A Mission in Life
In 1954, Raymonda began spending more time with her mother during breaks from the convent school. Christmas, delighted to have her back, took her on long tours of their lost life. In Acre, they walked from one mansion to the next. “This used to belong to your Uncle Michel . . . that one over there was your father’s cousin . . . the stone villa with the awnings was your father’s, that one your great aunt’s.” Walking to the edge of town, they reached the checkpoint manned by Israeli soldiers, where Arabs had to show their passes before crossing. They turned around and headed back to the center of town.
Arab neighbors furtively tuned into the banned Voice of Palestine from Beirut, broadcasting details on Commando Unit 101’s depredations. This was the first time Raymonda heard the names Ariel Sharon and Moshe Dayan. “No matter what these men do to us, we will never give up our rights,” said Christmas to her.
By way of Kfar Yassif that summer, she drove Raymonda into the hills near Montfort Castle. They descended into a valley with gnarled olive trees and former tobacco fields now sprouting with JNF pines. Looking up at the castle, Christmas, “her voice trembling,” recalls Raymonda, gave a kind of eulogy of the family, a eulogy with an urgent appeal:
You should never forget this view because it’s yours. Never mind that it was taken from you and your family. No matter where you are, remember: these olive trees are rooted in an eternal land—they are eternal, and so are we Arabs. When you are older, you must return to the valleys and the forests. Feel and sense the beauty, take in the fragrance of the lilies, the perfumes of the wild flowers . . .
The two ended up driving to the village of Rama to visit Father Michel De Maria, an Italian priest renowned for his piety and, like the Polish-Jewish Wolf Messing, for his clairvoyance. Jews, Christians, and Muslims lined up to see him. The chief of police of Tel Aviv sought his help in solving the case of a serial killer. Dayan consulted him about missing soldiers. The father’s fame went well beyond clairvoyance. In 1948, after the Israeli military forced the villagers of Rama to leave and pushed them north toward the Lebanese border, he met with Israeli intelligence officers and negotiated their return to the village. Gentle strength achieved what Fedayeen bullets never could.
Christmas wanted to ask him about her sons George and Yussuf.
They pulled up to the front of an old stone church topped by a towering cross, visible for miles, and passed through a wrought iron gate, into a garden. The pungent scent of jasmine together with the statue of St. Joseph reminded Raymonda of her convent in Nazareth. She was a damaged child who had spent much of her early years grappling with loss and anxiety. But within the walls of the church, she sensed an ineffable tranquility; it was like snapping out of a nightmare and finding herself safe again.
A strikingly tall man with olive-green eyes and a head of thick black hair approached them. He greeted Christmas by her first name, and then turned his attention to Raymonda, bowed slightly, and extended his hand.
“This is your first time you’re staying with your mother, isn’t it?” She and Christmas looked at one another. How did he know? Raymonda grabbed his hand and wanted to kiss it, but he pulled away. “No, my child,” he said. “No need for that.”
At that point, directing his gaze at Christmas, he said: “I am glad you brought Raymonda to see me. She has had a very difficult childhood, being separated from you for so long. It is a dreadful sin to tell a child her mother is dead. So many people have conspired to make this beautiful child suffer.” He turned to Raymonda. “My dear friend, you are protected by the Virgin and by angels and saints. You have no need to fear.”
How does he know my name? she wondered. Or about my aunt’s cruelty? Who is this man?
“Madame Hawa, you too have suffered because of the separation from your children. You are strong, alive, even if your children thought you were dead. They took your children from you, but you have been helping the poor and needy. You are a great woman. A saint.”
Christmas began weeping, her hands covering her eyes. “Father,” she said, her face still concealed. “Please tell me. How are my sons?”
Father Michel lifted his eyes to a crucifix hanging on the wall as if it were a hypnotist’s crystal. Raymonda was spellbound. “George and Yussuf are far away; they are beyond the walls of Jerusalem. Do not cry, Madame, because they are in good hands with honest Catholic priests and nuns on the Mount of Olives.” Still with his faced fixed on the crucifix, he described in detail their lives, what they looked like, what they were doing. “Be joyful: they have successful lives ahead of them.”
“Shall I see them again?” She too was staring at the statue on the wall.
“You shall, but just for a short time; you will never live with them again. This is your destiny. There will always be a wall between you and them. Walls of wars and bloodshed; dividing you will be oceans and deserts. They will live in strange lands.”
There were other people in the room waiting to talk to the priest. The priest said with a tender expression, “Take care of Raymonda. She has a mission in life.”
For Christmas, the way his beard quivered and the rustling of his black wool cowl made it seem as if he had betrayed a dark secret, the grim tidings of a prophet.
“Father, a mission? Is she going to be a nun?” Her hands, strong from working, covered her face once again. “I don’t want to lose her.” Not even to the Church.
“No. Her mission will be outside, in the world. She will encounter many dangers and will need our intercession. I know,” he continued with his gaze locked on Christmas, “I know that you have raised Raymonda not to hate. That’s her mission—to show many, many others, Jews and Arabs, the same thing. To help restore love in this promised land.” He said nothing more about the “mission.”
Back in the convent, from the window of her room, Raymonda contemplated what Father Michel De Maria said. She saw in the “mission” a secret treasure buried in her future and which she now had to uncover. This was her quest, her “Holy Grail,” as she would say.