We hiked Masada before sunrise. From the Roman Ramp, you can see how the Jews were able to hold the city for six months: the climb is steep and narrow, the climbers are exposed to the elements and (though it wasn’t the case this Monday) to projectile fire from the battlements above.
My traveling companions weren’t launching a siege, only trying to pass the other Birthright groups (another eight or nine were there that morning). I don’t like to catch my breath when I hike, and I tend to get impatient when the people in front stroll, two-by-two, up a mountain. While the path was slow and congested (at least until I started sprinting past people), the crowds evened out at the top, each group dissipating to its own corner of the fortifications.
Usually, after feeling any sort of strong emotion, I enter a lull state. Since Yad Vashem, I’ve felt unemotional, introverted, and quiet. In the face of senseless death, life may also reveal itself as senseless.
But this senseless life has its moments of beauty. It’s been said before and will be said again that such beauty, no matter how insignificant, makes living worthwhile. I know I felt this as the sun rose. I know I felt this, watching the Dead Sea begin to glisten from the easternmost wall of Masada. This is why I’ve left everything behind. This is why I’m traveling.
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