At the edge of the Dead Sea, a casual glance at the barren landscape reveals the milennial march of different seal levels, juxtaposed against the rapid changes we've imposed on our own environment. While ancient seams in the clay show the water levels of previous eras, in the past decade or so the Dead Sea has shrunk to its smallest size ever. Hotels built at the Dead Sea's edge only a few years ago must now transport their guests to the shore.
But up in the canyons, rushing with clear, cool water, you find Nature, and you realize the gift that Nature bears, but that we neglect:
Silence.
I thought it was Nature we were missing, until I camped with Ezra by the Dead Sea, and then, very early the next morning, hiked up into Ein Gedi. It turns out Nature, while under siege, is still omnipresent. It's not what's missing in our lives: Nature exerts and asserts itself, pushing blades of grass through every sidewalk crack and impossible blossoms on every roadside. And here, in a narrow seam of rock folded over clear springs, a whole, hearty ecosystem flourishes. Here, David hid from Saul's murderous rage; the ravishing verses of the Song of Songs draw on the beauty of this landscape; and very nearby, in the caves of Qumran, the Dead Sea Scrolls were found.
People heard great voices here, because here Nature's main gift to Humankind -- its silence -- was waiting to be given. We, wrapped in glass and steel, have all but lost that gift. We make soundtracks for our lives. Our ears are not receivers anymore. They're consumers.
This much became clear in Israel: shouting from the spaces between sacred letters, from cracks between stones in the most ancient walls, and from the smallest increments of life, is a kind of universe that is too vast for words. It is the repository of the still, small voice, and the place where the soul meets the Earth.
There are many kinds of silence in Ein Gedi: higher up, there is only the sound of blood rushing past your eardrums.
You're several hundred feet above the Dead Sea, but you've only attained sea level. You hear the thin, scrabbling sound of rocks sent tumbling by startled ibex above you. You hear the screech and hoot of alarmed birds, and, two seconds later, a perfect echo of each note. And if you're very still, and the wind is blowing just right, you'll get a whisper of wave against rock from the sea far below.
As we moved back down into the canyon, Ezra took us off the beaten path -- literally. We traversed the canyon wall via a series of iron rungs hammered into the limestone, and we came to a secluded waterfall. Here, the white noise of the water and the impossibly cool respite from the searing heat quieted the whole body.
Then, we came to a clear stream, a shallow pool, a burnt acacia tree. Ezra peered into the water. "Black snails," he said. "That means it's pure." We drank like dying men: I consumed 4.5 liters of water that morning, and sweated it all out.
Eventually, we were back at the main trailhead, where tour buses were pulling up by the dozen, and the unmistakeable slouch and swagger of the American teenager made itself known. It was noon, and well over 100 degrees. We had hiked for almost five hours, and swam for one. It was not a good time to be starting a hike.
Back in the car, heading back to Jerusalem, the Biblical insanity of the landscape shouted through the whine of the tires on the road, howled at us through the windows as we listened for news of Gilad Shalit.
We think we're so damn big, but we're not. We're just little and noisy, and not very important. We don't completely understand what land and water shout to us: we're too busy.
But busy with what? With fighting over this very land, and its secrets. The whoosh and thud of rockets and artillery shells, the headache thunder of bombs, may forever occlude our hearing, and drown out the roaring silence perched above Ein Gedi, waiting on every ancient hill, waving from every wadi.
Once silence is lost, we are lost.
--T.A.
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