Israelis commonly use this expression. In Hebrew, it’s “Leat, leat.” It’s used to express encouragement to take time with things, to be methodical, to not make the mistake of being rash. Something like, “We hope to make peace in this land slowly, slowly,” or, even, “We should study the Talmud slowly, slowly.” They also say, “Quickly, quickly,” to describe when more time should be taken but isn’t.
I’m on a bus looking at the Sea of Galilee. Slowly, slowly. I was just inside it up to my knees. I took a picture of my shoe-clad foot in the water just in case anyone has doubts (it’s a land/water shoe and has also proven useful along a rocky Mediterranean shoreline). My feet are still wet as we head away from three Biblical sites. The first site was the Church of the First Feeding of the Multitude at Tabgha. It’s run by Benedictine monks—a former Byzantine church that lay in ruins for centuries and was reconstructed in the first half of the last century. I talk about time here in centuries, as do the Israeli Jews when thinking about their history—again, slowly, slowly. We saw the rock where Jesus ate fish and bread after the miracle of the multiplication of the bread and fish. A Byzantine mosaic just before the rock (it’s beneath the altar as well) commemorates it in typical tan, white, light orange and brown tiles. It’s a quiet space, one where I found myself imagining who I would be among the 5,000 who were fed. Would I have been complaining because of my hunger? Would I have been humbled to be in the presence of Christ? Would I have helped pass baskets of bread? Would I have been feeding my own children?
From there we went to the Church of Peter, where Peter was named as the founder of the Catholic Church. A few yards behind the simple stone Franciscan church, the rock where Peter was told to establish the church extends beneath the foundation of the building and near the Sea of Galilee. You walk along the rocks of the shore and see straight through. The water is fresh water and also a major source of Israel’s drinking water. A few schools of minnows happened past, sometimes larger fish that looked like bluegill swam along the shore as well. Some of my colleagues walked into the water as well. You couldn’t help but imagine what it must have been like to see Jesus walking along the water. And I couldn’t help but feel humbled by the fact that I just sank. Of course I didn’t expect to walk on the water, but you recognize the weight of your flesh, your human nature, as you step into the waters. And that weight isn’t always a burden, just a reminder of being in the flesh, a flesh calmed by cool waters in the staggering heat of the land here.
Right now we’re driving through the Golan Heights looking at some Israeli settlements. This land is contested and was fought over by God knows who. It’s great wine country; apparently the Israelis discovered this as they looked at the terrain and noticed various altitudes a soils suitable for vineyards. We’re about to go to the Golan Heights Winery. I’m going to ignore the fact that we’re in contested lands right (some of which still have uncleared landmines, according to our academic advisor) now and try to refocus on “Slowly, slowly.”
Yesterday we went to the Church of the Annunciation in Nazareth. I didn’t expect it, but my knees went weak as I imagined Mary receiving the angel’s news and the courage she must have had. I also thought of the saying of the Cairo Marriott (ridiculous, I know, but stick with me here): “Yes is the answer, what is your question?” Life is daily existence and how the sacred reveals itself, so why not the Marriott slogan? I thought about that, “Yes,” and what it means. It’s the acceptance of following your path, your circumstances, of understanding the questions we’re asked and embracing them in “Yes.” I smiled to myself at these little revelations, partly thanks to the Cairo Marriott, and I also contemplated Mary. I could go on about my respect for her, but I fear I’m crossing the line of the pedantic/pious and can’t risk representing myself that way.
We walked out at 6 pm, and the bells rang and rang. It was a moment of grace. I felt like those bells were bathing me in some kind of blissful peace. I left the gates briefly as the rest of the group entered a market to shop and then decided to return to the church. I had to beg to get back in; it was only time for the faithful. The man at the gate said sternly, “It is closed,” he hesitated, “to tourists.” My eyes welled with tears. “What about Catholics?” He looked me up and down, “Only if you want to pray.” “Ok, if you’d just let me,” and with that, I entered.
***
I spoke with our academic advisor—he says he has seen a couple of my posts and that there are some mistakes. The same problem occurs in my Israel posts as you’ll find in what I described in the Egypt posts—mistakes, misinterpretations. I asked him to post comments—so hopefully he can correct some of the misinformation (though he’s certainly not obligated to and has plenty of other more valuable work to do). In any event, please recognize that my interpretations are subject to subjectivity.
This is my last entry of the day. I’m listening to Egypt’s most famous singer. I just want to hea r her voice to help me digest the scenery—golden grasses, lines of cows lining hilltop ridges, olive trees, reservoirs. Somehow I want to make Egypt and Israel intersect in my head. Maybe that’s not right. I could extend it and say that I’d like to see all the countries intersect, all traditions, all peoples. I guess that’ the dreamer; idealistic, naïve, but impossible to dispel.
Slowly, slowly.
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August 6th, 2007 at 2:17 am
Schwey, schwey habibiti.. An equally common Arabic expression meant to convey the exact same meaning. How ironic. Imagine if the power of the 2 expressions could be fused and leveraged for peace. Glad you have been exposed to Umm Khultum – she is amazing! Catch her on tv if you can – it is quite the enchanting, folkloric experience.