A Lotus Grows in the Mud (29 page)

“Yes, I can imagine,” I say. “It’s important that one can sleep and feel some peace while leading a country through such difficult times.”

Little more of value is said. We exchange idle chatter until the obligatory photographs have been taken. We rise from our seats and prepare to say good-bye. On impulse, I bend down and hug him close. I’m not sure what makes me do this. Perhaps I feel for his life and for his strug
gle. Surprisingly, he hugs me back. I pull away, smiling, to discover that he is smiling back at me. This is good.

The next day, our picture will appear on the front page of every newspaper in Israel. It will show Shamir’s side of our embrace, his eyes closed, his mouth sporting a blissful smile. Soft and sweet, like a koala bear, his is not the face of an old war dog but that of a loving grandfather.

T
he day has turned to dusk, and my celebrity tour of the Holy City has come to an end. Abandoned by the gaggle of clicking photographers, I am emotionally drained, and, thankfully, finally alone.

Our car comes to a full stop in front of a small gray cement house, wedged between other humble homes, on the outskirts of the city. It begins to pour rain as I step onto the curb. Pulling my shawl up over my head, I pick my way around the puddles to the door. I knock. I turn back and wave to Shalom, who sits patiently in the car. He gives me a thumbs-up.

An elderly woman opens the door. She’s somewhere between seventy and eighty years of age; it is difficult to tell. Her manner is soft and free of stress. A large, welcoming smile spreads across her face, and her eyes dance with joy.

Yes! I think. This is just what I need after this long, long day.

She ushers me inside her dark living room and introduces me to her elderly husband, who sits reading a newspaper beside a fire.

“Come, my dear.”

I follow obediently into an even darker room. A flickering candle is the only source of light. It sits tall on a round table on which also sits a beautiful quartz crystal ball. She pulls out a chair for me to sit on. I don’t know what to expect. I wonder if she will read my cards, or speak some words of truth—her truth, of course. Whatever, I am ready to bear witness to what is in store. I love not knowing.

I sit in silence with my hands in my lap, watching the flame dance in the air. I figure she will speak to me when it is time. I feel a familiar sense of peace and comfort in her house, just like I did in my mother’s house. I
hope that one day my children will remember the peace and safety of my house too.

Finally, she speaks. “Dear one, you have had a very difficult day, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I reply with a sigh, relieved that the session has begun. “It’s been so emotional. I have cried so much today, for so many reasons.”

She nods knowingly. “You carry a lot of stress. Many people take more from you than you have to give sometimes.”

She pauses.

I don’t say anything for fear of interrupting her train of thought.

“I want to give you a meditation to help you cleanse yourself of the feelings that are left unsaid, that are locked in your heart. There are so many things that we hold here.”

She puts her hand to her breast and goes on. “These unexpressed emotions crowd the spaces in our chest and make it sometimes difficult to breathe. You feel like you want to cry and don’t know why?”

She’s hit a nerve.

“Yes,” I admit. “I do hold back my true emotions sometimes.”

“Of course. We all hold back, because it may not be the best course of action to go forward. You are mindful of hurting other people.”

She stops and stares at me as if she were looking deep into my soul.

“Okay, now let’s begin. I would like you to close your eyes and follow the images I describe to you and see them in your mind’s eye. This will help give you a way to focus your attention inward. That is important. This process will feed your soul and wash away your fear, your anger and any emotional pain you may have tucked deep inside of you.”

Closing my lids over my eyes, I try to think of what I fear, what makes me angry, what pains me. For the moment, my mind is a complete blank.

“You are standing in the middle of a warm, golden desert…”

And so my spiritual guide begins. Gladly, I listen to her words and focus on them.

“Take off your shoes and feel the warm sand on the bottom of your bare feet. You stand there, alone. Not a person in sight. Your breathing becomes quiet. You are safe. As you stand on the desert floor, you see in
the distance an oasis with rich foliage and one large tree. Walk to it. Wrap your arms around its trunk. Hold it close to your chest. Feel its power and strength. Envision its roots reaching into the center of the earth.”

I see the oasis, force myself to touch the tree.

