Exodus

My phone rang yesterday afternoon. I didn't recognize the number but picked up anyway. It was my mom's friend - a Russian-Israeli artist in her fifties. There were none of the usual niceties. No small talk. Donate money to the resistance, she begged of me. The media is lying to you. You must learn the truth. She told me story after story of woe. Of a mother and her newborn child, thrown into jail kicking and screaming. Of a man kicked out of the home he owes to the bank. Of couples torn apart. Children crying. Guns. Smoke. Bloodshed. I cringed, like I cringe now. But maybe they shouldn't be resisting, I found myself saying. They can't possibly think they will win. Perhaps peace will emerge from the ashes. She didn't back down. It's between you and God, she said, implying that God could not possibly agree with any point of view but her own. I wish the truth was as cut and dry as some believe it to be. Life would be so much easier.