When post-trauma, ecstasy, and resilience intertwine, it creates a complex experience that is, in reality, a collection of opposing perceptions and reactions. The individual oscillates between a lingering fear, a desire for correction and liberation, and an attraction to pain as a source of recognition and meaning-making. It is a mixture in which the body and mind experience neither a complete rupture nor total recovery, but rather coexist in the thin boundary between survival and incessant emotional awakening.
The struggle to legitimize a broken language, one that attempts to express difficult experiences, is the first step in the healing and reconstruction process.
Language, in this sense, is not merely a tool for conveying a message, but also a bridge to reshape internal and social reality. Speech is a search for meaning, a search that transcends the personal dimension and touches upon the universal dimension. I have studied the character of Ketourah (Abraham's wife); through her, a deep understanding of the process of journey emerged, not only on the roads but also within the soul.
The parallel between Arabic and Hebrew, two languages belonging to a common linguistic family but carrying different cultural and political identities, is an invitation to observe the complexity of living together. The words, based on shared letters, remind us once again that differences are not inherent to essence, but to perception and use.
The meeting between two peoples in one country can resemble a long river. Always in motion, sometimes turbulent, sometimes silent, but always connecting its two banks. This highlights the struggle between survival and prosperity, between memory and purification, between pain and liberation. It is a struggle that is not only personal, but collective and political. In a world where conflicts dictate reality, it is necessary to extract lessons that build bridges. It is a journey that leads us to see how trauma becomes a moral challenge and how justice is not only a law but also a way of life.
Ketourah, Abraham's wife, with her symbolic and historical presence, offers a new perspective on the complex tension between Abraham's wives and his sons. She represents a hidden dimension of historical discourse, which tends to focus attention on central figures. The presence of this dynasty, associated with the region of Midian, provides another dimension for understanding Abraham's legacy within a cultural and political context.
Ketourah is not just Abraham’s other wife, but a symbol of continuity that is not at the center of the drama. Through her, it is possible to examine the process by which historical narratives are woven through political and religious choices.
The region of Midian, mentioned in the Old and New Testaments as well as in the Quran, becomes a cultural crossroads. Through it, one can understand how tradition spreads across different geographical regions and cultures. This provides a perspective that links the Bible with the Quran, Judaism with Christianity and Islam, and connects the past with the present.
Ketourah brings another dimension. She does not compete with Sarah or Hagar but rather offers a peaceful narrative of evolution outside the realms of power. Ketourah symbolizes the possibility of embracing plurality without succumbing to division, recognizing the existence of many identities within a single family tradition.
The mention of Midian, both a region and a people, suggests a reevaluation of the influence of this geographical and cultural space on Abraham's story. Midian represents a crossroads of cultures, traditions, and ideas. By observing Ketourah and her six sons, we can understand how Abraham's story is not just about a father, but also about the multitude and complexity of those who carry on his legacy.
Abdulkarim Soroush, an Iranian thinker who began his academic career studying chemistry, later explored the connection between education and religion. He questioned traditional methods of religious teaching and proposed new approaches that raised pressing questions about accepted teaching methods.
The innovative approach to religious education by Professor Ayman Agbariya, who has successfully connected the worlds of poetry, theater, theory, and critique, goes beyond the rigid and dogmatic model of traditional teaching. His approach aims to awaken in students a deep awareness of their limitations and to see them as partners in the grand divine plan. Rather than seeking divine ideals of power and infinite knowledge, the approach focuses on earthly life as a divine calling, filled with opportunities for personal growth, learning, and self-realization.
Professor Agbariya suggests, in particular, to view religion not as a closed ideology that provides absolute answers, but as a dynamic space for human connections and living dialogues, which give it a renewed meaning.
Anas ibn Malik reports that the Prophet Muhammad said: "If the Hour of Judgment arrives and one of you has a small plant in his hand, and if he is able to plant it before the Hour, let him do so and plant it." In another version cited by Ahmad, it is said: "If the Day of Judgment arrives and one of you has a small tree in his hand, he must plant it."
