I
was in Qana, Lebanon two years ago. I hired a driver in Beirut to
take me down to the small mountain village. It was about a 3-hour
drive mostly along the Mediterranean coast. We passed through Tyre
and Sidon, places repeatedly mentioned in the Bible. The travel
agents and hotel personnel in Beirut advised me not to go there
because it is right on the Israeli border. But I felt a strong
calling to visit that remote region. It was an urgent feeling,
actually, which begged me to take the risk. It was a feeling I often
have about holy places in the Middle East, a feeling my family would
prefer I didn’t have.
Holy places of all religions seem to beckon me in a strong, magnetic
sort of way. Sometimes I sense their presence even though I am not
conscious of their existence. Other times my driven soul studies
maps and roadways to find the surest way to the sacred sites. And so
it was on that beautiful morning that we passed through numerous
roadblocks and security inspections in order to finally arrive at
the place my heart was yearning for. Qana is a small town settled on
a steep, hilly slope. You drive through narrow streets to get there
and in many sections of the town the drivers going up the hill share
the same road as the driver’s going down the road.
There are twists and turns revealing a few shops here, a few mosques
there, hundreds of small quaint homes, and a gorgeous view of the
valley separating hillside from hillside. It has a strong European
feeling to it, as many places in Lebanon do, and you almost forget
that you are standing in a potential war zone. There are flower
boxes planted beside houses and the hillsides, though rough and
craggy, are dotted with patches of greenery and amazing wildflowers!
It really is an enchanting, peaceful place, and from the first
instant I entered the village I felt overwhelming happiness soar
through my soul.
This was the first time that the Arab, Christian driver, Paul, had
ever been to this part of Lebanon. Even though he was a certified
driver for a reputable tourist company he told me honestly, “We
rarely have tourists in these parts because of the cross-border
conflicts,” and besides, he asked me curiously, “do you really
think Jesus was here at one time?”
I told him what I knew about Qana. “Well, according to the New
Testament, Jesus performed his first miracle at a wedding feast in a
town called Cana. Some historians say that place is located within
the boundaries of Israel, but others say this village in Southern
Lebanon was the true place where Jesus, at the request of his
blessed Mother, turned many jugs of water into wine.
I want to see for myself.” “Yeah, me too,” Paul replied
respectfully, “me too; thanks for bringing me here. But how will
we know exactly where to go, I don’t see any signs pointing the
way to a museum or anything?” “Just trust me,” I replied with
a slight grin, “my soul will know where to go!”
Sure enough I spotted some old, faded signs with tattered images of
ancient water vessels painted upon them. I knew that was what we
were looking for and told him to head in the direction of the arrow.
He looked a little dubious and said again “Are you sure this is
it?” “I’m sure” I replied with increased feelings of
exhilaration as we neared the holy territory.
“We are almost there.” Just then we turned one of the last
narrow bends and the summit of the town suddenly came into full
view. Everything felt still and serene. The town was small, quaint,
and quite picturesque except for one very disturbing feature: huge,
building-sized banners of Hezbollah “martyrs” and leaders flying
from all the lampposts.
We both gasped at the same time and uttered helpless “Uh, ohs.”
If I had not been in Syria a few months before I never would have
known the meaning of these pictures waving gently in the breeze. But
while in Syria I received a solid education about the Irani-backed
shii’a movement that has declared total annihilation of Israel.
I knew immediately that I was now not only in Hezbollah country, but
I was also in Hassan Nasrallah country. I had seen his smiling photo
all over Syria and my guide Hamzeh, at my urging, then dutifully
briefed me on the history and politics of the faction I was now
amidst. Paul looked a lot more panicked than me although if I
were to say that I didn’t want to slip way low in the backseat and
hope nobody saw me before we made a quick getaway out of town, I
would be the biggest liar on the face of the Earth.
I was scared to death! But while Paul was yelling at me to not tell
anyone I was American (duh!) and to not speak to anyone,
I quietly put my scarf on over my head and said a quick prayer.
“Really I think we should leave now,” he pleaded, even though he
could see I was praying and actually considering staying there. I
could feel the presence of the Spirit with me and my panic began to
subside.
