A few weeks ago, I was headed toward the register in my local supermarket holding two items and from my left, a person with a trolley load pushed in front of me. I was a little taken aback. ‘How busy must this person be?’ I thought. And then I was annoyed. Seriously, I’m holding two things, how difficult would it have been to just wait for a moment? I could feel myself spiralling. This is just what the world is like now! People don’t care. The basic civilities of life are leaving us. They take parking spots, barge in front of a person at a queue, knock someone over for a seat on the train, break into cars, leave rubbish on the nature strip … oh so many slights from strangers on the highway of life.
And then.
In addition to coming from a family with the ‘if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all’ mantra, there was the unspoken rule that someone with one or two grocery items would always be invited to go ahead of the one with the trolley load. And, I admit, I did receive a sympathetic glance from the register operator, and I offered an ‘it’s fine’ wave of my hand. I arrested my spiral and called upon another family habit, which I think came from mum: I said a prayer for the person ahead of me. Who knows what is happening in their life, I thought – may they be blessed. I took a breath and, well, eventually it was my turn.
I am finding it hard to maintain a peaceful spirit. This week’s images of the released Israeli hostages returning to their loved ones, measured by the execution of ‘collaborators and lawbreakers’ by Hamas in Gaza and the images of the utter devastation that has been wrought for the remaining Palestinians in Gaza are hard to reconcile. And this moment of transition seems so fragile. A new narrative is unfolding amongst our fellow humans in Israel and Gaza, and it is hard to imagine what sort of life will emerge from the trauma.
In 2009, the Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie gave a TED Talk “The Danger of a Single Story”. It provided a powerful reflection on how narratives shape our understanding of people, cultures, and identities and the limitations that emerge when one perspective dominates. Adichie defines the ‘single story’ as a one-dimensional narrative that reduces complex individuals or cultures to a single stereotype. One of the examples Adichie gave was about how the Western media often portrayed Africa solely through the lens of poverty and conflict. This contrasted with her own experience of an Africa rich in culture, history and achievement. I think there is a danger that a single story will start to play out in some of our narratives about Jews, Muslims and Palestinians.
In a recent book, The Holy and the Broken, Ittay Flescher shares a personal account about the Israeli Palestinian conflict. Flescher is a Melbourne educated Jew, and he explores how his upbringing has formed him and his own religious journey. He has a powerful appreciation of the importance of dialogue, observing that ‘dialogue is always preferable to war.’ (p. 77)
He is able to recognise both the horror of the Hamas violence of two years ago and to hold that in tension with what has occurred in Gaza:
When most people around the world think of Gaza today, death and destruction are all they can see. Yet before this war, Gaza City was known as one of the world’s oldest cities and once housed the second-largest library in antiquity. It was home to beautiful beaches, rich history and more than two million people. (p. 164)
He explores the challenges that emerged for him as a facilitator of interfaith dialogue between Israeli and Palestinian teens after the Hamas attack on the Israelis. He writes that both peoples are broken and wonders how it is possible to move forward. He argues that the only way is by recognising each other’s pain and humanity. To my mind, this is not the world of the single story. This is a world that still believes that people can speak heart to heart, human to human. And I wonder how our faith story speaks into this tragic, tragic moment in human history.
I have always liked the story in this weekend’s gospel about the widow. The judge, who ‘had neither fear of God nor respect for man’ was worn down by a widow! Imagine. We may feel like her sometimes, I think. At a loss, disenfranchised, worn down by seemingly unheard prayers for peace. A reminder that we are all holy and broken.
But the message is clear. Our God is not a dishonest God. Our God hears our prayers and, in ways that we do not always recognise, hears them. Our God welcomes the holy in us and the broken. All that is asked of us is to remain steadfast in the hope that does not disappoint, Jesus.
St Teresa of Avila, whose feast we celebrated this week, also knew this:
Let nothing disturb you
Let nothing frighten you
All things are passing away:
God never changes.
Patience obtains all things.
Whoever has God lacks nothing.
God alone suffices.
— St. Teresa of Ávila
May the people of Israel and Gaza be blessed.
May the hearts of the holy and the broken be softened.
May we be kind.
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Mary Barbuto says:
Thanks Cathy. Your reflection has inspired me to continue to pray and hope for justice and peace for all the people of Israel and Gaza