every exhale. The rock underneath shared every breath with me. I was lighter, swaying with the wind, yet a thread tied me to the earth. I’ve connected to the earth.

There was a fire sensation with each breath. I didn’t feel the pain in my knee, back, or right rhomboid muscle. My fingertips were pulsing. An image of me flashed in my presence. A phantom of me lying on the ground appeared. There was the sound of the first explosion and, after a while, the second. It was a foggy, dark, and surreal image. One tear slowly drew its way out of my left eye and slid slowly down my cheek. The memory of the sounds remains, the knowledge crowning the victim when survival is granted.

The first explosion, then there were moments of silence.  A few seconds later, the sound of the second explosion shook the building and swayed the ground. I understood what it was. The awareness of the process of shelling was paralyzing; the first explosion was the sound of the shell leaving the trunk of the tank. The silence was the trajectory of the shell. It was a deranged journey through silence, a sickening trance. When my inner organs shook, that was the sound of the second explosion, of the shell hitting its target. It took a lifetime to hear the second explosion, but it meant I was still alive. The shells dropped in my organs as awareness dripped heavily for me with every breath.

To awaken the sedated heart, this tear is the elixir. It is incredible how a shell, landing wherever it may, as cruel as it is, can carry a message to surrender fear, as long as I can breathe.

I breathe an image of a third-generation refugee girl, no longer scavenging for food nor afraid, and shooting a message of truth and peace towards her people and beyond. Unlike Handala[1], she is no

Handala

longer turning her back on the world.  She is no longer barefoot, and her clothes may be stitched with brands. She surrenders her attachment to any results her message might have, whether positive or negative, fame or imprisonment, or, more realistically, that her message could be unheard, misunderstood, or insignificant.

I was engulfed with absolute silence. I could hear the movement of an ant in the grass, all fears subsided, and my gratitude increased. Earth was embracing me closer, not because I was special but because I endured and will endure the pain of the search.

It took some time to wake up from this hushed existence. The fear and the mind interfered, and I returned to the normal state we all exist in. When I walked back to my car through the hills, I compared the language of silence to man’s language.  As I was smoothing into the normal state of existence, I could feel and see the difference between the time spent in silence, security, and pure nature and what seemed to me as noise; the noise of our beliefs and actions, the clamor for our nonsensical attachment to life, affluence, and material things, and the babel of voices about the result of our efforts; judgment or reward, success or failure, satisfaction or emptiness. These are man's most basic ailments.

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[1] Handala is a symbol created by a famous Palestinian cartoonist, Naji Al-ali. The symbol is of a refugee boy, barefoot, wearing stitched clothes, and turning his back on the world while looking to the horizon towards his lost homeland. Handala, or Hanthala, is a plant name that has a bitter fruit.