I started to remember what I always learn in these troubling
situations while in the Middle East: human-to-human, heart-to-heart,
that’s the way to peace. “Come on, Paul, let’s go find
Jesus’ miracle.” Reluctantly he drove down a side street where
the last water vessel sign pointed. Then the street turned into a
muddy mess and basically came to a dead end.
There were a few run-down houses on each side of the road and
straight in front was a wire fence, which surrounded some old brick
and clay foundations of a house. They seemed very ancient and could
easily have existed 2,000 years ago. As soon as we got out of the
car a young woman with beautiful dark features and poverty-
stricken clothing came out of her home to greet us. She was
smiling as she held a 2-month old baby close to her chest and a
9-year-old neighborhood boy close to her side.
“Salaam aleikum” (“Peace be upon you”) I greeted, kissing
her and the children on both sides of their beautiful cheeks. “Ana
Christian min Kuwait wah ana abyee shoof mawjizzah Isa (rough Arabic
for I am a Christian from Kuwait and I want to see the miracle of
Jesus.”)
Paul, now pacing in the muddy road in front of the car, quickly
interjected “Heeah Francaise” (“She is French”). We quickly
switched to speaking French, which all Lebanese are fluent in, and
which helped me out a lot since my French is far better than my
Arabic.
She introduced me to Ali, the little boy at her side, and said that
he would show me all the holy sites in the town associated with
Jesus.
I was hesitant, yet certain that going with Ali was the wise thing
to do. He was a bright little boy, full of energy and enthusiasm. He
wore a black t-shirt, which matched his big black eyes. The shirt
had a picture of two swords and the Arabic words of the Muslim
Shuhada (“There is no God but God and Muhammad is his prophet.”)
Ali was utterly likeable and from the very beginning we bonded as we
both laughed at my atrocious Arabic!
It was obvious the town had not seen a pilgrim in a very, very long
time and our arrival was a big deal. It was obvious because within
minutes of our parking the car, townspeople began to gather on the
streets to watch us everywhere we went.
I didn’t feel they were watching us with suspicion, but with grand
appreciation. We toured the alleged ruins of the home where the
historic wedding feast was held. We walked up to the main street
where a few rather large, official-looking Arab men joined us and
told us more about the history of the town.
The official keeper of the one Christian Church in town, Hanan, came
over and greeted me excitedly waving church keys in her hand.
We kissed and kissed and kissed some more. She wore Muslim hijab
(scarf) but had a crucifix around her neck. We entered the church
with Hanan and the official men. They even opened the altar area
just so I could see the artwork and have a few moments alone to pray
there. Everyone was kind, jubilant, and proud to show their little
claim to history. Then upon leaving the church the gentlemen
escorted us to an area that was a bombed-out building.
There was nothing left except rubble and many sitting benches and
some papers lying around. It looked to still be some type of meeting
place. Nearby was an abandoned Israeli tank. They told us the story,
which I had to have Paul translate later because it was spoken too
quickly for me to grasp in Arabic or French, about the night when
the Israelis bombed innocent men, women, and children in the old
Christian church.
Supposedly, “The Qanans were praying in the place of worship,
minding their own business when Israel pounded away mercilessly.”
Next they took us into a building next door to show us something
“that most people never are allowed to see.” I felt eager to see
what treat awaited us. As we entered the large room, the heavy
wooden door slammed behind us. Paul and I both looked cautiously at
each other because it was hard to make out where we were exactly. I
kept thinking, “This isn’t a house? This isn’t a church or
meeting place” Hmm, where am I?
Then as I glanced around the room and the men were speaking fast in
languages I could barely comprehend, I realized we were in a museum
of sorts. There were amazing murals and works of art on the walls.
There were many pieces obviously created by school children. There
was every medium imaginable oil paint, charcoal, colored pencils,
and crayons. The room was bursting full of creativity. But as I got
closer to examine each masterpiece close up, I almost threw up.
Written upon almost every stunning, near-perfect work of art, were
the words in bold “DEATH TO AMERICA.”
At that point Paul and I intentionally avoided making eye contact.