“Now, imagine the soles of your feet have roots just like the tree. See them reaching down, creating a hook that holds you firmly to the earth. Stand there feeling the power of stillness while being fully connected to solid ground. Unshakable and strong. Let the warm desert wind brush across your face and hair. Be still.”

I can feel my heart rate slowing; I can sense the familiar physiological changes within me—the calming of my body and my soul.

“Behind you is a rock formation. From the top of the rocks falls a steady stream of pure, aquamarine water. Walk over and stand beneath the waterfall. Let the cool, soothing water wash away your stress and ease your tired muscles. It feels like silk as it rolls over your skin. Now, lift your head and let it run over your face, smoothing out the tension. You look like a baby. Smile and feel good.”

I can feel the muscles of my mouth expand into a smile.

“Look down. You see a fire burning near an ancient cave that’s carved out of sandstone. You see a strip of red paper lying beside the fire. Pick it up. Write on it. Write down all of your hopes, your fears, your sorrows, anything you wish to change or rid yourself of, and then throw it in the fire and watch it burn to ashes.”

Okay, this is where I am stuck. Squeezing my eyes tight, I try to do as she says. I was into this big-time until she mentioned the paper. I could see the desert, the tree and the water. It felt so good. But now I have lost the flow. This is the second time today I have been asked to write on paper, the second time I have had to confront the sadness in my heart.

I want to tell her, But my life is good, and I am so grateful for the gifts I have been given. After a day like today, I have never been more aware of how lucky I am.

I’m not sure I want to do this. But she is waiting.

Okay, Goldie, think harder, I tell myself. With an imaginary pen, I write on my fantasy red strip how I want to rid myself of my most self-
centered actions. I want to banish my self-doubt and my fear of failure. I wish to eliminate my terror of death and dying, and of losing my mother. I toss the piece of paper into the fire and watch as it turns to ash.

I open my eyes and see that our candle has burned to a stump. The flame still seems to be dancing, however, with the shadows on the walls. For the first time in a long time, I feel totally relaxed and at peace.

I look into the kind shining face of my storyteller. “That was wonderful. Thank you so much.”

She places her hand on mine. “You must always remember this guided meditation and use it when you feel drained. It will be a source of regeneration.”

A
t last, I am heading back to Tel Aviv after this day of days. I am now running on fumes. The torrential rain still pelts our car as we make the hairpin turns back out of Jerusalem. Feeling safe and warm and sleepy, I lean my head against the headrest and reflect.

I think of the Arab families I met at the Druze village I was taken to, of the beautiful children, with their dark eyes and olive skin and big smiles, who offered me thick creamy yogurt made from the milk of their goat. I think how their bright eyes will be dulled with hatred by the time they are grown, and how some will dream of martyrdom before they can even read.

I think of the showcase Jewish schools I visited, of how music and art and culture are instilled in every child. I think of my encounters with those whose brave attempts to create tolerance between Arab and Jewish children have provoked controversy.

I think of the Jewish mothers I saw feeding their children the food they had prepared; I understood my own need to mother, to nurture and to feed. How I sit at the table, as Mom did with me, staring at my children’s mouths chewing as they eat the food I have lovingly made for them. This is me. This is my mother. This is my tribe.

I think of the sorrow and the sadness and the pain of this troubled city and how it has so overwhelmed me. I think of the pity of a world where these three faiths, these people who each profess a fervent love of their
god, can’t live together, pray together, in the same sort of exquisite harmony their calls to prayer beckon each day.

I think of the reason I am in this holy land: the death of dear Stan.

The more I think of all I have witnessed in this mystical corner of the desert, this land of milk and honey, of fractured hopes and dreams, the more I hurt. No wonder I cried. I was crying for those yet to die needlessly in the name of God, or Allah, or whatever people choose to call Him.

The ground beneath me felt as if it were vibrating, pulsing, with the years and years and years of desecration. I could see and feel the truth: that man wants to annihilate his fellow man. Nobody has learned how to get along. Nobody has learned how to truly forgive. And nobody has learned enough to know that we have the power to either destroy this earth or be the caretakers of it.

That is the pain of mankind.

I crawl into my bed at my Tel Aviv hotel at last and pull the covers up over my shoulders. The rain is still drumming on the window, but I no longer care. I take my baby’s T-shirt and press it to my face, inhaling his smell. This is my elixir for sleep, bringing me back to maternal bliss.

