Women
behind the Wall 1 –
Reflection 1
By Susan Gwen Turley
It was
just a typical morning when her brother smiled as he went to begin his
daily routine on the farm, the screen door gently closing behind him as
the air circled inside. He headed out to tend to the goats, chickens,
and rabbits, and to feed their pet dogs. He walked across the parched
earth, gathering dust on his worn jeans as his feet pressed down the dry
grass that sprang up slowly, hurting from lack of water.
His
lips felt dry already as the sun began to warm this barren land where
hundreds of grape vines once thrived. Now only rows of stumps with
voiceless memories grieving vintage wines that blessed the tables of
friends and foreigners dotted the hillsides. The olive trees were gone,
too. The soldiers came in one day and dug up all two hundred fifty, took
them away to plant on their property. Gone is their precious olive oil,
made for generations by the loving hands of mothers and grandmothers.
Gone is their family tradition and livelihood, stripped from the land of
her father’s father.
She
cleared the table and gazed upon her beloved land as far as the eye
could see through her kitchen window. Tonight the sunset will brighten
her heart and the cool winds will refresh her skin. For a moment she
felt a flash of peace reminiscent of not too long ago when papa was
happy and mother was content. Scanning the horizon, her view of rolling
hills was broken by red brick roofs upon white houses, planned
communities safe behind the wall. On desert hills, unnatural to the
skyline arose harsh angles of wood and brick disrupting the minds
traveling free with the wind. Her breath caught as the watchtower came
into view and she wondered if they were looking into her kitchen window,
watching her eyes casting upon what once used to be her grandfather’s
land.
Fences
of barbed wire caged in her life now, fences that cut the edges of her
land away into roads that were never meant to be. The once open entrance
to the farm was now blocked by huge boulders, making it impossible to
enter except on foot. How strange not to be able to drive into your own
land, to your own home, on your own farm.
Far in
the distance she could hear the sounds of trucks and cars echoing off
the hillside. Her dogs, restless and alert, began to circle, making
guttural warning growls behind bared white teeth. She tensed as she
recognized the crunch of gravel and grinding as the stick shift fought
the ground. Her brother, concentrating on his farm duties, gave no
notice of the unwelcome visitors. She took some comfort noting that her
nephew was on his way to school and hopefully through the checkpoints by
now. The cars approached and kicked up dust and noise as they came to an
abrupt stop. Shadows followed them as they approached the front of her
house. The soldiers, barely out of adolescence, came to confiscate more
of her land. She fought back her tears as fear grew inside to rage.
Scanning the land with quick eyes she found where her brother was
standing, his frame silhouetted in the morning sun where once grew the
olive trees. She raised her eyes and caught the glimmer off the huge
crane in the distance as it let tumble down the hill huge boulders of
rumble burying her life further behind the wall.
Women
Behind the Wall –
Reflection 2
Her
forehead wrapped in soft turquoise peaks out beneath layers of flowing
black cloth, cloaking her shoulders laden heavy with burden.
The
hem of her covering skims the ground, picking up remnants of dust and
dirt as she makes her way to somewhere familiar.
Walking close by now, head down in thought, her eyes shadowed in sadness
catches my focus.
I
intrude upon her solitude, snap my camera and steal her privacy to be
imprinted forever, so unawares of being noticed. What must she be
thinking?
Young
boys break into the moment with their laughing, fooling around, tussling
in the street, as boys do everywhere, kicking up the junk and debris
dumped all throughout the refugee camp, their home, their neighborhood.
Perhaps her mind flits to her own son, worried about what pile of broken
dreams he is stirring up, her heart sinks in further and her brow
deepens, eyes darken.
She
moves forward, onward with determination and weariness, home bound to
prepare tonight’s meal. Will there be enough?
Women
Behind the Wall –
Reflection 3
You’re
not so different than me, with your educational pursuits and pretty
clothes.
Sitting under the trees with your books and friends, smiling with the
anticipation of youth, I remember those days.
You’re
not so different than me, with your career aspirations and healthy skin.
Writing and studying with purpose and assuming the realization of your
hopes and dreams. I remember those promises.
The
sun is warm on your back as you nestle in, legs tucked under and toes
tickled by the spring grass. I remember when my knees bent easily and my
laugh came quickly.
On the
other side of the wall, a young girl your age sweeps the dirt floor and
wipes the dust-covered window of her concrete home. She looks out onto
her front yard, covered with garbage, old tires, and broken concrete.
Beyond that is no sky, no sun, no trees – only the mean gray of cement
slaps back into the reflection of her face through the smear across the
middle of the window, despair that must be kept hidden. She turns away
from the helplessness in her heart back to her chores, her sadness
sliding deeper inside with every sweep of the floor.
