A Time for Drunken Horses

I watched a movie last night titled A Time for Drunken Horses. It was not easy to watch. It dealt with life at its harshest--life as a persecuted ethnic minority living in poverty, in a remote mountainous region of extreme cold, a daily struggle for survival. In the trip across the mountainous border between Iran and Iraq, liquor is poured into the water given to the mules right before the long treks ahead, the colder the weather, the more alcohol they get. The movie is not about the horses, but the heartfelt tenderness and caring that binds a family together as a unit, in the midst of terrific strife, which in a moment can be torn asunder, split into pieces, awash with tears and sorrow, again and again.

Right after crossing the High Atlas Mountains in Morocco, we arrived at a site that our guide deemed important for us to see. It was a beautiful day, the ruin sat atop the crest of a hill, with a nice long walk along a winding country road with beautiful scenery and fresh mountain air. We passed a man with his two young boys and their wooden cart, the little donkey tied nearby. The boys were too young to work so they sat in the cart, the father nearby harvesting fresh grass to feed his animals. What a bucolic scene! As we rounded a curve in the road ahead, leaving the family behind and heading closer to the ruin, I heard the man loudly cursing in anger and could hear popping sounds that were quite alarming. I retraced my steps, and as I rounded the corner I saw him whipping his donkey, mercilessly, for eating some grass in the back of the cart. Strike after strike, he put all his muscle into hurting this little donkey, who was tied down and could only dance about trying to bear the deep stinging of the wooden stick which came at him in one blow after another. It just made me sick, and without fully realizing what I was doing, I let out a scream that echoed through the whole valley, some may say a blood-curdling scream, and suddenly everyone just froze and stared at me. The little boys appeared frightened, the man totally perplexed, the donkey I would like to think look relieved. The abuse ended. For the time being. These animals are the life line to survival of these impoverished people. I understand their anger and frustration at a world that has dealt them so very little in terms of material goods, making life a daily trial of survival. But the ignorance at play was more than I could stand, and the donkey was suffering needlessly for eating grass in the back of a cart right in front of him. I'd like to think I conscientiously did a good deed, but I think in reality something very primitive inside me just took hold and came pouring out of me through my voice onto the landscape and the wrongful act I was witnessing. Our guide was so calm about it all as he walked with me, calming me, and telling me that unfortunately that kind of thing happened way too often, and was born of ignorance about how to take care of and nurture that which is the very source of your survival.

Many young impoverished Bedouins thoughout the Middle East begin earning money for their families at a very early age, and for most, attending school is not an option. When I revisited St. George's monastery near Jericho I went alone. The driver just dropped me off and agreed to pick me up at a later designated time. On the long, winding switchback trail leading to the monastery a young Bedouin man joined me hoping to persuade me to ride his donkey for $25. I declined but he stayed with me, even though I told him I wanted to be alone. So I accepted his company and we walked along, donkey in tow, and he begged me to ride his donkey, at least on the return trip when he thought I would be tired. I knew he was only earning his living and tourism can be nonexistent for long periods of time in a country so often ravaged by conflict and violence. He volunteered to wait for me, even though I reiterated that I preferred walking. Nevertheless, I did tell him I would give consideration to his proposal but could offer no guarantee. A few hours later, after my visit, there he was waiting for me. I told him I'd like to offer him $25 as a gift but I didn't want to ride. He refused, saying it was not about the money. Well, of course it is, but I had wounded his pride. No handouts for him. So I swallowed my pride and in spite of not wanting to burden these poor pack animals I accepted his offer, we agreed on a price, and up I went onto the back of Ahmen the little donkey. I must admit that I totally enjoyed my visit with this young man, and learned all about his family. Our tour guides had told us that it's a longstanding tradition amongst the Bedouins to invite strangers into their homes for 3 days, but after that you are no longer welcomed and of course they will want money. This young man invited me to his home and I actually think I would have accepted had I been free to do so, but I wasn't. Imagine staying in a tented Bedouin village in the middle of the desert and meeting his uncle and his uncle's wives and their 15 or so children and the rest of the clan. What an adventure! But alas my driver showed up in his fancy white Mercedes and as I turned to my new friend to give him a final heartfelt farewell, I could only see his back as he rode atop his donkey, having made enough money to begin his homeward journey to some unknown, remote site.