An Invitation to make Spell Jars begins with “But aren’t you afraid of Hamas?”
She asks with sincerity. Her body curled on the chair like she needs to protect her body from even the invocation of the H-word at her dining table.
Women around the circle cut each other off in rebuttal, explain to her how and why the oppressed grow a rage that will spread like a forest fire and hurt in retribution. How even our boys, had they lived a childhood of repression and racism would have become men who wanted to fight back.
She suddenly confesses she was in Palestine years ago during an uprising and how afraid she was of the violence. Of the electric power in the hot Levantine air. Of this dangerous place in the world.
I am tongue tied and mute. My excuse is that I’m too exhausted to try and convince anyone of what I’ve always known. I let the others offer book recommendations, podcasts, articles.
Plates are cleared. A candle is lit. The tablecloth becomes a forest floor scattered with Hawthorn berries, white feathers, glowing crystals, and tangles of moss. We prepare to make spell jars. In clear glass vials with cork lids, we build layers like the earth’s crust with dustings of our natural world. First, I pour flakes of pink Himalayan salt to receive my prayers, then rose petals and rose quartz to allow my heart to remain tender and soft. A sprig of cedar spreads and spans the length of the glass wall to call in my Lebanese ancestors. I push a fluff of dandelion through the small opening to represent freedom and hope. Let me call it liberation. Next, I pluck a pussy willow from a branch to call in my childhood imagination and innocence, a return to myself. Finally, a snip from my black and white bracelet of solidarity with Palestine. It fell off today (of all days) and I remember at the vigil asking everyone to call in a word to manifest for whenever theirs would fall off. Peace with Justice. Peace with Justice. Peace with Justice. The same wish was uttered around the circle in that heartbroken candlelit room so many weeks ago. I press the cork to seal the contents of all that is still beyond, but I need to believe in.
I pick up a second empty vial and pour black volcanic salt for a base of protection. A tiny pebble from my property to give my cold feet grounding. Violet elderberry rounds of wisdom and protection from the hate and racism I’ve been subjected to. A crumble of tobacco to give me voice, to speak for peace, for the elders to grant me courage. A sprig of dusty lavender magnified against the wall to soothe and calm my rattled nervous system. A Red-tailed hawk feather to circle above and give warning with clear sight. I plunk a single pearl earring that belonged to my mother, it falls to the bottom like it is resting in the depths of the Dead Sea. I press the cork into the mouth, and marvel at the darkness of this protection.
I go home and cannot sleep. I toss with images of tanks ploughing white tents with refugee families sleeping inside. I wake from a fit of terror gasping at images of shovels tapping through rubble to excavate bodies that are still alive. I shudder under my down duvet a replica of every shaking child, pupils dilated in ASR, dusty dishevelled haired pulled out from the horror.
Does her safety hinge on the need to trust only those with white skin?
Is it the cultural brainwashing that instantly demonizes Arab actions?
Is it privilege that has locked it’s claws into the brightest minds and becomes unshakeable even with unquestionable evidence of murder and cruel intent?
At dawn, my spell jars greet me, upright by my bedside. One pink-glow vial pressed into the darkness of the other. I take one in each hand and feel the coolness of glass in my palms. I press my thumbs on the cork lids and feel the power of what I’ve bottled.
I wish I could have looked her in the eye and simply asked:
“The question is, why are you not afraid of Israel?”