The evening before the day.
It's now the evening before the day. Words are so frail.
I pray for the innocents.
I was in Damascus on June 5, 1967.
Wearing a black robe covering all of me and in bare feet, I wandered within the great Umayyad Mosque, passing along through crowds of men in prayer, black-robed females circulating, praying. I moved out through enormous wooden doors that were open, into the courtyard. The moment is frozen into my memory. The courtyard was almost empty. Birds were twittering, the sky was bright blue overhead. The summons to the faithful began; in the tall slender minaret with four balconies the muezzin cried out the ageless song.
A slight breeze rolled past, and my robe fluttered, the veil over my head close to my face.
I was overcome by the emotion of exposure to an exotic faith. There was something archaic, pure about the moment.
I heard yelling, and someone ran past, then more were running. The war had begun, and even as it was not close yet, events were in motion.
A saga ensued, and in hours I had been evacuated from Syria, to Tel Aviv, to Cyprus, to Rome, to Paris, to London, to Scotland, to Greenland, to Maine, to New York. Hundreds of planes were flying out. Gasoline was at a premium; planes could only make small jumps to find more fuel.
I met a family in one of the airports. Arabic, with lands in Israel and Lebanon. They had left forever, moving fast and taking children and some small treasures. I asked why they were leaving so fast? The father said..We will never fit again. It is better to live than be taken as a traitor by one of the countries that hold our family property. I had never understood running before then.
I was at the last performance of the Beruit Lido, just the day before I went on to Damascus. It was bombed the next day. The head of John the Baptist in Damascus, the body in Rome. The Temple of Hadrian in Syria, the Viaducts in Provence. The camps for Palestians where miles of families lived in cardboard boxes. History was in warp for me then. Time and suffering, faith and strength, all blended together.
I can remember with such clarity the beauty and even squalor of all the places I saw, as I traveled as free as a bird with that incredible confidence of time and place being open to anything I could pay for and accomplish. Such arrogance because of innocence. I came back to the States, and soon it was time to protest more arrogance, for a war we didn't want or need. Eventually, we won. We made them all come home.
I pray for the innocents.
I pray for an end to tyrants.
I pray for the weak and defenseless.
I pray everyone can go home.
I pray for the innocents.
I was in Damascus on June 5, 1967.
Wearing a black robe covering all of me and in bare feet, I wandered within the great Umayyad Mosque, passing along through crowds of men in prayer, black-robed females circulating, praying. I moved out through enormous wooden doors that were open, into the courtyard. The moment is frozen into my memory. The courtyard was almost empty. Birds were twittering, the sky was bright blue overhead. The summons to the faithful began; in the tall slender minaret with four balconies the muezzin cried out the ageless song.
A slight breeze rolled past, and my robe fluttered, the veil over my head close to my face.
I was overcome by the emotion of exposure to an exotic faith. There was something archaic, pure about the moment.
I heard yelling, and someone ran past, then more were running. The war had begun, and even as it was not close yet, events were in motion.
A saga ensued, and in hours I had been evacuated from Syria, to Tel Aviv, to Cyprus, to Rome, to Paris, to London, to Scotland, to Greenland, to Maine, to New York. Hundreds of planes were flying out. Gasoline was at a premium; planes could only make small jumps to find more fuel.
I met a family in one of the airports. Arabic, with lands in Israel and Lebanon. They had left forever, moving fast and taking children and some small treasures. I asked why they were leaving so fast? The father said..We will never fit again. It is better to live than be taken as a traitor by one of the countries that hold our family property. I had never understood running before then.
I was at the last performance of the Beruit Lido, just the day before I went on to Damascus. It was bombed the next day. The head of John the Baptist in Damascus, the body in Rome. The Temple of Hadrian in Syria, the Viaducts in Provence. The camps for Palestians where miles of families lived in cardboard boxes. History was in warp for me then. Time and suffering, faith and strength, all blended together.
I can remember with such clarity the beauty and even squalor of all the places I saw, as I traveled as free as a bird with that incredible confidence of time and place being open to anything I could pay for and accomplish. Such arrogance because of innocence. I came back to the States, and soon it was time to protest more arrogance, for a war we didn't want or need. Eventually, we won. We made them all come home.
I pray for the innocents.
I pray for an end to tyrants.
I pray for the weak and defenseless.
I pray everyone can go home.