The World Is on Fire
This article was originally published in the Ukiah Daily Journal.
As I write this near the end of July 2006, the world is on fire with wars and weather; the heat is on also with stress, machines, speed, and violence in many forms. Even here, in the beautiful mountains of northern California, the usual air conditioning provided by breezes and wind from the Pacific Ocean has failed to cool temperatures rising to 106 degrees Fahrenheit at 2200 feet altitude (115 degrees in the valley). During the thirty-five years I have resided here, when not traveling, I have never experienced such an intense and extended period of heat -- 10 days thus far. On news reports, I hear that this is the hottest summer ever across the globe.
While these effects of global warming remind us that we need to develop alternative energy, wars rage even hotter in the quest for control of oil. The covers of an occasional piece of newspaper or magazine that come my way are filled with fire: flames in war zones – especially in Lebanon and Iraq now, flames of widespread fires that occur during such heat waves in California and elsewhere.
Having spent seven years of my life – five years in Egypt, more than a year in Israel, and several months in Morocco – in the Middle East, I feel a deep psychic connection with that area; this connection also includes human suffering. I worry about my friends in Israel; I also worry about people I do not know: Lebanese, Palestinian, Iraqi, and others who suffer from aggression.
When I lived in Israel in 1983, I was hired to sing at a hospital near the Lebanese border for wounded Israeli soldiers injured during the 1982 invasion of Lebanon. After singing at the bedsides of these sad young men – several of them missing legs or arms, or other body parts – I suggested to the woman who had driven me from Haifa to the hospital that perhaps I should also sing for wounded Lebanese soldiers at their hospitals. She grimaced painfully; we were both silent on the drive back to Haifa.
Lebanon has only recently recovered from the terrible destruction it suffered from the 1982 Israeli invasion, plus 18 more years of conflict until Israel finally left Lebanon in the year 2000. Finally, the international airport was rebuilt, and with economic reconstruction, business investments were returning and Lebanon has been gaining a reputation as a fine tourist destination. Now, by mid August 2006, the airport has been destroyed, much of Beirut has been reduced to rubble, civilian casualties have reached 1100; at least one third of them are children. Over one million Lebanese have been displaced from their homes. Like Palestinians, they are refugees in their own country.
Terror inflicted upon others is what breeds terrorism. We need only to look at the countries that have the most weapons—those that use military might to control others – to find the source of terrorism. Instead of demonizing others – especially those who dwell on top of oil reserves, we need to confront and root out our own demons.
Blinded by greed, the ‘powers that be’ have lost sight of the true value of cultures of various diversity; they have lost the ability to see the great offerings of history, science, and the arts. (Many people in the United States do not even know that our numbers are of Arabic origin.) These are the real treasures we should be exchanging, not armaments or gunfire. Our chiefs in Washington say they are going to “remake the Middle East.” They have not even learned to understand the culture, the language, the essence of Islam, or the beauty and creativity that abound in that region of the world. If they had truly listened to beautiful Middle Eastern music, their souls would have experienced that place where we all come from. They have not been receptive enough to even know what they are going to “remake”. What they seem to mean is: “We are going to control you. Once we destroy your culture, we will replace it with the American way of life: consumerism. You can shop in a Wal-Mart, while we take your oil.” If Iraq is an example of “remaking”, I cringe to think of the fate of other Middle Eastern countries. Only ignorance could provoke the destruction of the seat of civilization, Mesopotamia. We not only hurt ourselves when we hurt others, we hurt all of nature, we hurt our planet, perhaps other planets also. All forms of life are interconnected; even our breath becomes part of the air we share.
Many alternative energy sources offer themselves to be converted into energy. The sun is shouting, “Collect my light; I won’t even charge you.” This clean energy hurts no one, not even the environment. The wind offers herself freely to spin a wind turbine. Nature, like woman, does not need to be raped to capture her inner treasures. She offers herself willingly, when taken with respect and integrity, with knowledge, wisdom and love.
If man has the capability of making enough weapons to destroy the planet, he can certainly use such intelligence to create a better world, including the use of renewable energy, rather than destroy this beautiful, bountiful planet that offers us what we need as long as we use her resources wisely.
Instead of bombing the world into pieces, we need to open our eyes, our ears, our minds, and our hearts to the vast gifts that the Middle East has to offer. We may even learn to say “Marhaban!” (“Welcome!”) Once we have learned to appreciate cultures, different from our own, we may find ourselves saying, “Shukran!” (“Thank You!”).
Soon, we might find a chorus of voices raised, singing: “Salam”, “Shalom”,” Peace”.
An American Dervish in Egypt
This article was originally published in TANTRA: The Magazine, 1992
“Allah Hay! Allah Hay! Allah Hay! Allah Hay.”
The sonorous hypnotic voices of men chanting in rhythm to the zickr music draws me onto the long straw mat to join the wave of swaying movement. Mesmerized by the haunting music I am carried into a mystical space of consciousness. I feel radiated with cosmic energy from above, from earth emanations below, and from those around who are immersed in this vibratory field. Closing my eyes I see and feel it within myself...
