To the Nun Who Locked Eyes with Me
The day I saw you, I had come to Jerusalem with my tour group—American teens on our first trip to Israel. It was the 70's, and we were part of a large wave of hungry young drifters from all over the world, Jews and non-Jews, who’d found our way to Israel in search of meaning, love, and home. We smoked gooey black hash on the shores of the Mediterranean while watching the sunrise. We danced at discos, tramped up Masada in blistering heat, and plucked oranges in a grove called Paradise.
In Jerusalem we walked under stone arches, prayed at the Wailing Wall, smelled pita baking on clay ovens, bargained with merchants for embroidered black velvet wedding dresses, leather pouches, heel-less slippers, hash pipes and bubbling water pipes, brass candlesticks, and copper ashtrays. We crept up and down steep, uneven stone stairs, peering into cafes and homes, mysterious eyes and entranceways. Our Israel had an ancient soul, but a body that was coming of age. Like us.
A few minutes before we entered your convent on the Via Dolorosa, we crossed paths with another tour group. Their leader, a man in a clerical collar, shook his fist and yelled at passersby. I hung back to listen. “I saw prostitutes!” he roared. “Sinners! In the Holy Land!”
I wished I could yell back: “Why shouldn’t there be prostitutes, thieves, cooks, and dancers? Israel is a real country! It doesn’t just exist in your dreams.”
But I was late again. The leader of my group had named me the Black Sheep because I wandered off and lingered when I should have rushed. I raced after my group and burst into the convent, and there you were. Beige and gray, plain and sober. The roaring Reverend would have approved. But he wouldn’t have seen you the way I did. You glowed like a woman in a stained glass window. Your hair was the cool beige of Jerusalem stone that turns to gold at sunset, and your slate-gray eyes flickered with light as if lit from within. A dimple in your chin softened your face.
You and I stared at each other with the startled recognition that sometimes—rarely—happens between two strangers, as if we’d met in another lifetime.
“The strangest thing was that I recognized this place, this underworld, these voices—the way I’d recognized you. I’d been here before. A part of me—my soul?—had always been here, and she waited to reconnect with me.”
Your lips quivered as if you wanted to speak. I wished we could talk. There was so much I wanted to ask you, but you ushered me through the lobby to join the others who’d already gone downstairs.
A gust of cool, wet air met us in the basement. Sounds and lights dimmed as the walls turned into craggy shadows. I stood with my group behind a rope and stared down at large gray tiles, broken fragments of an archeological excavation in process.
“You’re among the first to see what they’re digging,” you said, gesturing toward the pit. “Pontius Pilate judged Jesus down there.”
A bearded archaeologist told us, “You are looking at living history. Come with me, and I’ll explain what we’re discovering.”
The group followed him across the basement to a circle of folding chairs. I couldn’t. Not yet. I clung to the rope and peered into the darkness. I heard voices from below, glimpsed at shadowy figures walking, breathed in pungent spices, human sweat and perfumes, ancient stones and dreams. Maybe the archaeologists had set free spirits that had been buried for thousands of years. They were reaching out, rustling through the air. The strangest thing was that I recognized this place, this underworld, these voices—the way I’d recognized you. I’d been here before. A part of me—my soul?—had always been here, and she waited to reconnect with me.
My skin burned wet and hot. Tears blurred my vision. All I had to do was duck beneath the rope, a flimsy barrier separating me from the past, and clamber down, and I’d see her—me—the essence of what I was. I’d finally understand what it meant to be human—to live and die, and yet, to still be present. I needed to stay in this convent until I understood what was happening to me. I’d have to hide. Otherwise the group would force me to go with them.
I moved toward the bathroom at the end of the basement. You, alone, turned and looked at me. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. The shock of connection jolted through me again. You knew. I knew you knew. I didn’t question it. We were in this—whatever this was—together. I didn’t move or breathe until you turned back to the speaker.
I dashed to the bathroom. More modern than the convent, but still very old. Inside were three stalls with wooden doors. I crept to the farthest one, closed the door and tried to lock it, but couldn’t. I crouched behind the toilet. My breath came in harsh gasps. The air was icy, my teeth clicked against each other. I focused on the yellow linoleum tiles, the same ones I’d seen in countless buildings in Israel. They grounded me. I was still here, in the now, but I neared something wordless, true, and terrifying.
A few girls came in. I stiffened but they didn’t open the door to the third stall.
“You searched my eyes, hugged me, and then released me back into the present, where Jerusalem throbbed like a huge heart, the reverend roared, and my leader scolded me. ”
They left, and after a while I heard a girl from the group call my name. She knocked on the doors of the three stalls.
Another girl told her, “It’s the Black Sheep again. She’s probably outside.”
Go. Please just leave me and go. I belong here—
The door shut.
Silence.
Overwhelming relief swept through me. I was free to stay here, live my life, find out what this place wanted from me. My legs tingled from having crouched so long, arms pricked with goose-bumps. Throat dry, heart racing, I waited.
The door blew open again. Determined steps. This person didn’t knock. She opened each stall door, one by one. She stopped at the third door, then opened it.
Sensible shoes, thick beige tights.
I lifted my head and saw the quiver of light again, behind your eyes and mouth. You drew in a sharp breath. “It’s you. I knew it was you.”
You led me upstairs to the convent door. My group had already gone. You invited me to return, alone. I was too shaken to respond. You searched my eyes, hugged me, and then released me back into the present, where Jerusalem throbbed like a huge heart, the reverend roared, and my leader scolded me.
What exactly happened that day? I’ll never know for sure, but ever since I’ve been a mystical skeptic. I doubt everything, and I believe everything. I always probe beneath the surface, and I love paradoxes and contradictions. Like you. To me, the most mysterious moment of the entire experience was right after we hugged—when you searched my eyes, and I searched yours. In your eyes I came face to face with myself: the reckless, yearning me who first bloomed in Israel, as if I were a rare plant that needed a certain soil and quality of sun and air to flourish.
In my eyes, did you see the reflection of the quivering wings I saw in yours? Is that what you wanted to tell me? Did the same thing happen to you?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Morocco, Ruth Knafo Setton is the author of the novel, The Road to Fez (Counterpoint Press). Her honors include awards and fellowships from the National Endowment of the Arts, PEN, CineStory, Nimrod, Cutthroat, Writer’s Digest, and residencies at Hedgebrook, Yaddo, MacDowell, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She can be found on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook.
Photograph by YS