One day, I’ll tell him about Mommy’s first trip to the holy land, I think as I begin to drift off into a deep, deep sleep. One day, I’ll tell him about Stan Kamen and his wonderful dream, of the powerful effects of the Wailing Wall and Yad Vashem.

One day, I’ll tell him everything.

T
here is nowhere quite like the Middle East to exemplify the global conflict between human beings, the misunderstanding and intolerance growing out of our differences.

Jesus Christ said it. Walk in the shoes of your enemies, because only then will you understand who they are. Similarly, Buddhists practice compassion for the benefit of all sentient beings. The Koran states that every Muslim must revere and bow down to the Christians and the Jews, because they believe without them they would not have Abraham and Moses. And on and on.

We live in a world of tremendous polarization. Life is either black or white, right or wrong, good or bad. You’re either Jewish or Muslim or Catholic or Protestant or some other religion. But these faiths are merely vessels. They hold no prejudice or anger. Their philosophies are pure. It is we who project our own fears onto them, our own intolerance and hatred, born of our need to identify and belong to a tribe.

In defending who we are and what we believe in, we have to assume that members of a different tribe are opposed to us. When will we learn that it doesn’t matter which tribe we belong to? When will we understand that we all belong to the greatest tribe there is: the human race?

“W
elcome to India. What is the purpose of your trip here?” the immigration official asks me at Delhi International Airport.

“Work.”

“And what would you be working on?”

“A documentary.”

“Oh, are you going to Bollywood?”

“No. Actually, it’s an English documentary.”

“And how long will you be staying?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Two weeks.”

He nods and stamps my passport. As I gather up my papers, he asks, “What is the subject of your documentary?”

“It’s about the Asian elephant. I’m highlighting its plight and doing what I can to save it.”

“Very good.” Touching a small statue of Ganesh, the Hindu elephant god, which sits on his desk, he says, “This will bring good karma.”

I walk out of the airport into the middle of a sultry Indian afternoon. I’m immediately hit by a wall of heat, the pungent smells of cooking and burning, the crush of humanity, welcoming me back to a place my soul calls home.

A driver is waiting for me, my name misspelled on a card he is holding up.

“Miss Horn?” he says, and I laugh. That’s my secretary Deloris’s surname.

“Yes.” I smile.

Taking my seat in the back of his old black Ambassador, I laugh to myself. Bumping and rolling through the crowded streets of Delhi to my hotel, I have no idea why these ancient cars have managed to survive the rigors of the Indian infrastructure.

At my hotel, I meet up with the rest of the team from Tigress Productions, my new troupe of traveling documentarians. Dizzy with jet lag, I have a quick dinner with the crew, who are all fabulous and fun and full of life. As we all retire to our rooms for sleep, the director, a lovely English gentleman named Andrew Jackson, advises us to eat a hearty breakfast before we leave tomorrow. It sounds a bit ominous to me. I wonder what we have in store for us.

In bed, I lie awake for a while, too jet-lagged to sleep. This is my first documentary. I’m happy to be documenting my personal story to find “my” elephant, Belly Button, a blind mother I first set eyes on seven years before on a game reserve deep in the south of this amazing country. Wonder if I’ll find her. I close my eyes and count elephants.

T
he next day, we fly to Nagpur, in the heart of India, for the start of our journey to our first port of call, Kipling Camp. I am greeted by my new driver, and, much to my chagrin, am led to yet another old Ambassador. How long is this drive? I ask.

“Five and a half hours,” he answers.

I now understand why we needed to eat a big breakfast. I’m glad I did. “I’ve been in these cars before, you know, and they nearly always break down.”

He nods and smiles but nonetheless carries on organizing our convoy of six Ambassadors, dividing us all up with our luggage into separate cars, as is the custom, and for comfort’s sake. Game for anything, I climb in my car and off we set on our caravan, honking horns and waving cheerful good-byes. After my hearty breakfast, all I have with me is some bottled water, a packet of crackers and a tiny jar of peanut butter.

Setting off, I’m quickly reminded of the exhilarating chaos of driving in India, swerving left and right to avoid rickshaws, children, street beg
gars and sacred cows. There are elephants, and giant Tata trucks, their cabs adorned with effigies of gods, tinkling bells and vibrant garlands of marigolds—all the while belching vile black exhaust.

