Finding a Home in Lourdes for an Oversized Candle

Backpack on and heading for France, I sat near four women from the Irish Traveller community on the London Overground. The youngest, noticing my backpack, asked where I was off to. ‘Hiking in the south of France, in the Pyrénées’. She recalled how beautiful it was in Lourdes when she was there, so I mention I’m passing through on the way to Gavarnie. And in that moment of connection, in the space of minutes in a public transit carriage in east London, a story of loss and violence and love and faith unfolds.

Could I put a flower in the river and say a prayer for a daughter, B. Could I say a prayer and light a candle for a 21 y.o. son murdered five years ago, as the family still fights for justice. A copy of his funeral service and photo is placed in my hand. Could I say a prayer for R., for the S. family, the D. family, for all Travellers. I’m given £10 for the candles. I refuse. It’s stuffed into my bag. Then another £5.

They ask me if I’m not afraid on my own and for some reason I say: ‘My god is with me’. As an agnostic I appreciate faith but I have a difficult relationship with the idea of god so I have no idea where that came from. The train pulled into my stop, it was hugs and kisses all around and we were away in different directions.

And so I found myself, the next day, jogging down to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes, between my night train pulling in and the 90 minutes before my bus to Gavarnie. Having passed through the city many times and never looked inside, I have long been curious about the power of this place and its ability to pull towards it the collection of humanity always waiting at the station: pilgrims and religious orders, the ill and infirm, the desperate and thankful, all hoping for a miracle.

I arrived just as the complex was opening at 8am and having done no preparation I realised I had no idea where I was going. With the river Pau running on the right, the almost empty promenade at this time of the morning was dominated at its end by the gothic structure of the Basilica Notre Dame du Rosaire. Going by past visits to Cathedrals I figured the candles would be in that general direction and sure enough, in an excellent demonstration of how cultural reproduction works and the lasting power of catechism classes, underneath a vaulted walkway to the Basilica were self-service candle stands with honesty boxes for the money.

I like lighting a candle when I’m visiting a church but at most I’ll stick a euro in a tin and buy a tea light. This being Lourdes, £10’s worth of candle was about 60cm long (I donated the remaining £5 although it did cross my mind that the Catholic church was already raking it in charging £10 for candles and didn’t need any more … note ‘difficult relationship with God’). Carrying my cargo into the Basilica I found the usual tealight altar but nothing that resembled a place for a two foot long candle.

Back out again I could hear singing further down the complex so wandered around the Basilica, bolstered by seeing a few other people carrying giant candles in that general direction. And it is here, not in the grandiose church, that I stumbled on the actual grotto where Bernadette Soubirous saw the apparition of the Virgin Mary in 1858. The rough hewn cave set a few metres above the ground now holds a more solid statue of Mary, while the lower alcove houses a small altar for priests to conduct outdoor services to the hundred or so mostly elderly pilgrims seated in serried semi-circles in front (in this instance, an Italian tour group).

Set below the statue of Mary was a metal ‘tree’ with oversized candles. This, I thought, must be where my candle goes, so I join the queue, inching my way forward. As I got to the front I held out my candle as an offering to the priest who looked somewhat bemused as he held out a bread wafer as an offering to me. Realising I had just gate crashed the Italians holy communion service I took the wafer and moved to the side still clutching my candle, and remembering the admonishments of a past boyfriend’s mother that as a Protestant I should NOT be taking the body and blood of a Catholic God (note ‘difficult relationship with God’). Too late now.

Spotting the Italian’s tour guide I asked if he knew what I should do with my candle. He quietly took me aside and pointed to some half dome sheds across the river, wishing me ‘bon camino’ in the process (I still had my backpack on at this point so he thinks I’m on my way to Santiago de Compostela, the famous Way of St James pilgrimage from France to Spain).

