An amicable spring sun hovered in the sky, and the late afternoon air gleamed with excitement. A light breeze rose from the surrounding desert, wafting into the amphitheater. Perched on a hillside overlooking the undulating curves of the valley, the five-hundred-seat theater was filling up fast. Spectators of all ages were still pouring in when it was time for the show to begin. We were running late, but the atmosphere was calm and joyful. Everyone, especially the children, was looking forward to this annual celebration, and the surprise finale at dusk. Any minute now!
I settled into my seat in the front row alongside the journalists, exchanging a smile with the gentleman beside me, and feeling a tinge of shyness as the only high schooler among them. I pulled out my notepad bought especially for the assignment and ran my fingers across its velvety cover.
Constructed from the local rockface, the new semi-circle stage was as impressive as had been advertised. The eight Corinthian pillars at the back stood with imposing elegance, supporting an arch that linked the two squarish wings of the theater. Golden sheaves of wheat were heaped in the corners of the marble stage floor.
The column furthest to the right stood erect a mere few feet away from my seat. As I drank the fresh spring air, my eyes swept over the valley, taking in the blue of the sky and the brown of the Judea hills. Small clusters of red roofs glinted in the offing, beyond which the desert sprawled deep into the east.
The crowd was finally settling down as some movement bubbled in the wings. Then two drumming bands of high school boys emerged from either side of the stage, rolling sticks on the snares in short, succinct sounds: Drr-drrrr-drrr-drr; Drr-drrrr-drrr-drr. Waves of cheers rose from the crowd in response; the combined sound reverberated in the nearby hills.
Facing each other, the bands then split into three staggered drumlines each, and advanced in small steps. With one group clad in blue and the other in white, their smooth choreography created a white-and-blue wave that swayed this way, then that, as the boys paced back and forth to the rhythm in coordination: Drr-drrrr-drrr-drr; Drr-drrrr-drrr-drr.
As the drummers exited, around twenty schoolgirls came on stage. Clad in lilac dresses and carrying wicker baskets overflowing with yellow flowers, they sang with ringing voices while arranging themselves in a wavy formation across the stage.
We bring this fruit of the land
For our country, a beautiful bride
Dates, figs, pomegranates, and olives
We carry a branch clustered with grapes
We come from the villages
From the fields …
At the end of the beautiful song, the girls stepped forward and placed down their baskets, forming a line of yellow blossoms, then turned to leave, making way for an adult chorus in white gowns, entering the stage from the right wing. The new group—about thirty strong—laid themselves out in two layers of wide crescents, echoing the shape of the pillars. The audience received them with rhythmic applause.
“Greetings, all,” the chorus announced in unison at last. “And welcome to the Harvest Jubilee.”
One of the lilac girls took a few tentative steps forward from within the group, basket in hand, and took a few tentative steps forward.
There she stood, between the chorus and the line of yellow baskets.
The crowd looked at her.
The chorus looked at her.
We were all attentive, curious to watch her solo act. From my seat in the front, I could see she was shy, perhaps a bit confused. But then she finally spoke.
“This is the land of milk and honey,” she said in a thin voice.
A few people from the front called: “How cute” and “Adorable!”
“We cannot hear you,” a man called from a back row.
The girl’s mouth moved again but no sound came out.
A gentle voice of a woman rose from the crowd. “Please speak louder, little flower.”
Encouraged, the girl gave a faint smile. “This is the land of milk and honey,” she repeated with a flushed face, her words ringing loud and clear this time. "But what about the Nakba?"
A long silence followed.
Is this part of the program? I thought with apprehension.
“Hahaha,” the chorus bayed in one voice, turning to the crowd. “Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?"
“But …” said the girl, facing an amphitheater brimming with onlookers.
“Now go ahead little one and join your sisters backstage,” the chorus said.
“But …” repeated the girl.
“What a curious act,” some people in the audience murmured.
“Sweet girl,” one person in the audience whispered to another. “And what talent!”
“Sentimental claptrap,” said the chorus to the audience.
“But …” piped the girl.
“We had no choice,” the chorus began to singsong, looking at the crowd. “It was us or them, us or them.“
“But …” said the girl, her thin voice carried on the light breeze.
“Us or them, ussssss or them,” the chorus hissed, swaying their heads from side to side, before turning to the girl. “Now go off and join your sisters.” They sounded more insistent now.
Her feet planted in place, the girl did not move.
“A thought-provoking act,” some of the audience said. Others seemed confused but a renowned art critic with a booming voice explained that experimental theater can take many forms. A few expressed concern for the child but were quickly reassured. Her confident stance was beyond impressive. Her feet seemed to have shot roots into the marble floor.
I gazed at the girl with growing unease; she seemed small and vulnerable on the large stage, and I was no longer sure hers was part of the act. My seat suddenly felt hard and uncomfortable.
“This theatre is a public venue,” someone from the crowd called. “Let the little one speak.”
“We made it illegal to mention the enemy’s special day,” the chorus replied to the person in the crowd. “Three years in prison!”
