A Panoply of Faces in One Another's Arms

I wrote "A Panoply of Faces in One Another's Arms" in the summer of 2003, seven months after my mother died of cancer in a northern suburb of Chicago. I spent three weeks in a studio apartment in Talbieh, Jerusalem, alone writing day and night, with little sleep and little food. I managed to also pray at the Western Wall, the Kotel, on behalf of my beloved mother, most days during this time. This five-act play would take place in Jerusalem. This particular scene focuses on a young adolescent girl of American-Israeli background, named Ayelet, lingering in the final stages of her cancer. She is suffering physically, emotionally, and psychologically. Her Jewish, Arab, and Arab Muslim classmates and friends from school have come to be with her at the end of her life out of love and friendship. They are very aware of her situation. At this hour of need for peace, they have congregated around her to offer her solace, and yet the background--the background is replete with anger, hatred, enmity, and distrust. Ayelet, the dying girl, is aware--conscious-of her predicament and the predicament she will leave behind if she cannot get through to her friends. I am writing this copy of this scene on the eve of the weekly Torah portion, Shoftim (Hebrew: Judges). For Jews, there really is only one Judge, G-d! It is He who determines the Jew's predicament in this world and the One who monitors how the Jew copes with his or her predicament. We Jews have now begun the month of Elul in the Hebrew calendar. It is the last month of the Jewish year. During this month Jews ask for forgiveness from the one G-d. During this month Jews prepare for the High Holy Days, yet it is this month, the month of Elul, that is the true month of preparation for a future unknown; it is this month, the month of Elul, that brings to mind--yea, to conscience--what kind of Jew the individual has been in the last year, and, therefore, what kind of Jew the individual wishes to become in the year to become. It is a month of soul-searching, beseeching forgiveness, and ruminating on how to improve--that is to say, to become a better human being as well as a better Jew. I was born on the fourth of Elul in the Jewish year 5709 (August 29, 1949), sixty-eight years ago.

Act Two, Scene Two

[4:30 AM on Friday, November 16 at Hadassah Hospital Ein Kerem]

Dr. Weiss (in a sorrowful tone in Hebrew to the nurse in the hallway outside Ayelet's room): The patient is failing. Put her on the morphine drip as she requests. Make sure her family is notified. Are those three students here in the hospital yet? They were scheduled to visit today at 7:00AM, but I'm happy that we could contact them last night so that they could be here now.

Nurse Frankl (in a sad tone in Hebrew): You remember that the family lives in the German Colony, don't you? Yes, the students are in the waiting room. Shall I call them into the consultation office?

Dr. Weiss (very apprehensively in Hebrew): Yes, I remember. I hope they make it in time. This will be a very painful experience for them . . . for us all. Every time we lose a child, it is a step bckward. But we do what we can. Please ask the students to come in.

[Enter Fatima, Haggit, and Uri into the consultation office.]

Fatima (a soft voice in Hebrew): Yes doctor, you called us?

Dr. Weiss (in Hebrew, blushing as he looks at them): Yes, I did. It would be helpful for you to speak with Ayelet. She's in dire need of some conversation with you, her peers. You've become quite intimate friends over these past weeks. You've really bonded beautifully.

Uri (quiet, diffident voice in Hebrew): What can we say? How do we talk with her?

Nurse Frankl (in Hebrew): Maybe you can discuss your hobbies. Ask about hers. Try to get involved so that her attention is diverted from her illness. Be kind. Be funny. Be yourselves. You're good people. Don't be patronizing. The last thing she needs to feel now is that people pity her. Imagine, How would you feel if someone, another kid, showered you with a lot of meaningless palaver at this time?

[Enter Fatima, Haggit, and Uri into room 425B. Haggit will be present during the entire scene, but she will remain silent.]

Fatima (in Hebrew): You know, Ayelet, Uri and I have this unusual hobby.

Ayelet (lying on her left side, in Hebrew): My feet are so numb. I can't be sure they're there any longer.

Uri (in Hebrew): Yeah, our hobby is like playing Ken and Barbie.

Ayelet (looks at both of them, in a very tired voice in Hebrew): What? Are you pulling my leg?

Uri (playful, in Hebrew): No. I mean, why would I be doing that? It's just that she gets dressed up for dinner, and I'm supposed to follow suit.