We just continued walking through the museum, admiring what was
before us as if we were not shaken to the core. When the tour ended
and we finally left the building, we walked again through the
bombed-out building and they explained that the towns’ people were
using the benches to continue their meetings against the evil enemy
Israel.
None too soon, little Ali suddenly appeared back into my life, took
my hand and shouted excitedly “Yellah, yellah, shoof mawjizah Isa.”
(“Come on, hurry, let’s go look at Jesus’ miracle”).
We said good-bye to the stern gentlemen while Hanan and I kissed
each other farewell. Paul took photos of Hanan and I holding each
other closely side-by-side. She whispered into my ear “Entee
Amerikeeya?” (“You are American?”). I held my breath and then
gave her a secret wink and audible “Ai, shhh” (“Yes, don’t
tell ok?”). I definitely am not good at lying. But immediately, as
if nothing top secret had just transpired, off I went with Ali as we
skipped together down the uneven cobbled stone streets back to the
ruins of the wedding feast.
A few more townspeople came out to greet us; shaking hands, and
genuinely blessing us with “Salaam Aleikum” (“Peace be upon
you”). Children were waving, some showing us that they were
Christian by holding up a crucifix and some telling us that they
were Muslim by cheerfully saying things like “Muslims also believe
in the prophet Isa (Jesus).” I bought a handful of postcards from
people who followed us and several lovely lithographs of the Wedding
Feast at Cana.
Then Ali and the town leader took us to the final showing: several
caves where Jesus, Mother Mary, and the apostles allegedly stayed.
Carved alongside these caves were very old depictions of people
sitting at long tables with serving ware, goblets, and clay water
vessels before them.
It was definitely the telling of the story at the wedding of Cana. I
felt honored to be standing on such holy ground. I said prayers of
gratitude for being able to experience the mystery of the mystical
past. “Alhumdullilah” (“Give thanks to God”).
We left the caves and as we did so I stood on the hillside gazing at
the vibrancy of the wildflowers. “Wow, they are so beautiful!” I
burst out loud, in English, with my heart now beating faster than it
should. I continued my thoughts quietly in my mind: “This indeed
is a holy place and this indeed is a holy world. I bow before the
marvels of holy miracles, sacred prophets, and ancient mysteries. I
truly reverence the beautiful wildflowers which grow on the hillside
of Qana and I am deeply touched by knowing little Ali, the brightest
flower of them all.” We walked a bit further towards the car and
the rickety house where we first encountered our wonderful guide,
Ali.
I asked Paul and the gentleman escorting us if they would take a few
more photos. Just then Ali handed me a beautiful bright red wild
poppy. I got tears in my eyes and smiled with ineffable joy. Someone
photographed me at that instant. Then we gathered around the car and
bid farewell to the woman with the baby and a few other friendly
neighbors who had come out to wish us good-bye. Many urged me
to stay for tea and dinner and other such sweet, sweet
hospitalities. I thanked them graciously and explained that we had
to go. Paul gave me a look that I knew meant such a consideration
was not even an option (that’s why I always travel in the Middle
East with a certified guide to help me look after myself).
Saying
good-bye to Ali was one of the most difficult things I ever had to
do. I have never had children of my own so I cherish those rare
moments when I really feel connected to a child. I knelt down and
held him close to my body. I trembled as I fought back the tears. I
whispered in his kindly ears and kindly heart jumbled words in
English, French, and Arabic something to the effect of: “Habibi,
promise me you will always be a good boy and do what your mother
asks. Do good in your studies okay, education is so important. And
remember that the prophet Isa (Jesus) taught us to love our enemies
and to forgive those who hurt us. Even though we are different from
each other, even though we are strangers to each other, we should
love each other. Do you understand?”
He looked at me with sweet, soul-knowing eyes and kissed me on both
cheeks. I asked the mother with the baby if I could photograph Ali
one last time. She gave me permission to do so. As the car started
to warm up and turn around in the driveway Ali jumped up and down
with excitement. It had been a special day for him and he had been
the star of the show.
