17/7/09

BETWEEN CHRIST AND ISHTAR - The broken wings

In the midst of the gardens and hills which connect the city of Beirut with Lebanon there is a small temple,
very ancient, dug out of white rock , surrounded by olive, almond, and willow trees. Although this temple is a
half mile from the main highway, at the time of my story very few people interested in relics and ancient ruins
had visited it. It was one of many interesting places hidden and forgotten in Lebanon. Due to its seclusion, it
had become a haven for worshippers and a shrine for lonely lovers.
As one enters this temple he sees on the wall at the east side an old Phoenician picture, carved in the rock
depicting Ishtar, goddess of love and beauty, sitting on her throne, surrounded by seven nude virgins standing
in different posses. The first one carries a torch; the second, a guitar; the third, a censer; the fourth a jug of
wine; the fifth, a branch of roses; the sixth, a wreath of laurel; the seventh, a bow and arrow; and all of them
look at Ishtar reverently.
In the second wall there is another picture, more modern than the first one, symbolizing Christ nailed to the
cross, and at His side stand His sorrowful mother and Mary Magdalene and two other women weeping. This
Byzantine picture shows that it was carved in the fifteenth or sixteenth century.*
In the west side wall there are two round transits through which the sun's rays enter the temple and strike the
pictures and make them look as if they were painted with gold water colour. In the middle of the temple there
is a square marble with old paintings on its sides, some of which can hardly be seen under the petrified lumps
of blood which show that the ancient people offered sacrifices on this rock and poured perfume, wine, and oil
upon it.
There is nothing else in that little temple except deep silence, revealing to the living the secrets of the goddess
and speaking wordlessly of past generations and the evolution of religions. Such a sight carries the poet to a
world far away from the one in which he dwells and convinces the philosopher that men were born religious;
they felt a need for that which they could not see and drew symbols, the meaning of which divulged their
hidden secrets and their desires in life and death.
In that unknown temple, I met Selma once every month and spent the hours with her, looking at those strange
pictures, thinking of the crucified Christ and pondering upon the young Phoenician men and women who
lived, loved and worshipped beauty in the person of Ishtar by burning incense before her statue and pouring
perfume on her shrine, people for whom nothing is left to speak except the name, repeated by the march of
time before the face of Eternity.
It is hard to write down in words the memories of those hours when I met Selma −−those heavenly hours,
filled with pain, happiness, sorrow, hope, and misery.
We met secretly in the old temple, remembering the old days, discussing our present, fearing our future, and
gradually bringing out the hidden secrets in the depths of our hearts and complaining to each other of our
misery and suffering, trying to console ourselves with imaginary hopes and sorrowful dreams. Every now and
then we would become calm and wipe our tears and start smiling, forgetting everything except Love; we
embraced each other until our hearts melted; then Selma would print a pure kiss on my forehead and fill my
heart with ecstasy; I would return the kiss as she bent her ivory neck while her cheeks became gently red like
the first ray of dawn on the forehead of hills. We silently looked at the distant horizon where the clouds were
coloured with the orange ray of sunset.

Our conversation was not limited to love; every now and then we drifted on to current topics and exchanged
ideas. During the course of conversation Selma spoke of woman's place in society, the imprint that the past
generation had left on her character, the relationship between husband and wife, and the spiritual diseases and
corruption which threatened married life. I remember her saying: "The poets and writers are trying to
understand the reality of woman, but up to this day they have not understood the hidden secrets of her heart,
because they look upon her from behind the sexual veil and see nothing but externals; they look upon her
through the magnifying glass of hatefulness and find nothing except weakness and submission.
In another occasion she said, pointing to the carved pictures on the walls of the temple, "In the heart of this
rock there are two symbols depicting the essence of a woman's desires and revealing the hidden secrets of her
soul, moving between love and sorrow −−between affection and sacrifice, between Ishtar sitting on the throne
and Mary standing by the cross. The man buys glory and reputation, but the woman pays the price."
No one knew about our secret meetings except God and the flock of birds which flew over the temple. Selma
used to come in her carriage to a place named Pasha park and from there she walked to the temple, where she
found me anxiously waiting for her.
We feared not the observer's eyes, neither did our consciences bother us; the spirit which is purified by fire
and washed by tears is higher than what the people call shame and disgrace; it is free from the laws of slavery
and old customs against the affections of the human heart. That spirit can proudly stand unashamed before the
throne of God.
Human society has yielded for seventy centuries to corrupted laws until it cannot understand the meaning of
the superior and eternal laws. A man's eyes have become accustomed to the dim light of candles and cannot
see the sunlight. Spiritual disease is inherited from one generation to another until it has become a part of
people, who look upon it, not as a disease, but as a natural gift, showered by God upon Adam. If those people
found someone free from the germs of this disease, they would think of him with shame and disgrace.
Those who think evil of Selma Karamy because she left her husband's home and met me in the temple are the
diseased and weak−minded kind who look upon the healthy and sound as rebels. They are like insects
crawling in the dark for fear of being stepped upon by the passer−by.
The oppressed prisoners, who can break away from his jail and does not do so, is a coward. Selma, an
innocent and oppressed prisoner, was unable to free herself from slavery. Was she to blame because she
looked through the jail window upon the green fields and spacious sky? Will the people count her as being
untruthful to her husband because she came from his home to sit by me between Christ and Ishtar? Let the
people say what they please; Selma had passed the marshes which submerge other spirits and had landed in a
world that could not be reached by the howling of wolves and rattling of snakes. People may say what they
want about me, for the spirit who has seen the spectre of death cannot be scared by the faces of thieves; the
soldier who has seen the swords glittering over his head and streams of blood under his feet does not care
about rocks thrown at him by the children on the streets.

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