Descending the train demands more effort than usual. It’s 11am on a Sunday morning in Haifa central bus station. She gets off and looks for some shade to wait for the next train to Tel Aviv. She drags her carry-on bag filled with clean clothes, containers of Dwali, Maqlobi and other veggies and fruits that her mom prepared earlier that morning. It isn’t only because she has no time to cook or prepare meals because of her tight schedule, but also because Tel Aviv is so expensive. As she waits, the chain of her list of “meaningful distractions” play like a screen in front of her eyes: two exams next week, pharmacology on Wednesday and intro to psychology on Friday. She has a date on a Friday night and a run on Monday night in Jaffa. The next thing she remembers is an idea or more of a state of mind that assails her on the spot: the world is chaos. The chain breaks and the attempt to organize, control and enforce is shattered.
Ibraheem Maalouf plays his unique instrument effortlessly, deftly in her ears. The crescento of the beat makes her heart race and the phrase “the world is chaos” is magnified and walks her by the hand to the rhizomic chaosness around her:
A soldier wearing a kippah, a rifle and heavy boots stands nonchalantly in front of her. His rifle is pointed to the ground but could have been easily pointer towards her. In the background, the khaki outfit of other soldiers obscure the view. The fat woman next to him rests her hands on the layers of her belly, that furrow her red shirt, on which he messy hair falls and above which a tired face looms. The school kids huddle around each other, hunched over their screens and tablets. The man with a business demeanor and incredible stamina to stand underneath the heat without a drop of sweat stands there. The Hijabi woman also has a stamina not sweat in her black attire covering her body. It is all chaos. The baby that can be heard crying but can not be seen from where she was sitting. A couple hold a mirror and a heavy bag, probably moving in together. The mirror reflects her image and she can see the tired fact and the fresh lipstick that she applied after her mom asked her to because “it looks better!”. Her golden cross that her grandmother gave her dangles around her neck as if calling her to be saved:
To be saved from what? To be saved from chaos. And isn’t that exactly what Jesus tried to do? To make sense of chaos, to give a structure to what could not be contained. He would have said:
“Oh behold, there will be a time when it is all a muddle. Do not think but believe in me- I have thought for you and carried the burden of worry upon my back; I didn’t sleep so you can sleep and dream of the beauty that my Father has manifested on this earth. Don’t worry my child, read my story and you’ll be at peace.”
The train screech along the tracks and enter the field of vision. It is heading towards Ber Shiva, and will pass from Tel Aviv stations, where she will get off. A woman with yellow vist and blond hair appears out of nowhere and whistles in her blue whistle then asks the people standing on the platform to step behind the yellow line (it was all yellow).
She is taken aback not only behind the yellow line, but also mentally when an idea crosses her mind: “the train also makes sense. It is an attempt to make order of things. The sign on the door makes order, and the implicit rule to wait for the people in the train to come out before barging in for the empty seats also organizes this mess. The width of the door makes order, the yellow line, the train tracks, the cogs, the shifts, the driver, the electrons running in the wires and the waves running in the air, and even the hoarse voice announcing the next stop makes order. The herringbone pants she was wearing made sense too.
And isn’t this incredible?
She is filled with awe almost to the verge of crying. She has an immense love for humanity; for humans. She wants to hug the lady next to her and to tell her that it’s okay. She wants to open her bag, give some figs to the passengers nearby and she wants to dance with fellow humans who are going with her through this journey called life. It was a feeling beyond her.
The next track played: Ibraheem Maalouf- true story.
In that euphoria, a feeling of worry and fear lurked from behind, as if such a feeling of gratefulness is not authentic. Because humans fuck things up:
The soldier shoots the child, the woman cries at night, Macdonalds enslaves people, and the rich business man sleeps without qualms about labor rights. And even the woman with the yellow vist is reduced to a walking yellow vist making orders- for she doesn’t even have a name tag.
The train rattles along the tracks, and shakes all her ideas away. She loses control and holds on to the smell of fenugreek cakes that her grandmother makes once a month in the kitchen filled with light in that distant village (which is not too distant, but it seemed so at that time). She evokes a feeling of safety and return to Psalm 51: my sacrifice is a broken heart. Her broken heart and broken images are her offer to the World. She prostates into the train to make it on time to her morning lecture.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 