Ceci and Boy, o6

The last time I was in Israel, the only time, Yitzhak Rabin was still alive, momentarily. I was there for a month or so, cruising around the country in a bus, on my feet or on the back of a camel. At that time Israel and its Palestinian adjacements were at the zenith of recent peace and an American student like myself had the distinct freedom to travel between cultures unhindered and mostly welcomed.
I found Israelis strong and handsome, Palestinians warm and sincere. The land itself has a beauty one should not have to miss.
Suffice to say it has not been as hospitable since that pleasant autumn.
Henry Miller once wrote admiringly of the Agean that he could feel the historical blood seeping through the rocks. The rocks of Palestine are as old and bloody but they stink of the rancid fear borne of wayward and lazy.
As much as I have read on the subject, and it is no small amount, I still can't put the situation into concrete terms of cause and effect. For me, it is a quagmire where any sequential morality gets bogged down.

Ceci is neither Israeli nor Palestinian but she reminds me of the pretty women one would often see there. They would never take me seriously. I don't think they considered me manly enough. I probably wasn't manly enough.