Across the footbridge, the candle sheds held hundreds of lights, hopes, and wishes. The Sanctuary has that feeling of places where people have prayed again and again, thousands of times, for uncountable years, for relief, more than happiness I’m guessing, from the suffering of this mortal coil, and heaven knows it’s been a shit few years. Facing death or illness or trauma or grief, wanting to die peacefully looking into the face of a god, take comfort where you can. If it’s believing that a virgin mother of a Jewish radical called Jesus appeared in a grotto in southern France and that she will help, so be it.

For the women on the train, my task is done. In the half an hour or so I’d been floundering around the Sanctuary the number of pilgrims had now swelled to hundreds and soon would be thousands as tour buses began to appear at the front gate. I find a quiet place for the candle. I find wild flowers and place them in the river, with H.’s funeral service left under a stone so he’ll always be carried by the water. For B., for R., for H., for the S. family, the D. family, and all the Travellers, may you be safe, may you be well, may you be at peace.

May the road rise to meet you,

may the wind be always at your back,

may the sun shine warm upon your face,

the rains fall soft upon your fields,

and until we meet again

may [whichever God or Universe you choose to believe in] hold you in the palm of [their] hand.

Lines on a map ... Part I

It took seven years before I could summon up the will to go back to the Occupied Territories of Palestine. The memories of endless checkpoints and searches, being asked the same questions (where are you from? where are you staying? do you know anyone in the West Bank?), never being able to calibrate my emotions with colleagues because you never know what mood people will be in (was there a raid during the night? is money tight again? has a family member been arrested?), observing the relentless grind of life under occupation and the constant visceral sense of anger, frustration and violence that permeates the entire mass of land known variously as Palestine, Israel, Judea and Samaria ... and I was only there for two months and could at least run over the border to Al Quds/Jerusalem and sit in a pub and pretend I was somewhere else when I needed a break unlike a Palestinian who lives with it every single day of their life.  

But Dingo Baby was keen to find out why I keep shouting at the television every time the BBC roll out the lazy cliches of Palestinians in ski masks holding AK47s, or continuously interviews Mark Regev or an IDF spokesperson and never anyone from the Palestinian or Israeli peace movements. Not to mention their amnesia when it comes to previous Israeli governments denial of the existence of Palestinians (e.g. Golda Meir).

So earlier this year I found myself back in the queue at Tel Aviv International Airport, facing the same questions, only this time with the addition of 'how are you two related?', 'do you live at the same address?', and carrying what I hope is a greater sense of resilience to insanity. Given the current escalation in violence between Palestine and Israel, now seems like a good time to write it up. And Tel Aviv is a good start. It is more relaxed than Al-Quds/Jerusalem. It is Mediterranean in feel with a string of 21st century beach bars and cosmopolitan cafes extending out from 10th century BCE Old Jaffa. Grotty shopfronts hide cavernous restaurants, young couples slow dance in pop up outdoor clubs while football fans watch Manchester United vs Manchester City on makeshift billboard televisions. In the evening, along the promenade, Israeli and Palestinian families are at least in the same space if not exactly interacting.

Helicopters regularly buzz the air as a reminder that despite the relaxed veneer, Gaza is only 70 kilometres away. Although possibly another reminder is the contaminated water off Tel Aviv's beaches. We swam for two days before realising that what the lifeguards were yelling at us in Hebrew was to get out of the water.

We arrived on the 28th April, two days after Israel's 'Independence Day' on the 26th. On the 27th, an African refugee family were fire bombed out of their home by their 'religious' neighbours. Noone made much of a public fuss. The Israeli government is now building a wall along its northern borders, to keep out Hezbollah, its southern borders to keep out African migrants and Sudanese refugees, and along its border with the Occupied Territories. The State formed in order for the Jewish community to escape the ghettos of Europe is ghetto'ising itself instead. 