I could tell then that he would never, ever forget me just as I
would never, ever forget him. In fact, I will never forget anyone in
that precious town of Qana nor, do I believe, will they ever forget
me. Maybe they did or maybe they didn’t know I was American. But
for sure what they did know was that I was someone with white skin
and blue eyes who cared about the Arab people, Muslim and Christian
alike.
I was someone who was willing to risk a lot in order to spend a
memorable afternoon in their little village. I was a witness to
their generosity, their pain, their suffering, their hatred. I
witnessed not as a judge, not as a sympathizer, not as a journalist,
not as a political advocate, but as a simple woman seeking to know
peace in the world human-to-human, heart-to-heart.
In the same way, many years ago, I lived for a few months on a
kibbutz in the Northern part of Israel. I discovered the kindness,
generosity, and good-natured ness of the Jewish and Israeli peoples.
I witnessed their pain and suffering, their fears and longings. I
came to know Israel not as the evil it is sometimes depicted to the
world, but as a small, faith-filled community trying to keep itself
alive after the onslaught of the World War II holocaust.
Israel does not want to control the entire Middle East. Israel does
not want to resort to heavy artillery or building walls that keep
families apart. Israel wants only one thing: to survive. Holding on
to their last desperate claims to dignity and historical
authenticity is necessary for the preservation of their religion and
culture.
I weep at the thought that the Kibbutz where I once lived might, as
of this week, be non-extant due to the missiles of the Hezbollah. So
too with the Palestinian peoples. I have known and loved them for
many years. Some of the kindest families I have ever met in my life
have been those of Palestinian origin. I have been to the Gaza
strip. I have been to the Golan Heights. I have traveled from Jordan
to Jerusalem through the West Bank. There are so many beautiful,
wonderful, noble things about the Palestinians who also
want desperately to have a place to call home.
There are so many admirable things about the brave Palestinian
peoples who want to hold onto a dream of the past with their last
dying breath. I weep at the thought that Palestinians I have called
friends, may have been wounded or hurt during the latest crack down
on the Gaza region.
These past few weeks have been hard on the world. It has been a
nightmare for those in the Gaza, those in Israel, and those in
Lebanon. Though not nearly so ravaging, it has been hard on the rest
of us who watch the conflicts and feel so helpless to do anything.
We feel absolutely devastated by the suffering, cruelty, and deaths
encountered on all sides of the scenario. We want to make it stop.
We want to make it all go away. We want to see life return to some
sort of pre-apocalyptic normalcy.
Yesterday was one of the saddest days in the history of the world.
In the small village of Qana, Lebanon 60 innocent people were killed
by an Israeli missile. Among the rubble and heaps of caved-in
debris, were found the remains of many special women, men, and
children.
Every newspaper in the world carried a photo on the front page today
of a dead child covered in dried mud. Oh, my God, horror of horrors.
I absolutely believe that Israel did not mean to kill those innocent
ones and I truly believe that they feel great remorse at such a
situation. I have no doubt that Hezbollah fired missiles from that
village and Israel was merely retaliating with their strategic
tracking system by returning fire.
Sadly, Hezbollah and other militant groups often hide in the same
places where innocent ones are sleeping or praying or trying their
best to survive.
But, be that as it may, it does not lessen the sorrow of the moment.
The dead child covered in mud. The image of workers pulling children
from beneath the rubble. The mere thought that the woman with the
baby, or Christian Hanan, or little Ali could have been among those
killed makes me want to shrivel up and abandon all hope. But my
soul, though weary and troubled, refuses to let me give in to such
hopelessness. The part of my soul that is attuned to the presence of
holy places, is also attuned to the presence of hope.
I have seen too much generosity in the hearts of the Muslim and
Jewish peoples. I have seen too much beauty in the hillsides and the
valleys. I have beheld the precious wildflowers of Qana. I have held
the most precious wildflower of them all ”little Ali” close to
my heart. No, I will not give in to despair or hopelessness. I
choose to believe in miracles--past, present, and future.
“Jesus,
Isa, Yeshua, we beg you, as your Mother begged you at the wedding
feast so long ago, don’t delay. We need another great miracle in the
land of Qana. We need it today.”
