Fall 1980 • Vol. II No. 4 Fiction |

Sinai

Some years ago, while a student at the University of Tel Aviv, I decided to take a sojourn into the desert—not the uneventful, littered Negev, but that more alluring biblical hegemony of wasteland known as the Sinai. I gathered some supplies together—dates, Hersheys, mixed fruit and nuts, wrapped them securely in plastic, procured a water container, locked my apartment, and stepped out onto the freeway, index finger down. It was a gusty June morning, the Mediterranean hurling cool mugginess over the sprawling city. Within minutes I was bumping along in the back of a jeep headed towards Jerusalem. I wandered into the Old City, made my amends against the Wailing Wall, and went over to the Mea Sharim quarter where I knew a Hasid from Tehran. He fed me and the next morning filled my pockets with Jaffa oranges. I liked the Hasidim. To me they were the standing blocks of Israel, of all Judaism. With their imposing regimens and fairy tale visages, their sudden ability to burst into

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Turning

By Lynda Sexson

Some years ago, while a student at the University of Tel Aviv, I decided to take a sojourn into the desert—not the uneventful, littered Negev, but that more alluring biblical […]

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