Fatima (a faint smile issues form her lips, in Hebrew): Yeah. And he works out with the dumbbells so that I can look at his physique and drool.

Ayelet (wincing, in Hebrew): Quit joking. Don't you see that I'm in pain?

Fatima (looking down, in Hebrew): We know. We care. We're here for you. It's 4:30 AM and we're here. What would you like to talk about?

Ayelet (a faint smile, in Hebrew): How it feels to be an Israeli Jew. My life is going to be cut short, I know that. Still, I have some things I want to say to you my friends and to family as well.

Uri (a sympathetic voice, in Hebrew): You know that we want to hear whatever you have to say. We've grown so much from our relationship with you. You have expressed such wisdom and compassion for us, since we really didn't have any "experience" besides our cousins.

Ayelet (in Hebrew): This is one experience you won't forget soon. My abba was born into a family that almost never discussed Israel. His father's parents would only refer to it in religious terms on occasion. They came from Eastern Europe at the turn of the century, so for them the concept "Israel" was like heaven.

Uri (in Hebrew): What was it like to live in an all-American home then?

Ayelet (in English): Everything revolved around family, and yet, my father wasn't home eight months out of the year. He was a traveling businessman, a salesman.

Uri (in English): So you almost lived in a single-parent home?

Fatima (admonishingly in English): Uri, let Ayelet speak.

Uri (apologetically in English): Iam. Iam. I just want to understand.

Fatima (quiet tone of voice in English): You'll understand if you let her talk for herself.

Ayelet (high-pitched in English): It's OK. it's OK. I guess our household revolved around my dad's making a living. Education, though, was very important. the children needed to go to school, do well in school, and go to "become" someone.

Fatima (in English): How did your mom fit in?

Ayelet (in English): Oh, my ima worked during most of my childhood in the States, too. Between working and taking care of the children and the grandparents, she didn't have much time for herself, though she did bowl for a couple of years in a league; and she studied popular piano for a few years.

Uri (in English): So where did Israel fit in? How come your family made aliyah (Hebrew: moved to Israel)?

Ayelet (in English): We did and we didn't. We came here when I was two-and a-half to live on a kibbutz (Hebrew: a socialized agricultural settlement). Ima got a terrible case of conjunctivitis: it turned her eyes crimson color. and it traveled down the entire length of the right side of her face all the way to her jaw. My brother had amoebic dysentery for some weeks. I contracted the "shingles." As a result of all these illness, we returned to America.

Fatima (in English): What was life like on a kibbutz?

Ayelet (in English): I remember my kvutzah (Hebrew: group). We were all the same age. We loved to play in and with water. Mayim! We would sit in the sinks in the gan yeladim (Hebrew: children's house) and pretend all sorts of things while we were in the mayim.

Uri (in English): I'm not following. That was then. What about now?

Fatima (very quiet, almost whispering, in Hebrew): Uri, let the girl talk. Listen. (Her eyes send darts in his direction while Ayelet loses hers.)

Ayelet (in Hebrew): I feel so weak. My head is pounding . . . and swimming.

Uri (in Hebrew): Do you want us to call the nurse?

Ayelet (in Hebrew): No. I'll just take another hit on the morphine . . . Ah, that's better. What was I saying? Well . . . we . . . returned . . . we returned . . . last . . . year.

Fatima (repeats in a very sympathetic voice in Hebrew): You returned last year.

Ayelet (proud, in Hebrew): Yes, we did. We wanted to a complete family: abba, ima, and all three children together all the time.

Uri (proud, in Hebrew): Here in Israel.

Ayelet (proud, in Hebrew): My mother was brought up in a very Zionistic family. Her two best childhood friends and their families made aliyah when we were in the sixth grade. Growing up in Brooklyn, I had mostly Jewish friends. Israel was on our minds very often because of the struggle going on to build the country.

Fatima (a shy voice, in Hebrew): Did you have any Arab friends in school?

Ayelet (a faint smile, in Hebrew): Actually, I did. And we got along well until the first intifada. For some reason I never really understood, the Jordanian twins distanced themselves from me both during and after that time. One girl was born in Iran. A boy was from Oman. One set of twins was born in Jordan. I don't understand why they connected so closely with the Palestinian cause if they were Jordanians.