So, I tried to understand the meaning of this hadith (the Prophet's action). I remember how my mother always encouraged me to become a farmer. She was by my side every time I planted seeds and taught me how to cultivate plants. She also made sure that I sold the harvest, whether it was from a neighborhood supermarket cart or a small stand near the mosque. It was her way of preparing me for life, teaching me independence, and strengthening me for the future.
One day, when I heard this hadith, I asked her why the Prophet specifically mentioned the plant? He could have chosen something else. What is so special about a plant that allows it to face destruction and death in a way that nothing else can? She looked at me and smiled. I felt ashamed. It was as if she was thinking, ‘What a fool my son is.’ But she said nothing. Her silence made me feel even more guilty. Once again, I felt like I was disappointing her. I had always tried not to disappoint her, but somehow, it always happened.
Then, she finally responded: "Imagine," she said softly but firmly, like the roots of a plant gripping the earth. "When a plant stops receiving water, when it knows it faces certain death, it does something amazing. It starts to expel all the seeds inside it, with all its strength, even though you hadn’t seen the seeds before. When it is in distress, when it knows its time is limited, it spreads its seeds and flowers so that life can continue, even without it."
She then smiled again, a warm smile, and I sat there, contemplating her amazing wisdom. I began to think about the hadith, the plant, and what it teaches us. I suddenly realized that this plant was not only a symbol of agriculture or resilience, but a profound lesson in tenacity and faith in life. Even in the greatest moments of failure, when everything seems lost, the plant does not fight for itself, but for the future, for the continuity of life.
Abraham lived between Kadesh and Shur, and sojourned in Gerar (Genesis 20:1). Abraham, an eternal nomad of faith, embarked on a journey not only centered on physical relocation but also on a mental and spiritual journey. His passage through the Gerar River, between Kadesh and Shur, contains a metaphor that raises questions about the place of man and society in the changing landscape of time and place.
The Gerar River, which connects the ancient and new Rahat, the largest Bedouin city in Arab society in Israel, a place that seems isolated, has become, with the onset of war, a center of life, a subject of discussion about coexistence and the creation of large-scale action projects, perhaps precisely because of its transparency.
Abraham, in his wanderings, left behind not only stories of the past, the transparency of the margins, the surprise of persistence, and the possibility of extracting good from everywhere – both from the transparent grid and from seemingly lost points. Will we be able to learn from them and find the way to create a better society, based on ancient values adapted to the needs of our time?
In ancient Greece, the idea of Abraham's hospitality did not receive the same level of honor. Even fundamental values, such as parental involvement, were often questioned. Sparta is a clear example of this. A society known for its isolation and reserved attitude toward foreigners. The Spartan community, focused on its military strength and group identity, preferred isolation to openness, and as a result, hospitality was not a central value in its culture.
But are we capable of applying this value in our complex reality? A closer examination of the Negev region, and particularly of what is happening at the Soroka Medical Center in Beer Sheva, paints a painful picture. Severe hereditary syndromes and diseases are particularly frequent in certain areas and sometimes reflect social and cultural patterns.
These phenomena highlight the social, health, and cultural challenges of the region. Isolation comes at a high price. In a world that seeks a balance between preserving traditions and embracing change, hospitality, even in the broad sense of a shared society, can be not only a moral value but also a practical tool to improve quality of life and promote public health.
Names are nothing but symbols, while a mother's broken heart, her love that knows no limits, and the tears tied to her son need no definition or label. This pain belongs to every mother who finds herself embracing emptiness instead of warmly holding her son in her arms.
This essay was written by Kaid Abu Latif, cultural farmer, journalist, researcher at the Reshimo Institute in Beer Sheva, and artistic director of the Alyamama Mixed Theater.
To read the full version: Safa Hadasha website
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