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Holy Land, Damned Land
- by Ilaria Ruzza - Italy
I’m Catholic by upbringing, raised up during my childhood by my beloved
grandmother, a deeply religious woman who took the first plane of her
life to go to the Holy Land. It was 1993, the year of another vanished
hope: the Oslo Accords. I was 9 at that time. Aged 34, I took a plane
myself to get there.
It is easy to forget how comfortable most of our lives are, as easy as
being born in the right corner of the world and having a passport that
allows you to travel abroad. As easy as walking completely unnoticed
through Damascus Gate into the Old City, if you are a woman with
unveiled head.
It was
deeply emotional to see Christians, Muslims, Jews and Orthodox walking
within the same walls to go and pray following their respective faith.
It was deeply unbelievable that other walls have been built to separate
most of those same people.
It is hard to walk towards Bethlehem through Checkpoint 300, as hard as
being punched, as hard as having to accept something that heart and mind
can’t tolerate. As scaring as being in the shoes of those walking
through the many turnstiles and along the metal-barred walkways during
crowded times of the day, when hundreds of people are there and even
breathing gets hard.
Though, a spark of light was there.
As vivid as the drawings on the separation walls in Bethlehem, as
beautiful as Palestinians’ resistance is. As bittersweet as a glass of
pomegranate juice, as alive as a kid with his father selling it. As
lively and flowing as the water was at Aida Refugee Camp on the day of
my visit, after weeks of interruption: back and running as the noise
coming from the pipes was testifying.
It is easy to forget how comfortable most of our lives are, as easy as
running water from a faucet when you don’t have to worry about water at
all. As easy as looking at your children playing in the yard, when the
only thing the sky can drop on them, is nothing but rain. As easy as
being a tourist getting on a bus, travelling back and forth from
Jerusalem to Bethlehem, while Palestinians have to endure to be
questioned and searched by the Israeli soldiers every time they move. As
comfortable as leading an untroubled life, when no one will never
impose on you to leave your house within 30 minutes, compelling you to
decide in the blink of an eye what you would save.
It is not easy to find a solution, but the winds of change will begin to
blow if we put our efforts together. It would be unfair not to take a
position, as it would be utterly wrong conceiving the
Palestinian/Israeli conflict as something far away, not concerning each
of us.
It is impossible to forget how I felt like during those few days. Israel
and Palestine are, and will remain, the most profound feeling of beauty
and sorrow altogether. The beauty of diversity, of the people, historic
places and the environment. The sorrow for an ongoing conflict, for
what should have been settled decades ago, and it hasn’t been yet.
As painful as barbed-wire on your skin, as powerful as a memory that
will never fade out. As delicate as a dove with an olive branch painted
on a wall, as strong as children’s desire to play under a safe sky.
If my grandmother was still alive, I’d tell her that even in distress,
I’ll never forget how comfortable my life is. I’d tell her, as she
taught me, that for a vanished hope another will arise.
No one should forget that once upon a time there was a Holy Land, that has been, and still is, Damned.
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