There’s a sense of relief, on leaving the Middle East, that passes through to my exhaustion-addled mind. Switzerland is by no means a godless western country—most of its population is Catholic, or here in Geneva, the Protestant descendants of fugitive French ideologues. Nonetheless, religion means less here. It’s not the basis for bloodshed, it’s not the justification for rape, it’s not the wind in the sails of revenge killing after revenge killing.
I had almost forgotten secularism. I had entirely forgotten cold. But in the morning, in the shadow of the Jura Mountains, I cradle my coffee mug for warmth. This is the air of the mountains, an air that carries the certainty of seasons and the likelihood of incipient rain. There is no call to prayer, not a kippah or hijab in sight. I’m working on an organic farm just above the banks of the Rhône river. It’s hard labor, but its easy on the mind.
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