“And rightly so,” a potbellied man from the second row cried.
Some called out in his support; others expressed objection. The act was turning out to be participatory theater—the program had promised innovation and originality, after all. Yet, the heated dialogues didn’t quite match the intention of this jubilee. I glanced at the journalist beside me. His brief nod said: we are here to report, nothing more.
“Peace now,” shouted a woman behind me, raising high two fingers high in a V sign.
“Heresy, foreign influence!” the chorus barked at the woman.
“Jezebel,” the potbellied man snarled at her.
This is a known theatrical method, I recalled: planting an actor amidst the audience.
“Hear, hear,” a few spectators chimed in; others shifted in their seats with unease. A few got up to leave, hurrying their children through the aisles.
The light breeze abruptly died, and the air felt stuffy even though we were surrounded by an open landscape.
“Arrest her this minute!” commanded the chorus, stomping their feet and pointing at the woman who still had her hand raised. “Where are the guards?”
More people slipped away. The girl’s eyes followed them with sorrow. Twilight was descending; small pools of darkness were collecting in the clefts of the hills. The air stood still, heavy with hesitance.
I glanced around, wondering if I should leave as well. And take the little girl with me.
A few more people stood up with their hands raised in the peace sign.
“If you carry on,” the chorus warned, “surely we will be rid of you.”
The crowd splintered: some roared, “Arrest these people, arrest them!” while others called “Save the child!” jumping from their seats to climb onto the stage. But they stopped short, frozen in place. Squinting, I saw the spring flowers in the baskets were in fact razor wire painted bright yellow.
“Damnation!” the chorus barked at the failed raiders, their ire gushing into the audience like a sudden gust of icy wind.
The girl, still standing in place, blinked a few times in rapid succession. Shoulders stooped, eyes cast down, she morphed into a shrub of lilac, and her purplish petals began falling to the ground, wilted.
The dusk sky quivered, stretching away in nascent layers of blue and crimson. The whole desert around us was holding its breath.
The public was on its feet now, arguments rising into shouts and yells. A few people turned against each other, fists and all. The air turned sour, tinged with angst. Parents took their children and fled the theater. A panicked young man, the whites of his eyes looming large, stumbled as he turned to escape the mayhem and was sprawled breathless on the ground a few feet away from my seat. I froze in place, unable to move or think.
The chorus remained lined up behind the bare lilac bush that was now bent over a pool of shriveled blooms.
Suddenly, a flock of white doves burst forth from behind the Corinthian pillars, soaring into the sunset. Even amidst the turmoil, all heads turned skyward. All eyes followed the freed birds—white feathers against a blazing-red sky. Our ears filled with the sound of whistling wings. What a splendid finale indeed!
An uproar directed our attention back to the stage to discover the raiders had successfully stormed it from behind, entering through the sloping side of the hill. They celebrated their triumph with wide smiles and joyful dancing.
With that, the chorus took fast hold of the pillars upon which the arch rested, and leaned upon them, some to the right, others to the left.
And the chorus said: “Let us die with the Philistines!” And they bent with all their might, and the pillars fell upon the rebels and upon the people who sat within reach.
~
It has now been a full year. My arm still hurts at times. The complex fracture might never properly heal, the doctors say. Occupational hazard, they joke. My uncle Dani blames himself for getting me a front-row seat with his journalist friends, but I keep telling him I was glad to have been there, and my arm will eventually heal for sure. True, what was supposed to be a school project didn’t turn out as expected; I wasn’t allowed to use my report for class. Too violent, the teacher said. But I didn’t really mind. Instead, I submitted a paper about camel riding in the Australian desert, inspired by my boyfriend’s passion. And then I started this blog after my mom said she loves my maturing writing style. Don’t you find that sometimes your mom’s opinion is all that matters?
It's time for the Harvest Jubilee again, to be celebrated in an open field this time, away from pillars and stones. Although the authorities have guaranteed that the havoc will not repeat itself. Under no circumstances! they stressed. We shall celebrate our sovereignty and prosperity with no disturbances whatsoever, said the official proclamation in all the media outlets.
For a while, there was a heated debate as to whether last year’s performance went badly wrong or was deliberately sabotaged. We never learned the truth. The name of the lilac child was never revealed, perhaps never discovered, and so the public dubbed her ‘Doubt.’
She was a menace of the first order, the media said. A destroyer of hope and tradition. Dozens have died, and scores were injured. She brought nothing but ruin, and deserved to be buried under rubble and blood.
Some rumors suggested she showed early signs of dissent; a few experts predicted that in middle school she would have caused a teacher to lose his temper, turn into an army runaway a few years later, and be involved in worse transgressions as time went by. Others insist to this day that she never existed; her so-called stage appearance, they say, was nothing but a theatrical hoax. An illusion. To what end, they never specified.
‘Doubt’ has been gone a full year now, and everyone blesses her absence. Quiet has been restored, civil order has prevailed, and her mere mentioning is strictly forbidden.
By law.
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