This poem is based upon one experience I encountered while living in Southern Lebanon. We lived across the Maronite church and slowly the villagers were returning from the north. The Palestinians massacred most of the village, apart from those who escaped into the Snowbar Mountains and fled north, either by foot or by sea. The Palestinians then propelled rockets into northern Israel and occupied the villagers homes. Later, the Israeli tanks had no choice but to blast into the villages to defend themselves and flush out the terrorists. Consequently the damage not done by the Palestinians, the Israelis completed with their rockets and tanks. We came to Southern Lebanon after the Palestinian terrorists were removed and tried to bring some sense of relief, calm, hope and restoration.

Many of those that survived and returned to this small mountainous village retold tales of the tragedy. Most, however, never mentioned it nor discussed it. All of the villagers had lost somebody in the inhumane brutality. Those that did not escape were taken to the church at the edge of town, raped and murdered. Some reports indicate that this village suffered much more, if not the most, during this sad part of Middle East history.

This poem was about my first visit to a Sunday service at the Maronite village of Aishea, Lebanon and my impressions upon the first encounter. Though we wanted to restore or tend to the crucifix, now damaged by the massacre, they wanted it just as it was; a reminder of those martyred.

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Dust gathers on the window sills.
The bells vibrate
throughout the grey room.
It is Sunday.
Peering through the smoky plastic windows,
I witness the faithful,
like beaten snakes
in the tall grass,
winding down the paths;
Animals hunted down
by their oppressors,
escape for one day.

Bombs are heard by only a few.
Most never hear them nor
    recognize their death call.
A holy war lasts a lifetime.
Conflict deafens the senses.

Unrealized habits are repeated;
    day by day,
         week by week,
        month in,                     month out.

Years go by and decades pass.
Tradition is bottled
       together with time,
intoxicating the soul.
Without its liquid,
the villagers would waste away.
It is their oxygen;
their only source
of existence. 

The iron gates keep me
shut away inside,
like a prisoner on rations of bread.
There is no water to be found,
    only dry
        dusty
            air
which settles in every hidden crevice.
It slashes into my throat,
leaving me
wanting,
always wanting.

With determination I overcome
the bars.
With one worn key,
I open the tall forbidding gates,
which have imprisoned me.

I look towards the gathering throng,
hypnotized by their rhythm,
as they disappear
into the tall,
cold cathedral.

Entering,
I am overcome with mystery
by the figure standing before me;
not really standing,
hanging.

The Martyr looks aimlessly
into the crowd.
Perhaps, they have come for Him.
He possesses only one arm.
His left leg is in half.
He is indeed a Martyr,
beyond recognition.
His crown rests at His feet.

Holes, pierced by killer’s bullets
have been placed around Him.
Into the icy stone are
multiple dents,
cracks,
patterns unrecognizable,
penetrating
into the soul.

Holes,
which should never have been there,
enter His side.

On His right cheek is a startling reminder of hatred and opposition.

Here –
many gave their lives.

Here –
where the unspeakable
massacre occurred.

A place of worship –
Now –
a place of the dead.

The congregation fails to see
the Martyr;
only the martyred.

Nausea fills and wracks my body.
Inside me is a wrenching of disgust.
Yet,
He refuses to look at me.
Aimlessly into the crowd He stares.

By choice He hangs there;
Silently,
Never
Daring
to open His mouth.