By Luc Watelet (Darkness / Faith / Perplexed)
“Our paths diverge here. There is unrest in the West. It is a diversion but my presence is needed there while your soul work is here! We will meet again. Things may heat up here too, and you’ll be alright if you don’t give in to fear. Have faith!”
Rumi says this, his dark eyes probing deep into mine. So many thoughts fire at the same time through my mind while my heart echoes in my ears like the muffled beat of a drum. I was counting on his support and wisdom to dispel my confusion. Alone, I am not sure I can resist the alluring smells and looks of the men at the oasis. A woman is rarely by herself in the desert; although times change. Aware of my thoughts, Rumi smiles. As his camel walks away, he turns toward me with the sun bright behind him so his voice comes straight from the light: “Do you know what faith is?”
I’ll have to find out, I guess.
“Trust!” He yells. And his voice continues, sounding like an echo through the increasing distance between us: “… infinitely!”
Darn! I’ll never get used to the depth of changes in my senses. Now men’s fragrances are unattractive. I am unsettled by the contrast of these experiences. Yet a feeling of congruence lets me know that nothing essential has changed within me. I am merely back in my man’s body.
As we approach an oasis, my camel usually presses the pace perceptibly. Not this time. Also, his indifference toward my gender shifts makes me aware how I wear my gender with pride. This is odd to my spirit.
Back on my feet after a long ride, I take off my veil and stretch. My camel is visibly reluctant to go where his food is. Concerned yet powerless about his predicament, I make my way into the crowd. A shot slices through the air and it’s over. What comes next is pure instinct. I rush back. I kneel to his head. I take it in my lap. Our eyes connect and his distinctly calming energy fills me. I have suspended my breath. His last breath is raspy. His eyes show peace, and then darkness. His blood, like a warm spring, runs into my clothes and into the sand.
People have gathered around me. I’d run recklessly into the line of fire. The tension had risen and a man had pulled a trigger unawares while nervously cleaning his gun. He was profusely apologetic and, in my woman’s body, it may have been a turn on. Instead, I shake his hand firmly and reassure him, with my man’s voice, I have no grudge toward him. I feed trust, not suspicion.
Immediately people bring me food and water.
“You are calm, sir,” a merchant says approaching me. He looks around, perplexed, gauging the pulse of the people around us. He takes a breath. His eyes are asymmetrical, the right one squinting, due to an old wound, and the other, wide open, inquisitive; his eyebrows scraggly.
“Don’t you know?”
“Hmmm?” I manage with a mouthful, appreciating the refreshments. In this moment, whatever infuses these people with fear, a calm response on my part has a desirable effect. If I give in to fear now, I risk losing their trust and then ...
“You are American, right?” The man continues.
“I have many roots,” I say, noncommittal.
“You think Israelis and Palestinians are at war with each other, but …” the man looks around and lowering his voice, “… the truth is there are international factions using schisms between peoples around the world, especially the Middle East. These factions manipulate public opinion to further their lust for power and privileges. They are into money, gold, and oil. A war has started, and it could become World War III. We’re the pawns of an international chess game. It isn’t the first time they’ve tried. They sow fear and tension, and sell weapons to the various sides while they can seek cover in deep bunkers in case of a nuclear disaster … So why are you so calm?”
My late camel and Rumi exuded so much love I don’t feel here.
“Sir? … We need to know which side you’re on.”
“The Truth!” I say.
The man is quiet for a moment. “Will you fight with us?”
Taking him at his words, I say: “As a pawn of an international chess game? Why?”
“We are part of an underground organization. Will you fight against those who started this war?”
“I don’t kill. I am a healer.”
“You’re with the Red Cross?”
“Can you trust me even if I don’t belong to an organization? I am a free man. I believe in love for all humanity. Do I make sense to you?”
He scrutinizes deep into my eyes for what seems to be an eternity. What can he see? I hold my space, calm, strong and yet caring. Suddenly, he shakes his head and grabs my hand.
“He’s one of us!” he yells to the crowd around us.
“Listen!” I tell him, surprised at my own confidence, “a war can only go on if there are people willing to fight!”
“Exactly!” he says, “Then we have a chance to win!”
“The best win is to avoid any war!”
“What are you thinking?”
I secretly hope Rumi comes back soon as I say: “Why don’t you bring your men here so we can discuss this together?”
While the men gather, I see the palm and date trees and the shade they offer. I can now hear Dabke music some distance away. What a blessing these oases are! What a blessing the people that live here and protect them from the desert sand storms! I find myself under the spell of men again …
“Hey! What happened to the American man? Who are you?”
Argh! I swiftly cover my face; I am a woman again. “Trust,” Rumi had said, “Infinitely!”