Fatima (in Hebrew): Most Jordanians are Palestinians--that's why. In one country or another, even in the US, there is a sense of solidarity amongst Palestinians.

Ayelet (in Hebrew): Fatima, look into my eyes. What color do you see?

Fatima (in Hebrew): I can't. I . . . .

Ayelet (in Hebrew): Look closely. What is the color?

Fatima (looking into the once impassioned, now tacit pale blue orbs, in Hebrew): Blue . . .and yellow.

Ayelet (in Hebrew): Look closer, much closer.

Fatima (hesitant, in Hebrew): I . . . I don't see any color . . . maybe white or black. I don't know.

Ayelet (in Hebrew): Beyond the colors there are only white or black, black or white, all of the colors, none of them.

Fatima (in Hebrew): Look into my eyes. What color do you see?

Ayelet (looking intoo the usually iercing, now sumissive hazel orbs, sounding pproud in Hebrew): I see my color. You see, we are sisters.

Fatima (incredulous, in Hebrew): Sisters.

Ayelet (impassioned, in Hebrew): I don't want to leave here without knowing that you're my sister. Are you really my sister?

Fatima (incredulous, in Hebrew): I . . .I don't know. How can I be? We're not related. You're a Jew and I'm a Muslim. You're an Israeli and I'm a Palestinian.

Ayelet: (quiet voice, eyes shut, in Hebrew): You're right, except for one thing.

Fatima (afraid, in Hebrew): What's that?

Ayelet (a faint smile on her lips, whispers in Hebrew): We both have white and/or black eyes.

Fatima (a faint smile on her lips, in Hebrew): But. . . but . . . .

Ayelet (a very faint voice, in Hebrew): Tell me something, Fatima.

Fatima (whispering, in Hebrew): Yes, Ayelet.

Ayelet (barely audible, in Hebrew): Do you see a Jew before you . . . or a person?

Fatima (tears well up in both eyes, in Hebrew): A good person.

Ayelet (almost imperceptible, in Hebrew): A good person (sighs and exhales one last time).

Fatima (blushing profusely, sobbing in Hebrew): I know.

[The family has just arrived in a whirl. When they are told what has just transpired, the mother faints. For a brief moment the father is able to stand up for himself, but he slowly collapses onto the floor next to his wife sobbing in convulsions. the two children, Ayelet's sibblings, stand holding each other in silence. After a few minutes, Fatima, Uri, and Haggit exit the room and sit next to the now revived family in the waiting room adjacent to Ayelet's room. the mother sits very still, almost in a stupor, and begins rocking and chanting some prayer; the father remains speechless.]

Uri (in Hebrew): We're so sorry.

Fatima (barely audible, in Hebrew): She . . . she said something to me. She . . . .

Arlene, the mother (a quiet voice, looks forward in English): What?

Fatima (with an open expression on her face, in English): She told me something that I . . . I never thought I'd ever hear.

Arlene (faces her, in an almost imperceptible voice, in English): Well, what was it? Please, I need to know.

Fatima (very quiet, in English): She told me she loved me . . . that I was her sister.

Arlene (gently putting her right hand on Fatima's left cheek, determined, still very quiet, in English): That you were her sister.

Fatima (tears cascading down her cheeks, perplexed expression permeating her entire face, holds Arlene's right hand, sounds almost hypnotic, in English): M-o-t-h-e-r, can you look into my eyes?

Arlene(confused, very quiet expression on her face, in English): What, honey?

Fatima (sweet, bewildered voice, in English): Mother, please look into my eyes. Tell me, what color do you see?

Arlene (in English): I see brown.

Fatima (sits very close to her, in English): Please look much closer. Now twll me what color you see.

Arlene (wavering as if undecided, in English): I . . . I don't know. Eh, I . . . I think I see. . . . see white and/or black.

Fatima (a faint smile on her lips, expressive, in English): You see, Ayelet was right.

Arlene (confused, in English): I . . . I don't understand.

Fatima (triumphant, in English): We're one and the same: we're sisters! We both saw the same colors in each other's eyes!

Arlene (very quiet, in English): Sisters? (almost imperceptible) Sisters.