But no amount of wall-building can contain the divisions within the country. Not only between Palestinian and Israeli, but between Israelis and the growing number of migrants (nannies and cleaners from Southeast Asia, construction workers from China, refugees and sans papier primarily from Africa), and between Israeli and Israeli (secular vs religious; the peace and 'occupy' movements vs the government; Christian Jewish vs Jewish Jewish; the Mizraheen/Arabic Jewish community vs the Ashkanazi/European Jewish community vs the Russian Jewish Community vs the Ethiopian Jewish Community; American Jewish retirees vs Middle Eastern Jewish culture). This complexity in Israel is another part of the story rarely discussed in European or US media and government departments. To really understand the conflict in the Middle East is to understand these tensions and that requires a road trip and lots of cups of black tea with fresh mint and sugar.

The plan was to drive around Israel first and then head over the border to visit the Occupied Territories. The first day of driving on the wrong side of the road is always guaranteed to ensure a good night's sleep, especially if it's hot, if Israelis don't sign post their roads, and if the Hebrew place names are spelt differently to the ones in the map which wasn't detailed enough as it turned out. And it seemed I was doing something wrong as I was constantly honked at by other drivers.

Not withstanding the challenges of contemporary way-finding, it is impossible to travel in this part of the world without being reminded of the passing of civilisations that too, at one time, thought they were indestructible; that too built walls that eventually came down. Caesarea is marked by Sidonians, Romans, Byzantines and Crusaders. Susita, Jericho, Masada among many others, are the ruins of empires that rose and fell as a palimpsest, one layered on top of the other, leaving traces for the next generation to figure out. One would think that this would be a humbling environment for the incumbent State but it seems hubris is a universal condition.

These traces of empire include the stones and chants of the religions of the book that create contemporary arguments over authenticity and possession. Ambiguity ultimately dominates a landscape that desperately tries to assert fundamental boundaries to contain it. Everything and nothing is apparent. It is possible, for example, to be Jewish and Christian, according to Hannah, our host in Tiberius. Yet Christianity sits uneasily in the Holyland. Given the history of Christian persecution of Jews in Europe she prefers to keep a low profile, citing a passage from the bible to illustrate that it's okay to live quietly with your neighbours and then noone minds or notices. Her community refer to themselves as Messianic Jews rather than Christians. Hannah corrects me when I ask how other Israelis feel about her practicing Christianity. She is not practicing Christianity but rather she is a believer in Christ. She doesn't celebrate Christian holidays and reaffirms her Jewish identity. But there are fears that organisations such as Jews for Judaism are gathering evidence to have Messianic Jews expelled from Israel for not being Jewish. Hannah believes she has had her phone tapped and her mail checked. On the other hand, there is an uneasy alliance between the State of Israel and USA based Christian fundamentalist organisations, such as Christians United for Israel. CUFI is alleged to raise millions of dollars each year to support, for example, the illegal settlements in the Occupied Territories.

Christianity's origins are centred on the Galilee as the region where Jesus Christ lived and preached. We stand among the faithful in a place that for 100s of years has heard the prayers, the wishes, hopes and desires of the believers. And they come from Nigeria, Fiji, India, Brazil, as well as Europe and the USA, to stand, to heave, to sweat in Tabgha and Capernaum and the Mount of Beatitudes. They add to the impressions in the mosaic before the altar that signifies the weight of the faithful over the years. And just as they leave their own mark here they also look for the mark of God: the footsteps of Mohammed in Al Aqsa mosque; Jesus in the Church of the Ascension; Buddha on Sri Pada. The believers stand where they are sure Jesus once stood, immersed in chatter and camera clicks and bible readings from evangelist preachers, and then, imperceptibly, there is silence. Prayers rise with the heat while bodies slow down.

We shifted to the shores of the Sea of Galilee for some respite. The African cleaners ambled through the haze, the only movement apart from a swimmer, a guitarist, a card thrown on a picnic table in the shade among friends, a sparrow after the remains of my dried mango, and the sonic booms of the Israeli air force. It is the somnolent air of summer on a divine afternoon in which even as an aetheist I find it impossible to deny the potential of a state of grace, given and received. I took comfort also in learning from Hannah that a Galilean accent is the Israeli equivalent of someone who is known in Australia, derogatively, as a bogan. Jesus was a bogan. Fabulous.