She
not so different than me and the wall around my heart keeping despair
from seeping into my awareness. I’d crumble and fall into shards of
glass if my sorrow was fully spoken. It’s better to look across the
brokenness of my life through stained glass lenses. I can’t see clearly.
I’m not sure what is there.
But
she is different than me. I can walk away. She cannot.
She is
different than you. She is aware of the wall. You are not.
Women
Behind the Wall –
Reflection 4
In the
church basement, chairs scrape across the floor, as we gather in a
circle the way women do everywhere to share our stories. It’s not hard
to imagine the bonfire in the middle or our mothers’ kitchen table or
the river around our ankles as we wash yesterday’s clothes. Today we
hold our cups of sweet tea on our laps and politely pick one, no two
cookies from the plate. It takes time for the women to bring their
attention away from their individual conversations. The sharing has
already begun. But we all want to hear every woman’s story, to witness
as a group.
The
lady with the raspy voice begins. She goes too long. Even still, the
fullness of her story has not been told as the second woman begins, and
the third and the fourth. All sad stories of pain, suffering, fear and
horror as their lives are being ripped away in violence, terror and
death. What remains is restricted and closed in behind the wall. Soon,
it’s too much to wait for her turn to come around the circle.
Across
the room begins this other woman, crying because her son is gone. She
hasn’t seen her son in two years. One day the police came and arrested
him without charging him with any crime. He was thrown in prison,
interrogated and abused for months before being released. He was a
guard. Now he can’t be hired because he has a record. He stays at home,
depressed and traumatized. He has nightmares and feels hopeless. His
mother doesn’t know what to do. Her face shows pain deep into the
creases of her skin, her eyes pleading for help and understanding, her
hair dull and coarse, as if the life has gone out of her very pores
while watching her son’s spirit struggle for air.
So
many sad stories to tell, and there is not enough time to hear them all.
Another woman throws up her hands as she shakes her head in frustration,
telling about the checkpoints. She gathers her things twice a week
hoping to get through the checkpoints in the fifteen minutes two times
each week that it might be open, depending on the mood of the teenager
wielding a gun and too much power. She has food to buy, children to get
to school, a job waiting. Sometimes she gets through, sometimes not. She
never knows until the moment.
Before
anyone can respond, another woman tells her story and another. The room
is full of stories being told all at once. This is how it is behind the
wall….chaos, confusion, desperation, hunger, and tragedy, humiliation
and rage…longing to be heard, to be rescued. They begin to shush one
another, but the voices continue and the volume rises, the desperation
cuts through the air and the tears flow, the tissues appear, arms
wrapped around one another, the only comfort available. Compassion and
helplessness flood our eyes. We listen, we hear, we feel, we promise
never to forget. We are forever connected in the stories of the women
behind the wall.
Women
Behind the Wall –
Reflection 5
Above
the door a sign lets her know that she is safe and will be cared for
here. The limestone building looks like so many others in the camp.
Framed by a white curtain on one side and a medical screen on the other,
her tightly covered head peaks out the window, shrouded in darkness. I
wonder what she is thinking as we snap pictures of the center where
women and children come for treatment of everyday ailments.
Inside
we meet her and talk to the doctors. They are proud of their work and
hope the older women will find their way here. Modesty sometimes keeps
them away. The exam room is cornered off with a screen at the end of a
simple bed with a crisp white sheet tucked in tightly over a thin
mattress. The head of the bed is up against the wall and the side open
to the room. A desk and three chairs line up underneath the window.
Blending in sits a woman covered head to toe in black. The ridge of her
nose catches the light and shadows fall on her eyes. She watches us with
the stillness of a hawk. I was embarrassed by my fear and instantly
respected her. She keeps her hands folded on her lap, her ringed finger
on top and a watch on the other wrist. Her hands are rough and red,
swollen from the hard life of caring for so many. Who takes care of her?
Her feet point slightly in toward each other, shoed in an inexpensive
pair of black leather sandals. They sit flat on the floor with cautious
strength.
The
group keeps our attention on the doctors. I smile often at the woman
with the tightly covered head, she exudes sweetness and hope. I want to
stand next to her and hear her story. She remains quiet. We are not
invited to interact with or even introduced to the woman sitting in
black. Perhaps out of respect no one initiates a greeting. We take our
leave, and she continues to sit, not moving in a silence that makes me
stop and wonder.
I’m
the last one out of the room. I turn toward her, look into her eyes,
smile and point to my camera. She nods. I take two shots and show her
the best. Her eyes twinkle as she looks me in the eye. I swear I can see
her smile. For a moment the wall has come down. I feel blessed.
