Folds upon folds of coppery skin gather around the Bedouin’s midriff. Stringy waist-length gray hair moves gently across her sunken shoulders and humped back as she guides me farther into damp shadows. The soles of her feet are heavily calloused and covered with deep lengthwise cracks, revealing their own desert landscape.
Small torches tucked in wall crevices provide a soft amber glow. Heavy moist air caresses my nakedness as I follow the Bedouin woman, my feet padding quietly behind her on the hard-packed surface. We move in dark silence. She guides me a bit deeper underground and into a low-ceilinged space. Standing in the opaqueness are two naked females, both middle-aged and bent forward. They motion to me. Colored neck beads swing gracefully between their once-ample breasts, and each of them displays a similar toothy grin. Each takes one of my hands and leads me to a low, sway-backed stone bench.
Plunging their sinewy forearms into low troughs of sand mixed with steaming water, they gleefully draw out handfuls of warm, gritty mud and gradually apply it all over my body. Arms and fingers, legs and feet, torso and back, even my dirty neck, face, and hair are caked with the grainy mess.
Then a scratchy, scraping sensation. Grasping pieces of coarse burlap, the women diligently scrub lengthwise along my lean body. The pressure of their sweeping motions is so intense that I look to see if my skin is bleeding; but there is only new, pink skin peeking out through the wet, brown patches. Every inch of my body is scoured and raked. The women pull and stretch the coarse material over me repeatedly. Masters in the art of cleansing.
Bursts of laughter and unfamiliar Arabic phrases float in the scantily lit space as they work over the young American. It is easy to lose track of time in this humid, below-desert oasis. It feels as though hours have passed before their raspy torture is complete. After guiding me to yet another damp passageway and a second small bench, the scrubbers retreat. This corridor is lined, waist-high, with blue-and-white patterned ceramic tiles that, during my weekend sight-seeing travels here, have become familiar to me.
Suddenly, several naked girls appear, each one bearing a heavy earthen jug. Two balance them on their slender hips and the other three hold them shoulder high. On command, the girls swiftly douse me. Startled, I scream—the water is icy cold! The girls giggle and dance around before scampering off into murky darkness.
My teeth chatter uncontrollably. Shivering, I teeter on the stone seat. I’m surprised by the light touch of a warm hand on my shoulder. I turn to see another Bedouin woman. She has a kind face. Helping me to my feet, she guides me back through the maze of dark passageways to retrieve my garments and sandals. When I am ready, she steers me into a narrow walkway. The passageway weaves this way and that, and we are subtly climbing.
As we ascend, we move from the moist, dank atmosphere into warmer and drier air. The kindly woman pauses in front of an ancient wooden door, nods, and then withdraws. The hinges moan as I push the heavy door open. Fierce sunlight streams onto my face, and I blink at the brightness.
The beautiful Sahara lies before me under a blazing, oven-hot sun. My long patch skirt sways in the warm breeze, ruffling over my toes. I feel pristine, cleaner than fresh-fallen snow. I pause to savor the moment, wanting this fairy-tale sensation to last.
Reluctantly, I step out onto the desert sand stretching before me. Something stings my right shoulder. Before I can turn, a small rough stone catches me just behind the right ear. Droplets of ruby-red blood seep into the ochre sand below. Faint yelps skip in the air. I’m the victim of a group of boys who’d badgered me on the way here and are now running off. My two female students had warned me this might happen once I was past the cliff dwellings. All I can do is trek back to my adobe.
Within a half mile, the sky darkens eerily and the air grows heavy. Turbulent winds claw at the desert floor. The Sahara is famous for its ferocious, irreverent sandstorms. Pulling at my head scarf to cover my nose and mouth, I push through the wind gusts and finally arrive safely home.
Author's Comment
Living in another country is transformational. I am forever grateful for the depth of my Peace Corps experience and the lessons learned. My eyes were opened to the nuances of another culture, the Tunisian people’s keen reverence for their elders, the richness of living simply, and the stark splendor of a desert landscape.
How can we find meaning in the face of aging, illness, and the inevitability of death? How can we respond to the double plague of a fierce pandemic and a divided society?
The keenly observant and urgent poems of The Holy & Broken Bliss are grounded in daily existence, human tenderness, the rituals of a long marriage, and the poet's ongoing spiritual quest. In the middle of a world that seems to be breaking down into suffering and anger, the spare and direct lines of these poems, surrounded by silence, offer a kind of healing. The poems ask us to consider what living looks like inside of ongoing misery (misery we often are responsible for making and accept-ing). They call us to ask ourselves how we locate joy and even laughter when despair is ever-present.
The Holy & Broken Bliss contemplates free will, autonomy, self-control, the commodification of ourselves, and our desires for vengeance, satia- tion, rage, and acknowledgment of our collective sicknesses, along with the sacred possibilities of love, communication with nature, the power of art, and the "need to praise."
"Ostriker confronts the intricate dance between spiritual despair and revelatory beauty in her ethereal 17th collection. ... [The Holy & Broken Bliss] resonates long after the final page, reminding readers that even in a fractured, plague-stricken world, there is still a living, breathing force within all things."
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
Available from Alice James Books, Amazon or Bookshop
A native New Englander, Deborah Burke Henderson is an award-winning children’s author, haiku poet, and freelance writer. She also enjoys writing creative nonfiction and flash memoir, photographing nature, making charity comfort quilts, and walking with her husband in wildlife sanctuaries or along any shoreline.
Helen Bar-Lev has lived in Israel for 50 years and has had over 100 exhibitions of her landscape paintings, 34 of which were one-woman shows. Her poems and artwork have appeared in numerous online and print anthologies. She has published nine poetry collections illustrated with her own paintings. She is the Amy Kitchener senior poet laureate and a recipient of the Homer European Medal for Poetry and Art.
Wonderfully descriptive experience. Thank you for making me “feel”your whole cleansing spa treatment.
Thank you Deborah. Quite and experience. It wasn’t just the treatment itself but the way you gave yourself to the unusual experience and trusted the Bedouin women.
An extraordinary piece. You had me in the palms of your hands and my heart and imagination opened wide. Thank you, Deborah.