The complexity of Israel's identity crisis is exacerbated by intergenerational cultural change, exemplified in the reorganisation of Israel's once communal Kibbutzim. In Ein Gev, a farm that relies on fishing, bananas, dairy and tourism, a recorded voiceover with an Australian accent recites the history of struggle in establishing this kibbutz. It is explicit in stating that this was part of creating a 'new identity' for Jews: one based on physical, manual labour; one that can then claim ownership of the land that it has worked. This is not the effete identity of the past that some blame for acquiescing to its own death in Europe. But while this muscularity is still reflected in the contemporary politics of Israel, the idea of creating the nation is no longer what holds Israel together.  From 2002, like many other kibbutz, Ein Gev has slowly succumbed to privatisation and the end of the collectivist model.

War has also been used in Israel's nation-building project. In the Golan, another voice-over reminds us of how the Occupation is keeping the area 'clean' as well as celebrating the achievements of the IDF that have occupied this part of Syria since 1967. The UN in no-man's land keeps a token eye on things and gives the cafe on Mount Bental its name: Coffee Annan. For the best Shakshuka in Israel, eat here. Four villages in the distance sit uneasily beneath Mt Hermon on top of which, on the Israeli side, is a listening station known as 'the eyes of the State' (says the voice-over proudly). These are Druze villages which, according to the voice, 'chose to stay and integrate' after Syria withdrew. Other sources suggest that integration may not have been quite so successful as many refused Israeli citizenship.

Hannah, born in the USA originally, was nostalgic for the nationalism of past decades and its common project. When she came 22 years ago everyone worked together and left their doors open. Her fear is that of previous generations the world over: now people are more materialistic and there is nothing left to hold the nation together.

While Hannah may not be so confident about the future she did at least reassure me not to worry about the honking. It's a language in Israel. We cross the country from North to South, from soft hills to harsh light, from desert to sea. On the way a side trip to an oasis in the middle of the Negev finds a psy-trance party for Israel's well-heeled youth. Tanks line up in the desert to practice war and occupation. At Maktesh Ramon, a great gouge in the desert, another disembodied voice reminds us that civilisation, defined in terms of controlling nature, requires a strong government, beginning with King David, ending with Muslim rule, coming again with the State of Israel. The control of nature includes intensive dairies in the middle of the desert, where cows are milked three times a day and showered six to keep cool. Finally we arrive at a city with an airport in the middle of it, a clear sea, blue not red, and another flag just over the water.

Cameron and the Word of God

So the age old 'christian values' versus 'moral decline' debate raises its hoary head again. David Cameron reminds us this is a christian country and that the church must lead a revival of christianity to counter our moral decline. The state must have its order and as brown shirts are out of fashion it comes down to the word of god to keep us in line. Not the radical politics of Jesus Christ of course - for wealth must be allowed to pass through the eye of a needle on its way to heaven and never shall our cheeks be turned in submissive poses of non-violence. It is the omniscient (how god loves a good cctv), omnipotent god of the Old Testament to whom David Cameron refers.
This god of christian values shall smite us, or Pakistanis in the wrong place, from above for our trespasses. He shall ban gay marriages and stone adulters,  single mothers or anyone giving birth in mangy estates. Women will remember their place as the bearers of tradition and children with appropriate fathers and white picket fences, staying home and keeping our sweaters loose and our skirts long. The undeserving poor would end their talk of structural inequality and accept their lot, turning into pillars of salt should they look back at the square mile of mammon that is annointed by god's heavenly host, and to which they will never enter.
And above all we will remember that it is our own ungodly ways that got us into this crisis, and only the scarification of recession and the falling to our knees before Argos catalogues and Strictly Come Dancing, beseeching god for forgiveness in the process, will get us out of it. And verily David Cameron would look down upon this world that he had created, and he would cry out 'hallelujah'.

