The Cats of Palestine
Most of them were like the farm cats we fed when we lived in Wisconsin, cats that are outdoors all the time and wary of strangers.
The cats of Palestine were in the gardens of the churches built on religious sites, in the villages where refuse collection services are slow, on the rooftops of homes in the old city of Jerusalem, and near historical excavations.
One cat was different. She was in a small, artsy gift shop in the old city of Jaffa, by the sea in Tel Aviv. We asked the woman there, who was friendly and sophisticated, if she owned the cat.
"No, she owns me," the woman said.
I laughed, believing that I understood.
Our lives are often controlled by the cats, the dogs, the children, the parents that we feel obligated to care for.
But the slender woman with short red hair and the scruffy white cat with an extended belly seemed to be such unlikely companions.
"She misses me when I'm out of town," the shopkeeper said.
"My cat misses me when I'm gone too," my wife said.
"Is she pregnant?" I asked about the cat with an extended belly.
"No. She was, and I shut her into a box when she went into labor, and when I opened the box I saw that the one kitten, a very large one, was dead. There was a terrible smell, and I thought it best that I take the kitten away, but when I took it she attacked me, biting and scratching."
The sophisticated woman showed us long, deep scratches on her arms.
A natural reaction.
We wished them well and went on our way.
Later I thought about sophisticated Israel, believing she owns all this land. She strips dignity from people, because she thinks it is the best thing to do.
Teeth and claws leave long, deep scratches.
A natural reaction.
So maybe, in twisted reality, Palestine owns Israel, because all the world, with cameras, is watching now.
Oppression has a terrible smell.
Palestine will not run away and hide.
What now will the sophisticated woman do?
