The first Monday of every month, Deb Norton hosts a drop-in Writing Club in Ojai, California. This month was my first. While not my usual style, I found the following piece I wrote profound and wanted to share. (We were given six minutes to write from a building’s Point of View.)
The marauders came marching through. Destroying everything in their way. Laying claim. Making it theirs.
Lives were lost. Not lost, taken. Brutally. By force. Children killed in front of mothers. Wives in front of husbands. On and on … And yet because of them I am here. I still stand tall. I was built by the “slave equity and torture of the conquered” and yet, I am here.
Can I truly hate my creator? No. I cannot. For I have been here a long time. The Crusaders long gone. Forgotten, but to a few history buffs. And yet here I stand, a castle they built.
After the destruction came life again. Weeds in the desert. The sand blowing silence. Me. The goats. The sheep. Until the young ones came.
They had fire in their eyes. Passion for a land they would claim again as their own.
The Cossacks tried and couldn’t annihilate them.
Hitler tried and couldn’t annihilate them.
The Turkish Sultans tried and couldn’t annihilate them.
They came from the ghettos. They rose from the ashes of crematoriums and lives destroyed by unprecedented destruction. They broke through British barricades. They came to me for shelter, but there wasn’t much left of me. By day they patched me up. By night they built bonfires and danced the Hora.
They came. They saw. They saw beyond my creators. I was built over sweat and tears/death and mayhem. Yet here I was giving these young dreamers a chance to forge a home for themselves in the barren wasteland no one wanted. Only them.
Day and night they toiled. They created a miracle. They made a desert bloom. I saw it all. More than that, I was a part of it. They allowed me to redeem myself so I could hold my walls up high as I watched the desert all around me turn green. Vibrant with color. Hear the laughter.
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