When We Found Meaning

Story

Blood can be spilled at the tip of the most peaceful of ideas.

In the land of deserts. There is a bastion, a hope. A Mediterranean shrubland, unremarkable. A dry parched place, with dust covered plants and weeping trees bent over from the exhaustion of such boredom. In this stretch of land, however, almost every war from three continents will involve this place. It is not who is on the land, or what is under, more why we all are here on any land at all.

Like all great stories this one too begins in prosperity. Peace. For when there is no conflict there are few questions. When there are few questions there are few people who want answers. In this time of plenty the people south of the river thrived somehow on this shrub. Sucking every available natural resource they could get their hardworking hands on.

Now of course it would never be one group of people who lived on this stretch of scrubland. That would be too simplistic. There were twelve. Each with their own land, they bickered of course, but like brothers they found ways to make up after the insults. To say also that everyone was content and rolling in fields of flowers with their loved ones would be simplistic too. These twelve tribes of the kingdom of Scrubland spoke the same harsh tongue and danced in the same way and ate the same food. Their taste in songs, stories, scriptures especially were the same. So similar in fact many like to think they are all the same.

The people of the scrub were known for their peculiar ways, they did not believe in the spirits of the world or the many powers that hold the sky above their heads. Side-lined by the great hellenic states as merely the "Hebrews", these people are looked at with scorn but yet a cautious interest. Their code is different, their morals are different. Yet in all of this they never felt at home in scorching lands of the scrub. Never did they bow their heads to anything except themselves, and themselves are a boring group of people, merely mortal and fallible in every way. There were stories of course, stories of wars, escapes, genocide, morals, ideas, codes. In that way the Israelites are no different, they desired the impossible and fantastical.

On one small hill in this land of the southern river dwellers is a small tribe. Benjamin, as it is later known. In this small tribe is one meek town, on top of a larger hill. These backward tribesmen are scorned by the other Israelites. On this "tel" of theirs is a jewel, just one small jewel, invisible it maybe, but for five thousand years after its creation men and women from every corner of the globe will try to hunt it down and claim it as themselves, whether it be for self preservation or self fulfilment many tools will be used to excavate it.

Spears, guns, rockets; books, devotion, faith.

One of my ancestors walks into a tavern. Many men were there on that night. Another blow to their souls was being felt. Bent over well worn tables drinking the last of their Greek wine, these men showed little care in their rapidly aging faces. The women were busy at home, their job still had yet to turn a profit, yet these men were sitting on piles of riches. Riches they never spent, always burning holes in their insanity, having so much means you cannot use it all. Their hearts were full of gold yet they had light chests, empty of love and spirit.

So my ancestor sat on a table in the middle. "Fellow Israelites! Who remembers the tyranny we escaped to be here?". They shook their heads sorrowfully.

"Many a generation ago, the Israelites covered a desert, they overcame every obstacle and escaped the southern tyranny." Ears pricked, eyes focused on this man: little is known of their history, for writing was something they did little.

"We escaped slavery! Escaped the wealthy Egyptian kings and created this home! We have succeeded yet you stare down into the blood stained history of your people, in that wine you only see the gore and suffering. Look up and you will find something else!", exclaims the man.