Cracks in the Wall
A real-life story from the Middle East
Over the past few months, I began looking through my archives and found a bunch of old narratives, poetry, and some short stories that I never published.
Today, I want to share one of those narratives with you. Normally, my archived work is reserved for those who pay for a “donation subscription” to Rogue Writer, but this narrative is especially relevant to what’s happening today in Ukraine, as well as in the United States. I therefore decided to publish it for everyone.
It’s a true story about an experience I had in Israel back in 2009. It’s also the true story of another person who has impacted my life for the better. Years ago, I received this person’s permission to write about her story in my narrative.
Without further ado, please enjoy, “Cracks in the Wall.”
Cracks in the Wall
Originally written by Shari Lopatin on 2-19-2017. © Shari Lopatin, 2017. All Rights Reserved.
***
In America, you live in a movie. But then you come to Israel, to the Middle East, and you see reality.
Amir’s words still echo in my mind today, even after eight years from that evening in a cramped hotel room, crossed knees jammed against crossed knees, an acoustic guitar resting next to Amir’s lap.
It was January 2009 when I first travelled to Israel, at the height of Operation Cast Lead—known as the Gaza Crisis … a crisis so bloody, no one within the walls of Jerusalem or Tel Aviv would speak of it. The lesson I’d learned on that trip now echoes in my thoughts, among the rhetoric that has come to plague my beloved America.
However, eight years ago in that hotel room, my mind drifted back only days earlier, when I stood upon the vortex of merging worlds—watching the sun set from the stone ground of an Israeli military base, gazing over barbed wire into the West Bank.
Staring at the Wall.
A mosque, draped in white purity and exuding a green ambiance from the crowning dome, topped a nearby hill. As the sunset’s warmth enveloped the Arab town, protected by its towering mosque, men’s evening prayers echoed throughout the hilltops in a mesmerizing harmony.
Just below, the great Wall extended into the horizon, separating the Jewish sector from the Arab prayers above.
Images of bloodied faces and flaming buses on the news flashed through my mind from childhood, then: Another suicide bomber killed 50 people on a public bus in Jerusalem today. And subsequently, I thought of the stories our Jewish tour guide told, of playing Russian roulette with his children, of debating every day whether to take the bus or his car. Which had a better chance of survival?, he would ask.
I sometimes forget: the word “God” makes humans do crazy things.
On this evening upon an Israeli military base, I stood above the Wall, allowing the gentle choir of Arab voices to hypnotize me. Such peace, such beauty.
We don’t like this town, a female voice spoke from behind me then, jerking me from my trance. It was Maayan, our travel mate who lived on this military base. Many terrorists live there, and we’ve had many problems with them.
The reality sunk into my head, and before another image or thought could sweep my mind, I thought of Mirsada.
Mirsada, a Muslim woman who never lived in the Middle East, but grew up in Bosnia. Who intimidated not only me when I first met her as a rookie 23-year-old newspaper reporter, but terrified every cop within a 20-mile radius with that dominant eastern European accent.
I remember clearly, they used to call her “Bulldog.”
Perhaps that’s why Mirsada earned several Associated Press awards as our paper’s lead crime reporter. It was because of Mirsada that I have my investigation and interrogation skills today. But I learned much more from her than important reporting techniques.
I learned that pacifism has power.
Mirsada lost her brother to genocide during the Bosnian War, and she spent 13 days as a prisoner in a Serb concentration camp. She thought she’d escaped the propaganda associated with the word “Muslim” by coming to America, until a tumultuous 2016 presidential election reverberated those fears in her mind.
Mirsada, however, is not one to buckle under fear. She dove into the streets and dodged sniper fire to train as a runner for the 1992 Barcelona Olympics for Bosnia’s first Olympic team. Amidst the chaos of a war-torn Sarajevo, Mirsada raced through the roads as Serb militants sprayed bullets into the city from hilltops above. Slicing through the silence, only gunshots piercing the air, Mirsada dashed by blocked alleys and shelled buildings, skintight 80s running leggings wrapped around her legs.
You could not hear or see a bird in the air, Mirsada would later tell me. It was almost like death had enveloped the city, and even wildlife understood the danger. It felt as if the world had stopped moving.
But Mirsada refused to stop. She ran because she wanted the world to see what was happening to her country. The hope of intervention, of action from the major powers, drove her like a lightning bolt through the streets of Sarajevo. Soon, the Associated Press picked up Mirsada’s story and her face spread across the globe, making it to the cover of Runner’s World.
Now, decades later, after stories of childhood friends turning guns on her and her family, after memories of Serbs tearing apart her life, Mirsada hasn’t let these people define her future. She gathered her despair and began a new life in America—having children, finishing her degree, mentoring rookie reporters. Yet today, I watch as her fears return, and I realize something.
As I stood upon the Israeli military base and stared at the Wall eight years ago, I recalled whispers of Israeli Arabs treated as second class citizens. The stories of my Jewish guide’s Russian roulette with his children then intermingled with those whispers. I thought of my ex-boyfriend, who grew to detest me after several years because I’m Jewish. I almost never took my birthright trip to Israel, because of him.
Mirsada lost her brother, her home, her people, because of that Wall. I almost lost my identity because of that Wall. And I realized, this snaking, overbearing Wall extends far beyond Jerusalem.
People in Israel talk of breaking down the Wall, but I stood on the vortex of two worlds that evening, staring into the sunset while only miles away, a war raged in Gaza. Amir was right. In America, we have lived in a movie. Perhaps, in 2017, we’re finally beginning to face the reality. We must not allow that Wall to invade us, too.
My Muslim friend, Mirsada, began chipping at the Wall’s structure by running through the streets of her under-siege city, rather than returning the firepower. She began by fighting to live her life, her way. And she began by teaching a young, Jewish reporter about the power of rising above.
Should that power gain enough force, the next time I travel to Israel, I might find a crack in the Wall. And I’ll smile.
Thanks for reading! My name is Shari Lopatin, and I’m a former journalist and professional writer living in Phoenix, Ariz. For more of my narrative essays like “Cracks in the Wall,” as well as serialized fiction, please sign up for my Rogue Writer newsletter.
A powerful read, Shari. I recommend Tom Friedman's book "From Beirut to Jerusalem." I met several Palestinians, one born in Louisiana, when I lived in Longview, Texas.