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Urfa: Pilgrimage to the birthplace of Abraham the prophet
From book project Cay, Tavla, MyslenkyA row of Kurdish women waited for entry along the wall of the cave-turned-shrine where Abraham was born. These women wore long cloaks and scarves of brightly striped satin. They hennaed their hands and bare feet and tattooed their faces. Mainly they marked their chins, but sometimes also decorated their cheeks and hands with evil eyes, dots, and lines. Ozcan said this is cosmetic , not religious. The cave-shrine is divided into men's and women's chambers. After a few minutes' debate over which to send me into, one of the women pulled my shirt to my chest, examined the profile and was satisfied I could join them. Inside, the cramped and steamy interior smelled like giving birth. For the confines of space, most prayed standing. A few women kneeled, foreheads and hands on rugs. I wanted to pray with them. Cultures tend tend to be possessive of their prophets. I tried to imagine these tattooed women in a synagogue with Jewish grandmothers and their Louis Vuillton bags, invoking Ibrahim; or him as a Kurd in the hills of Urfa, crying, with a doner-kebap knife raised over Isaac. I wanted to pray with these women - or at least say I had - but no prayers would come, just as none would come as I stood in Jerusalem at the Western Wall with scarved Hasidic women. In the end it proved an absurd idea because I'm only a Jew as far as motherhood, matzoh balls, and guilt; and enlightenment isn't found as an entry in a guide book, as a souvenir or like I said before - as a destination. View images: from book project Cay, Tavla, Myslenky © 2004 Beth Zonderman |
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