Animal Communion
This article was originally published in Sojourn Magazine, 1997
It was when I bought land in the northern California coastal range mountains, homesteaded and lived close to the earth and sky, that my deepest experiences with nature began.
There was nothing on this land except beautiful nature--earth, trees, plants, wild animals and fresh air. For the first few summer months I slept in a sleeping bag under a tree on a high hilltop. At first I felt a bit alarmed when I saw scurrying shapes and glowing eyes in the night. But within a week, I was used to that. I was isolated from other humans or any hints of civilization, unless I walked four miles to the county road.
In the autumn I erected a tipi and spent the coldest winter in 30 years sleeping on wet straw, with rain and wind blowing in (no matter how much I rearranged the canvas or poles). In periods of snow, the sides of the tipi had to be scraped to keep them from caving in. I hand-dug a well through rock, carried food from town on my back, planted fruit trees, and in the summer, lived on one or two gallons of water a day. I was surviving as one on a wilderness trip, the difference being that I was trying to create a home, without the training or skills ordinarily required. But through all the hardships and strenuous effort I loved the silence, sun, rain and the green growth of nature. I was not yet aware that the trees, deer, birds and land were aware of my presence. They later revealed just how aware of me they were.
After building a small octagon on the edge of a knoll, I decided to add a sun deck below, facing south, whereupon I could practice yoga, write, read and sew naked. There I could gaze across mountains of forests all the way to the Pacific Ocean. I felt as though I was on the edge of the world. The wind currents were good for large soaring birds such as eagles, falcons, vultures, hawks and ravens. I often watched them gliding, and swooping overhead. I felt as though I was taking flying lessons. Perhaps spiritually, I was.
After several months of sunning on this deck, I became aware of a large buzzard that swooped down over me almost every morning. A lovely feeling pervaded my being as I realized that the buzzard was aware of me. He would dive low, close to my body and then sail out into space again. I was convinced of our inter-relatedness in sharing space.
Later, I began to notice a falcon who met me at the gate of the ranch when I returned from town and flew with me four miles to my home. Being much swifter than a two-legged creature, it would fly around above me, soar off on air currents, but usually remained visible during my journey home.
One day after working with some fruit trees near the well (which I had divined for water with a metal rod), I lay down on the grass to rest. In the sky above me I observed several eagles slowly gliding in circle formation for quite a long time. I felt this was some kind of ritual. They communicated a name to me that I later used--"Soaring Eagle"--and a song. I wrote down the words and composed music for this "Eagle Song" which is still a favorite of my "Spirit and Nature" series.
I was grateful for my relationship with the large birds, but little did I know that soon it would have even greater value to me. I had been chopping down some small fir trees one day (thinning a crowded wood) to use as fence posts to protect my baby fruit trees. It was a sweltering hot day and I was wearing a thin, short cotton dress. The hatchet slipped and swung into my right calf, gouging a long deep wound into the bone. With blood streaming out, I tore off my dress and wound it around my leg as a tourniquet. I crawled naked up the long steep hill to my cabin, managed to put on another dress, find the car keys and crawl down to my VW bug. I drove down the bumpy dirt road toward town feeling pretty weak and wondering whether to go straight to the hospital or stop at a neighbors for help.
Then I noticed a falcon flying low in front of the car. It flew over the left fork which went to the neighbor's house. Taking this as a sign, I followed it. The eldest son came out and drove me to town in my car. I was then able to place my right leg up on the dash and thus reduce the throbbing and slow down the bleeding. Two miles before town, we ran out of gas. My driver took the gas can and hitched a ride to the nearest gas station, returning quickly to drive me onward to the hospital. Had I driven alone I would have been in a pickle. Thanks to my dear bird friend, my life was possibly saved.
But my main contact with these fine feathered friends has come through my singing. All over the world, when I sing, birds come, listen and respond. Pigeons, ducks, small birds and larger ones gather around me in parks, gardens and cathedral squares when I troubadour. They dance excitedly in the air near me, and are especially responsive to high notes, voicing their own replies in chirps and twitters with the music.
After seven years of semi-solitude, I was preparing to leave my mountain home in California to visit a friend in Denmark. The morning I arose to leave my Valhalla, I was amazed at the sight which greeted me as I sat up and gazed sleepy-eyed out the windows of the octagon. Eight deer were quietly circling. Having appreciated my land as a sanctuary from hunters for years, they now came to bid me farewell as I journeyed off to carry forth the spirit and songs which the land and all the creatures thereon had been muse to. I walked out into the early morning sunshine, beholding the magic of the land and their gentle loving nature. They invited me to touch them, to hug them in a farewell party of silent but strong communion of love.
Tara Sufiana has lived in Mendocino County since 1971, with intermittent travels abroad. She has written for magazines in England, Switzerland and the US. She is currently finishing a book about her experiences in Egypt.