Out my window, I see stalls selling great pots of spices: saffron and cumin and turmeric. I peer into shops cascading with the most exquisite silks. I watch women in gaily colored saris walking down the street with children on their hips and baskets on their heads.

Trying to keep up with the convoy, we
chug, chug, chug
past trucks and slow-moving oxen, lucky to reach a speed of thirty miles per hour, cars heading straight toward us all the while. I close my eyes. With no shock absorbers, we bounce in and out of every pothole, which are more numerous than people. After just a short time, I feel like my gallbladder and liver have swapped places. Jumping and jolting around on the backseat of the car, here I am, embarking on yet another harrowing road trip across this country that I love, taking my life in my hands.

“What in the world am I doing?” I laugh out loud.

But after a few hours, I’m not so happy. “How much farther is it?” I say over my growling stomach.

He smiles at me in the rearview mirror, his head bobbing on his shoulders like a chicken. “Not far.”

Alarmingly, our car has started to make a terrible coughing sound and I’m getting steadily more concerned.

“I think there’s something wrong,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder. “Maybe you should pull over before the engine explodes.”

He bobs his head and smiles. “Yes please, madam.”

Our convoy pulls off the main road into a small village. My driver gets out and opens the hood of the car. Unscrewing the radiator cap with a rag, he is greeted with hot steam jetting up into his face. “Oh,” I scream, running to my bag to get something to help him.

Just then, everyone suddenly crowds around my car. They are twenty men deep, and at least ten more are underneath the vehicle, banging and crashing. Someone produces ice from a dilapidated building, and I tend to my driver’s scorched face. The remaining men of the village circle us, just staring at me, smoking fiercely, making me feel increasingly uncom
fortable. I think our arrival must be the biggest thing to happen in this village since Gandhi walked through.

“What’s going on here?” I finally ask the rest of the crew. “What exactly are we waiting for?”

“A part.”

“Really? I thought the engine just overheated.”

“No, not for your car. For another car.”

“Oh, another car has a problem? Okay. Do you have any food, by the way? I’m starving.”

“No, but some of the guys are sampling the samosas being sold at the side of the road. Would you like some?”

“No. No thanks.” I think to myself, Not on your life! I’ve known people to get really sick eating from roadside stands.

After an hour of waiting, they decide to swap my ailing car for another lovely Ambassador. Lucky me.

When we continue, the bumps seem to be worse than ever. I speak to my driver: “Excuse me? Excuse me?”

He turns around and smiles.

The road becomes increasingly more rural, dirty and bumpy, with ever more potholes. If I thought I had no shocks on my first car, this second car is unbelievable. My gallbladder and my liver have now changed places again.

By now, we’re
really
out in the boonies.

“Excuse me? Excuse me? How far is it now? I’m really getting hungry.”

The driver turns and smiles again. “Yes,” he replies.

Oh my God, he doesn’t speak English! Not a good feeling when you’re in the middle of nowhere. I’m horrified. It’s pitch-black, and I feel like I’m traveling down a narrow, bumpy road to nowhere.

We just keep on going, on and on into the darkness. I watch the other cars whiz past us. We’re going much slower than the rest of them.

“Excuse me?” I ask my driver, hopelessly trying to talk with my hands. “Can you go faster, please? Faster?”

Soon afterward, and to my enormous relief, he pulls the car over to the side of the road.

“Are we here?” I ask hopefully, looking around. But he simply gets out, pulls a mat from the trunk, kneels on it by a roadside mosque and begins to pray to Mecca. I feel like joining him at this point. Maybe it will help.

Back on the road, we carry on driving for at least another two hours. I’m still starving, even after I polish off what is left of my peanut butter and crackers. There isn’t a drop of water left. There is no sign of our convoy, and I have no idea where I am or where I’m going. I look at my watch; this journey has taken seven hours so far, with no end in sight.

I keep thinking that just around the next corner we’ll see a sign pointing to Kipling Camp, or at least find the rest of the group waiting for us by the side of the road. I secretly wish another one of their cars had broken down.

Tapping the driver’s shoulder, I tell him I have to use the bathroom. With much sign language, I eventually make him understand.

