One Small Light
A small piece of writing in search of widespread peace.
This week, I’m reversing my usual ‘first the commentary then the writing’ sequence. I think this 300 word piece might benefit from you discovering its theme without much preamble. I wrote it for a competition judged by the highly entertaining and engaging author and writing tutor Adrienne Dines, who provided these three prompts for inspiration:
‘Season’s turn’
‘That one small light’
‘When you said…’
Me being me, I incorporated two of them into my piece – which I’m told just missed out on a ‘highly commended’ placing. See if you can spot them below and I’ll meet you on the other side shortly.
One Small Light
The first attacker through our door took my brother. A hostage in a war kept alive by the civilised, which no-one will win. We lit a candle for him that day. And the next. Then each day since. Its constant light shines as enduring hope, even as the white wax spills in torpid drips, heavier than my broken mother’s tears. The noon heat won’t melt those iced layers of marked time, and no-one will carve them away. Not until he returns. It would be like cleaving his brave heart from our everlasting love.
The second missile missed my mother but hit our house. Her phone lit up what else was missing. Whenever she sobs in my hospital room, I tell her we should have run for the shelter. She could have wailed at the sirens from where it was safe instead of forcing me to stay in my place. I could have screamed at the fireworks booming overhead instead of one removing my leg. I could have been taking my exams instead of being given a fighting chance.
The third bomb strikes the hospital. A doctor’s pen torch is the one small light which finds my face lit up with fear. They rush me from my one day home, a boxed baby driven through a gate, deciding the fate of those who can’t go on. Brighter light reflects from foreign sand to lance my dark eyes. I can’t move my hands to blot it out. They give me what it takes to hush my crying and push me deep into painless sleep. But they can’t give me what I need. When older and not in despair, I will wake again to repair with false hands what I also lost. To give us all our space and not count the cost.
I'll assume you’ve realised what I’m writing about. There are two parts to why the above prompts produced what they did in my head:
The Personal
Several members of my family have lived, worked, died, been schooled, even suffered from an invasion whilst living in the Middle East. As engineers and teachers, from cleaning toilets in Tel Aviv to managing refinery infrastructure in Libya, from labouring on an Israeli moshav to fixing electrical motors in Kuwait, there's an awareness of the region built into my extended family's history, which has now maintained an almost continuous presence there for over half a century. One distant relative even helped police Palestine during the final days of the British Mandate, up until May 1948.
When you enter my home you’ll see a mezuzah gifted by an Israeli ex-colleague helping to guard it. When urging my family not to dawdle, I still cry ‘Yallah’, Arabic for ‘hurry up’. It’s a hard habit to break.
The political
It's far easier being European when residing in an Arab or Israeli land. I’m not banned from either. Whereas most friends who are citizens in the region have a traumatic story to share, whether from discrimination or violence.
But there’s more in common between the two cultures than most (want to) realise. From language to customs, food to water sources, there are obvious commonalities and shared commodities. It shouldn’t be a surprise: they've shared the same environment for thousands of years. There are Arab Jews, including an historic diaspora of communities which stretched across North Africa. Also, 20% of Israeli citizens are Arabs, with Arabic still an official language in Israel.
“As-Salaam Aleikum” — “Shalom Aleichem”
A final note
Yesterday evening I attended a Christmas work meal in London. There were thirteen of us sat at the table, of whom seven worked for the same company. We variously originated from America, Australia, Israel, Iran, Netherlands, N. Ireland, South Africa, Ukraine and Zimbabwe. There were also two British people, who weren't employees. We spoke at least eight languages between us, with English in common. It's a refreshing reminder that such diverse groups of people can socialise, have fun and work together. All it takes is a lack of insular idiots and power-hungry politicians.
Peace be with you also.
JR
P. S Next week, I plan to spring a surprise present on at least half of my dedicated readers, the benefits of which should last far longer than any festive leftovers.
Beautiful piece, and even better commentary around it.
But now I'm waiting for my present!