His Popeness

It is with some relief that I can announce that the pope has left Britain. It's not that I'm one of those 'fundamentalist aetheist', aka Richard Dawkins, that came in for much criticism in the previous week. I am well aware of the peace that can be found in any faith. But our propensity to institutionalise faith into a religion has done far more to destroy it than any amount of sex, television, or Jimmy Choo shoes.

I can never erase the years of ritual learnt as the child of a High Church of England mum who was intent on saving our souls. I can still recite the Nicene Creed should ever the need arise. But in seeking solace in a church I have been asked too many times what faith I am to sort the wheat from the chafe at communion time. I cannot lie. I am a sort of protestant, Buddhist, Hindu, humanist type of person. I always wanted to be Catholic as they had a much better youth group in our small town, and much prettier ceremonies, and it's far less confusing just being one thing. But that wasn’t enough to convince the priest that I should share in the body and blood of Christ. I thought flashed through my mind. Had the story of my fall from grace reached these churches that rejected me …? As altar girl in our parish church I got to carry the tall cross before visiting dignitaries but shortly after crashing it into the ‘Everlasting Light’ above the altar the priest ran off with the organist. Really, he did. I was never sure that the two weren’t somehow connected as for punishment I had to spend my Sundays for what seemed like eternity with a succession of locum priests who liked to finish off the wine.

During the pope's visit, the disturbance of such memories was joined by an increasing queasiness at exhortations to combat secularism in Europe by returning religious values to the State. Of course when the pope and all the other British leaders past and present sitting in Westminster cathedral talk about religious values they are not necessarily referring to anything other than Christianity. Otherwise I would imagine they would stop fussing over Iran. My queasiness became worse at the emphasis on a need for more 'morality' in our society. Now fair enough, I never sat through a whole speech, instead relying on Britian's less than moral media to cherry pick what they'd like us to hear/read, but if I was playing Word Bingo and had 'morality' in my list, I'd be winning.

In my book of psalms when any religious leader uses the word morality what they are referring to is the length of a woman's skirt and people's sexual orientation. Now I've read the bible, several times, the old and new bit (note religious childhood mentioned above). I've been to bible study classes, I've waved my arms around, yelled Hallelujah and probably even spoken in tongues. But nowhere in any of this do I recall Christ getting hung up on morality. He socialised with sex workers, tax collectors and lepers. He had a temper tantrum and threw people out of the temple. He was a radical political activist arguing for change in the institutions of religion as it was practiced at the time, with all the inequalities, segregation and patriarchy that has never gone away. And for all of this he was assassinated as befits anyone who suggests that things may need to be a bit more just.

Given that this country, already with growing levels of inequality, is about to enter a time of savage cuts in public services, rising unemployment, crime and anti-immigration politics, I would have thought that a more apt message might have been: 'it is easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a needle than to enter the kingdom of heaven'. But then an institution as rich as the Vatican (whose bank is currently under investigation for money laundering) may not wish to be reminded of its own mission statement to take a preferential option for the poor.

Pacts with the Devil

So the Reverend Pat Robertson, in case you've not heard, has decided that Haiti is cursed because the Haitian people made a 'pact with the devil' in return for their freedom from French rule. True, those pacts with the Devil can be tricky things to get out of. US foreign policy, for example, is still trying to find a way to buy its soul back after it was offered up to Lucifer in return for the horned one's assistance in various coups and the installing and/or support of/or turning a blind eye to such luminaries as Papa and Baby Doc Duvalier, Pinochet, Noriega, the Contras, Marcos, the Shah of Iran (okay that was with the help of the British government which has also misplaced its soul somewhere), Saddam, Israel's occupation of Palestine and it goes on. It's a long list that continues but then loss of soul possibly became irretrievable anyway after supporting the Pol Pot regime rather than the communist Hun Sen in Cambodia in the 1970s. I'm not quite sure how much you have to sell to Satan to get away with that one. While you're working that out, Mr Robertson, I suggest removing the forest from your eye.