I have loved New York City. Of all of its charms, one that hit me most deeply was its buildings. The skyscrapers vertically proclaiming hubris and ambition were like Cupid's arrows to me. I saw them as brilliantly decorated, meticulously planned vessels for efficient layering of potential. Each floor was another set of people, each with a life and a dream. The towers, stacked neatly down the avenues, felt like gift wrapped packages to humanity; our futures lay budding inside.
With an outlook like this, it's no wonder I loved walls. The solid slabs reaching into the heavens are a crucial conveyor of floors and ceilings. Without the floors, you can't stack the people. So when I would look up in Manhattan and see the sky carved into neat rows and boxes, I'd smile thinking of all the benefits these walls gave us.
Now I'm not so sure. I've just seen a wall that's energetically decorated by the masses and dividing up the sky in straight lines, but it has brought me the gift of fear instead of excitement. The wall separating Palestinians from Israelis in the West Bank is the opposite of all that I loved in New York. What cruelty is it to build a wall with no floors? A wall that does not support people? A wall that prevents expansion, creatively, and progress, instead of bolstering it?
I'm surprised that a wall like this -- a wall that does not hold a building, does not support stories -- seems to block out the sky stronger than any ceiling could.
With an outlook like this, it's no wonder I loved walls. The solid slabs reaching into the heavens are a crucial conveyor of floors and ceilings. Without the floors, you can't stack the people. So when I would look up in Manhattan and see the sky carved into neat rows and boxes, I'd smile thinking of all the benefits these walls gave us.
Now I'm not so sure. I've just seen a wall that's energetically decorated by the masses and dividing up the sky in straight lines, but it has brought me the gift of fear instead of excitement. The wall separating Palestinians from Israelis in the West Bank is the opposite of all that I loved in New York. What cruelty is it to build a wall with no floors? A wall that does not support people? A wall that prevents expansion, creatively, and progress, instead of bolstering it?
I'm surprised that a wall like this -- a wall that does not hold a building, does not support stories -- seems to block out the sky stronger than any ceiling could.
I am lead to wonder if you have similar feelings for the walls of the Old City. They, like all such walls were built with the intention of keeping "others" out. But is it different because they were built by others? Or because they are merely an anachronistic vestige of a bygone era? I've always felt the distinction placed on the Old City rather odd. Thoughts?
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