Unfurling my stiff limbs awkwardly, I squat down in the moonless night. All I can hear around me are the sounds of the jungle. A few paces behind me, I hear a twig crack. Oh my God, a tiger could creep up and bite me on the ass! Please let me live to tell this story! I pull up my pants quickly and race back to my car posthaste.

Back on the road, traveling at what seems a snail’s pace, my driver is looking around furiously.

My blood sugar is low, my body is exhausted from traveling and I’m losing my sense of fun and adventure. “My God, what if he is lost and doesn’t know where we are?” I ask myself aloud. At that very moment, my driver stops the car, looks right and left in panic and does a U-turn. I knew it, he
is
lost.

“Are we lost?” I ask, trying to stay in control. Is that what we are? He is not answering me. We are lost in the middle of frigging India? The cat in me is rising.

Finally spotting lights in the distance, I throw myself over the front seat to attract his attention. Pointing, I say, “Lights! Lights! There! Go down there!” This looks right to me, and, even if it isn’t, at least there are people there.

We turn down a long road and drive noisily and dustily into a clear
ing in which a huge open fire burns wildly, illuminating the faces of our distinguished English crew. Ah, there they are. I see them all gathered around the flames, happily eating platefuls of curry and rice, drinking beer, talking and having fun. Unfortunately, my blood is now boiling.

Mark Shand, my elephant guru, who is a part of our team, opens my door to greet me. A tall man with a shock of blond hair, he stands there with a broad grin and dancing eyes.

“Welcome to Kipling Camp,” he says in his impeccable English accent. “Where have you been?” He is way too happy for me at that moment. I jump out of that car disheveled, dirty and steaming mad.

“Where have I been? Where have I been? I have been with a driver who doesn’t speak English, and who stops to pray every fifteen minutes. I’ve been in a car that has shaken my bones to powder. I’ve been lost in the middle of the jungle with no food or water. Where’s the director?”

“Oh. He’s by the fire.”

I stomp over as everyone stares up at me in silence. “Could I speak with you a second, Andrew?”

This lovely, gentle man, who is so sweet and kind, dabs his mouth with a napkin and stands.

“Andrew, it’s only by luck that I’m here. Next time, I’ll need a map, some food and water, and an English-speaking driver.”

Andrew says, “I’m sorry. This is terrible. You must be hungry.”

I’m now spitting fire.

“I’m not hungry. I’m past the point of being hungry. I want my room, I want my bed, I want to go to sleep, and I want to forget about this day.”

I don’t usually act this way, but to my shame, I become like Joanna, my character in
Overboard,
before she loses her memory.

I’m in a snit and I march past the campfire, the crew and the delicious-smelling food. They all sit staring intently into the flames.

The director leads me with a flashlight down a dark path to a small wooden cabin in a clearing. He pushes open the door to my little cottage and takes leave. I look around at my room suspiciously. I see two cots, one draped with a mosquito net. A door leads to a small bathroom off to the left. Sitting pretty in its own web, on the leg of my bed, is a large, poisonous-looking spider. My eyes narrow.

“That’s it!”

A spider! A spider in my room!

I slam the door shut and run back out toward the campfire.

I can hardly believe what comes out of my mouth, but, as I stand there, frightened and upset, I announce: “I need someone to go and clean my room. There are little poisonous animals around my bed and other little furry, four-legged crawly things in there, and I need them taken out of my room…because…
this is not my habitat
!”

This is not my habitat? Am I serious? If anyone had started to laugh right then, I swear I think I might have broken down and laughed too, which would have been the best thing for all of us. I had become completely possessed. And I guess my mother would have said, “Goldie, you’re overtired and you need a nap.”

Unfortunately, nobody laughs. Instead, the director and his crew take me very seriously. They hurry to my room and clean it all up, spray it with bug spray and tell me when it is safe to return.

I walk back with as much dignity as I can muster. I check under the bed and in every crack until I’m satisfied that there are no potential roamers who will emerge when the lights go out. I get undressed and climb between the cotton sheets. Sleep. Please, just let me sleep.

Just then there is a gentle knock on my door.

“Come in,” I call.

The door opens, and the director stands there, looking decidedly nervous, poor thing.